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Chapter One.
Introduces a Man and a Mystery
“There’s some mystery about that girl – I’m certain of it.”
“What makes you suspect that?”
“Well, first, she’s evidently a lady – the daughter of a man who has come down in the world most probably: and secondly – ”
“Ah! You mean the secret lover – the man who was here yesterday and bought a twenty-guinea evening gown of her to send to his sister – eh?” exclaimed Mr Warner, “buyer” of the costume department of the great drapery house of Cunnington’s, in Oxford Street, that huge store which, as everybody knows, competes with Whiteley’s and Harrod’s for the premier place of the middle-class trade in London.
“Yes,” laughed Miss Thomas, the rather stout middle-aged woman who was head saleswoman of the department, as she stood in the small, glass-partitioned office of the buyer, a pleasant-faced man of forty-five who was an expert in ladies’ costumes, and twice yearly bought his stock personally in Paris and in Berlin. “Yes. She’s a really nice girl, but I can’t quite make her out, although she’s been here for over a year now.”
“And the lover?” asked the buyer, with a glance across the long square room where autumn costumes of every description were displayed upon stands, or hanging by the hundred in long rows, while ranged round the walls were many expensive evening-dresses exhibited in glass cases. It was afternoon, and the place was full of customers, the assistants in their neat black holding ready-made skirts to their sides to try the effect, or conducting the prospective purchaser to the fitting-rooms. And yet they were not what Mr Warner termed “busy.”
“The man, too, is a mystery, like Miss Rolfe. Nobody knows his name. He comes in sometimes, goes up to her, and asks to be served with a skirt or something, and has it sent to Mr Evans at some chambers in Dover Street. The name is, of course, not the right one,” said the head assistant. “But Miss Rolfe knows it, of course?”
“Probably she does.”
“And she meets him after business hours?”
“I think so. But she keeps herself very much to herself, and is always at home early.”
Mr Warner glanced across at the tall, fair-haired, handsome girl, whose figure showed to such advantage in her black satin gown. At that moment she was displaying a cheap tweed skirt to two middle-aged women. Her face, as he caught its profile, was very soft and refined, the contour of her cheeks perfect, and the stray wisp of hair across the brow gave a softness to her countenance that was charming. Many a stage girl whose photograph was displayed in the shop-windows was not half so beautiful as the demure, hard-working shop-assistant, Marion Rolfe.
The air of mystery surrounding her, Mr Warner found interesting, and the love-romance now in progress he intended to watch. Towards his assistants, he was always lenient. Unlike some “buyers,” he was never hard, and never bullied them. He believed that by treating them with kindliness and with the courtesy every man should show towards a woman he obtained the best of their business abilities, as no doubt he did. “Warner of the Costumes” was known through the whole “house” as one of the most considerate of men, and one of the most trusted of old Mr Cunnington’s advisers. Those in his department were envied by all the other seven hundred odd assistants in the employment of the great firm.
While Mr Warner and Miss Thomas were speaking, a smart-looking, fair-haired, fair-moustached young man of about twenty-five, in frock coat and silk hat, entered, and walking up to the little office, greeted the buyer saying —
“Mr Warner, I’m sorry to worry you, but may I speak to my sister for a moment on some important family business? I won’t keep her but a few moments, for I see she’s busy.”
“Why, certainly, Mr Rolfe,” was the good-humoured reply, as Miss Thomas went away to serve a customer. “It’s against our rules, as you know, but for my own part I can never see why a young lady need be debarred from speaking to her own brother.”
“You’re always very good, Mr Warner,” responded the young man, “and I’d like to thank you for many little kindnesses you’ve shown to Marion.”
“Oh, nothing, nothing, my dear Mr Rolfe,” Warner said. “Your sister is an excellent business woman – one of the best I have, I may tell you. But look! She’s disengaged now. Go over to her.” And he watched the young man crossing the department.
Marion, surprised when her brother stood before her, immediately asked whether he had received Mr Warner’s permission.
“Of course I have,” was his quick reply in rather an excited manner, she thought. “I just ran up to tell you that I have to go abroad suddenly to-night, and to say good-bye. Old Sam Statham is sending me out to Servia. He only told me at one o’clock that I must go, and I’ve been buying some things necessary.”
