Chapter Thirty. The Spider’s Parlour.

“What you have told me, Miss Rolfe, concerning your brother’s engagement, interests me greatly,” the old fellow said at last. “He is entirely in my confidence, and a most valuable assistant, therefore I, naturally, am very anxious that he should not make an unhappy marriage.”

“I—I hope that you will not say that I have told you,” exclaimed the girl quickly. “I know I ought not to—”

“Whatever is said between us in this room, Miss Rolfe, is said in strictest confidence,” the millionaire declared. “I have a good many secrets in my keeping, you know. Therefore rest assured that whatever you tell me goes no further.”

“You are against his marriage,” she suggested, looking him boldly in the face.

“I have not said so. I am only seeking information abort the lady—Maud Petrovitch, I think you said was her name?”

“Whatever