“To Servia!” exclaimed the girl, amazed that her brother, to whom she was devoted, was to go so far from her.
“Yes. We have some mining interests and some other things out there, and old Sam suddenly decided to send me out to make certain inquiries. I shall be away a month or two, I daresay, as I have to go to see a new mine in the course of preparation down on the banks of the Danube somewhere.”
“But do take care of yourself, Charlie,” urged the girl, looking up into her brother’s face. “I’ve heard that it’s an unsafe country.”
“Unsafe! Why that’s quite a fallacy. Servia is as safe as the Strand nowadays. Bland, our chief clerk, was out there a year, and he’s been telling me how delightful the people are. Servia is entirely misjudged by us.”
“Then you’ll go to-night?”
“Yes, by the mail from Charing Cross,” he replied. “But don’t come and see me off. I hate people to do that. And when you see dear old Max, tell him that I’m sorry I had no time to go round before leaving. I’ve just telephoned, and his man says he won’t be back till seven. That will be too late for me.”
“Very well,” replied his sister. “But – ”
“But what?”
“Well, Charlie, I’m sorry you’re going. I feel – well, I feel that you are going to a place where an accident might happen to you. I know nothing about Servia, and besides – ”
“Well?”
“The mystery about old Sam Statham always haunts me. I don’t somehow like that man.”
“You only met him once, and he was very courteous to you. Besides, he is my master. Were it not for him I should most probably be going about London penniless.”
“I know, I know,” she said. “Have you been to his house in Park Lane lately?”
“I was there this morning, but only for five minutes. He gave me some instructions about a call I had to make in the city.”
“I wish you could leave him and get some other work as secretary. I don’t like him. He isn’t what he pretends to be, I’m sure he isn’t.”
“He pretends to be nothing,” laughed her brother. “Old Sam is a millionaire, and millionaires need no pretence. He could buy up this show twice over, and then leave a million for the death duties. You’ve taken a prejudice against him.”
“A woman’s prejudice – which often is not very far wrong.”
“I know that you women see much further than we men do, but in this, Marion, you are quite wrong. Old Sam is eccentric and mean, but at heart he’s not at all a bad old fellow.”
“Well, I tell you frankly, I don’t half like your going to Servia under his auspices.”
Charlie Rolfe laughed aloud.
“My dear Marion, of what are you apprehensive?” he asked. “I go in a very responsible position, as his confidential secretary, to inquire into certain matters in his interests. If I carry out my mission successfully, I shall get a rise of salary.”
“Granted. But you know what you’re told me about the queer stories afloat regarding Samuel Statham and his house in Park Lane.”
“I’ve never believed them, although they are, of course, curious. Yet you must remember that every man of great wealth has mysterious stories put about by his enemies. Every man and every woman has enemies. Who has not?”
“But you’ve admitted yourself that you’ve never been in more than one room in the mansion,” she said, looking him straight in the face.
“That’s true. But it doesn’t prove anything, does it?” he asked. And Marion saw that he was nervous and agitated, quite unlike his usual self. Perhaps, however, it was on account of her apprehensions, she thought.
She had only seen Samuel Statham, the well-known millionaire, on one occasion. She had called at the offices in Old Broad Street one afternoon to see her brother, who was his confidential secretary, when the old fellow had entered, a short, round-shouldered, grey-bearded old man, rather shabbily-dressed, who, looking at her, bluntly asked who she was and what she wanted there.
One of his eccentricities was that he hated women, and Marion knew that.
In a faltering tone she replied that she was sister of his secretary, whereupon his manner instantly changed. He became the acme of politeness, asked her into his private room, offered her a glass of port – which, of course, she refused – and chatted to her most affably till her brother’s return.
Why she had taken such a violent dislike to the old man she herself could not tell. Possibly it was his sudden change of manner, and that his pleasant suavity was feigned. And this, combined with the extraordinary rumours regarding his past, and the mystery of his great mansion in Park Lane, had caused her to view him with bitter prejudice.
Several customers were waiting to be served, and Marion saw Mr Warner’s eye upon her.
“Well, Charlie,” she said, “perhaps I’ll get down to Charing Cross to see you off. You go to Paris first, I suppose?”
“Yes. I take the Orient Express from there, by way of Vienna and Budapest to Belgrade. But,” he added, “don’t come and see me off, there’s a good girl.”
“Why? I’ve been before, when you’ve gone to the Continent.”
“Yes, I know,” he answered impatiently; “but – well, it makes me feel as if I shan’t come back. Don’t come, will you?”
Marion smiled. His anxiety that she should not come struck her as distinctly curious.
He was not himself. Of that she was convinced. To her, ever since her father’s death, he had been a good friend, and for a year prior to her engagement at Cunnington’s he had divided his salary with her. No girl ever had a better brother than he had been, yet of late she had noticed a complete change in his manner. He was no longer frank with her, as he used to be, and he seemed often to hide from her facts which, with her woman’s keen intelligence, she afterwards discovered.
“Miss Rolfe!” exclaimed Mr Warner, emerging from his office. “Disengaged?” And he pointed to a pair of somewhat obese ladies who were examining a costume displayed on a stand.
“Well, good-bye, Charlie,” she said, shaking his hand. “I must go. We’re very busy this afternoon. Perhaps I shall see you at Charing Cross. If not – then take care of yourself, dear. Good-bye.”
And she turned and left him to attend to the two ladies, while he, with a nod across to Mr Warner, strode out of the shop.
“I hope to goodness Marion doesn’t come,” he muttered to himself. “Women are so infernally inquisitive. And if she does go to Charing Cross she’s sure to suspect something!”
Chapter Two.
Concerns a Silent Secret
That same afternoon, while Charlie Rolfe was bidding farewell to his sister Marion, Max Barclay was sitting in the cosy study of one of the smaller houses in Cromwell Road, smoking cigarettes with a thin-faced, grey-haired, grey-bearded man whose cast of features at once betrayed him to be a foreigner.
The well-furnished room was the typical den of a studious man, as its owner really was, for about it was an air of solid comfort, while upon the floor near where the elder man was lying back in his leather easy-chair were scattered some newspapers with headings in unfamiliar type – the Greek alphabet.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke, giving forth an aroma unusual to English nostrils – that pleasant aroma peculiar to Servian tobacco.
The younger man, dressed in well-fitting, dark grey flannels, his long legs sprawled out as he lay back in his chair taking his ease and gossiping with his friend, was, without doubt, a handsome fellow. Tall beyond the average run of men, with lithe, clean-cut limbs, smart and well-groomed, with closely-cropped dark hair, a pair of merry dark eyes, and a small dark moustache which had an upward trend, his air was distinctly military. Indeed, until a few months before he had held a commission, in a cavalry regiment, but had resigned on account of the death of his father and his consequent succession to the wide and unencumbered Barclay estates in Lincolnshire and up in the Highlands.
Though now possessor of a fine old English home and a seventeenth-century castle in Scotland, Max Barclay preferred to divide his time between his chambers in Dover Street and wandering about the Continent. There was time enough to “settle down,” he always declared. Besides, both the houses were too big and too gloomy to suit his rather simple bachelor tastes. His Aunt Emily, an old lady of seventy, still continued to live at Water Newton Hall, not far from that quaint, old world and many-spired town, Stamford; but Kilmaronock Castle was unoccupied save for six weeks or so when he went up with friends for the shooting season.
Agents were frequently making tempting offers to him to let the place to certain wealthy Americans, but he refused all inducements. The fine old place between Crieff and Perth had never been let during his father’s lifetime, and he did not intend that any stranger, except his own friends, should enjoy the splendid shooting now.
“My dear Petrovitch,” he was saying between whiffs of his cigarette, “It is indeed reassuring what you tell me regarding the settled state of the country. You have surely had sufficient internal troubles of late.”
“Ah, yes!” sighed the elder man, a deep, thoughtful expression upon his pleasant, if somewhat sallow, countenance. “Servia has passed through her great crisis – the crisis through which every young nation must pass sooner or later; and now, heaven be thanked, a brighter day has dawned for us. Under our new régime prosperity is assured. But” – and pausing, he looked Max straight in the face, and in a changed voice, a voice of increased earnestness and confidence, he added with only a slight accent, for he spoke English very well – “I did not ask you here to discuss politics. We Servians are, I fear, sad gossips upon our own affairs. I wanted to speak to you upon a subject of greatest importance to myself personally, and of someone very dear to me. Now we have been friends, my dear Max, you and I, through some years, and I feel – nay, I know, that you will regard what I say in entire confidence.”
“Most certainly,” was the young Englishman’s reply, though somewhat surprised at his friend’s sudden change of manner.
It was true that he had known Dr Michael Petrovitch for quite a number of years.
Long ago, when he had first visited Belgrade, the Servian capital, the man before him, well-known throughout the Balkans as a patriot, was occupying the position of Minister of Finance under King Milan. Both his Excellency and his wife had been extremely kind to him, had introduced him to the smart social set, had obtained for him the entrée to the Palace festivities, and had presented him to Queen Nathalie. Thus a firm friendship had been established between the two men.
But affairs in Servia had considerably changed since then. Madame Petrovitch, a charming English lady, had died, and his Excellency, after becoming Minister of Commerce and subsequently Foreign Minister in several succeeding Cabinets, had gone abroad to represent his country at foreign Courts, first St. Petersburg, then Berlin, and then Constantinople, finally returning and coming to live in England.
Even now he was not more than fifty, and it had long ago been whispered that his Majesty was constantly urging him to return and accept the portfolio of Finance or of Commerce. But he steadily declined. As a statesman, his abilities had long ago been recognised by Europe, and none knew his value or appreciated him more than his own sovereign; yet for private reasons he preferred to live quietly in the Cromwell Road to returning to all the worries of State and those eternal bickerings in the Servian Skuptchina.
He was a man of even temper, of charming manner, and of scrupulous honesty. Had he been dishonest in his dealings he might have amassed a great fortune while occupying those posts in the various ministries. But he had preferred to remain as he was, upright, even though comparatively poor.
“Well?” asked Max, after a long silence. “I am waiting.”
“It is a matter to which I refer not without some hesitation,” declared his friend. “I want to speak to you about Maud.”
“About Maud. Well?”
“I am worried about the child – a good deal.”
“For what reason?” asked Max, considerably surprised.
Maud was Petrovitch’s only daughter, a very beautiful girl, now nineteen years of age, who had been brought up in England and to whom he was entirely devoted.
“Well, she has fallen in love.”
“All girls do sooner or later,” replied Max, philosophically.
“But she’s too young yet – far too young. Twenty-five is quite early enough for a girl to marry.”
“And who’s the man?”
“Your friend – Charlie Rolfe.”
“Charlie!” he exclaimed, in great surprise. “And he’s in love with Maud. Are you quite sure of this?”
“Quite. She meets him in secret, and though Rolfe is your friend, Max, I tell you I don’t like it,” he declared.
“I am not surprised. Secret affections never meet with a parent’s approbation. If Charlie is in love with her, and the affection is mutual, why doesn’t he come straight and tell you?”
“Exactly my argument,” declared Petrovitch, lighting a fresh cigarette with the end of one half-consumed. “But tell me, Rolfe is an intimate friend of yours, is he not?”
“Very,” was Max’s reply, though he did not inform his friend of his love for Marion.
“What is his exact position?”
“As far as I know, he is private secretary to old Samuel Statham, the great financier. His position is quite a good one – as far as confidential secretaryships go.”
“Statham! I’ve heard of him. There’s some extraordinary story about his house in Park Lane, isn’t there? Nobody has ever been inside, or something.”
“There is, I believe, some cock and bull story,” responded Max. “The old fellow is a bit eccentric, and doesn’t care for people prying all over his house. He lives alone, and has no friends. Do you know, one can be very lonely in London. It is a perfect Sahara to those who are friendless.”
“Yes,” said Petrovitch, huskily. “I know it by experience myself. When I was a youth I lived here. I was a foreign clerk in an insurance office in the city, and I lived perfectly alone – among all these millions. I remember it all as though it were only yesterday. I was indeed glad to get back to Servia.”
“But why are you worried about Maud, old fellow?” Max asked. “Don’t you like Rolfe – or what?”
“I like him very much, indeed I took a great fancy to the young fellow when you introduced him to me last year at Aix-les-Bains. From the very first I noticed that he was attracted towards the child, and I did not object because I thought a little flirtation would amuse her. These secret meetings, however, I don’t like. It is not right. She’s met him in St. James’s Park, and at other places of late, and they have gone for long walks together without my knowledge or sanction.”
Max thought for a moment.
“Does she know that you are aware of the meetings?”
“No.”
“Well, I must admit that I had no idea matters had gone so far as they evidently have,” he said. “I, of course, knew that he has greatly admired Maud from the very first. He was, in fact, always speaking of her in admiration, yet I believed that he did not consider his position to be sufficiently established in warranting him to declare his love to her. Shall I throw out a gentle hint to him that the secret meetings would be best discontinued?”
“If he were to discontinue his visits here altogether it would, I think, be best,” said Petrovitch in a hard voice, quite unusual to him.
Max was surprised at this. Had any unpleasantness occurred between the two men, which his friend was concealing, knowing that Rolfe was his most intimate chum?
“Does he come often?”
“He calls about once a week – upon me, ostensibly, but really in excuse to see the child.”
“And now – let us speak frankly, old fellow,” Max said, bending slightly towards the man seated opposite him. “Do you object to Rolfe paying his attentions to your daughter?”
“Yes – I do.”
“Then I very much regret that I ever introduced him. We were together at Aix-les-Bains for three weeks last summer, and, as you know, we met. You were my old friend, and I could not help introducing him. I regret it now, and can only hope you will forgive me such an indiscretion.”
“It was not indiscreet at all – only unfortunate,” he answered, almost snappishly.
“But tell me straight out – what do you wish me to do?” Max urged. “Recollect that if I can serve you in any way you have only to command me.”
“Even at the expense of your friend’s happiness?” asked Petrovitch, his sharp eyes fixed upon the young man.
“If he really loves her, the circumstances of the cue are altered,” was the diplomatic answer.
“And if he does not? If it is, as I suspect, a mere flirtation – what then?”
“Then I think you should leave the matter to me, to act with my discretion,” young Barclay replied. He recollected that Charlie was Marion’s brother, and he saw himself already in a somewhat difficult position. “My own idea is,” he went on, “that it is something more than a mere flirtation, and that the reason of the secret meetings is because he fears to ask your consent to be allowed to pay court to your daughter.”
“What makes you think so?”
“From some words that his sister Marion let drop the other day.”
“Ah! Marion is a sweet and charming girl,” the elder man declared. “What a pity she should be compelled to drudge in a shop!”
“Yes,” replied Max, quickly. “It is a thousand pities. She’s far too refined and good for that life.”
“A matter of unfortunate necessity, I suppose.”
Necessity! Max Barclay bit his lips when he recollected how very easily she might leave that shop-life if she would only accept money from him. But how could she? How could he offer it to her without insult?
No. Until she consented to be his wife she must still remain there, at the beck and call of every irritating tradesman’s wife who cared to enter the department to purchase a ready-made costume or a skirt “with material for bodice.”
“I’m sorry for Marion,” Dr Petrovitch went on. “She frequently comes here of an evening, and often on Sundays to keep Maud company. They get on most excellently together.”
“Yes; she is devoted to Maud. She has told me so.”
“I believe she is,” Petrovitch said. “And yet it is unfortunate, for friendliness with Marion must also mean continued friendliness with her brother.”
“Ah! I see now that you do not like him,” Max said, openly, for he could not now fail to see from his friend’s expression that something had occurred. What it was he was utterly unable to make out.
“No, I don’t,” was the ex-Minister’s plain, determined answer. “And to tell you the truth, I have other views regarding Maud’s future. So just tell the young man whatever you think proper. Only request him neither to call here, nor to attempt to see the child again!”
Chapter Three.
Tells of a Woman’s Love
In the dull hazy London sunset Fopstone Road, which leads from Earl’s Court Road into Nevern Square, was quite deserted.
There is a silence and monotony in the eminently respectable thoroughfares in that particular district that, to their residents, is often very depressing. Traffic there is none save a stray hansom or a tradesman’s cart at long intervals, while street organs and even the muffin men avoid them because, unlike the poorer districts, they find no stray coppers and no customers.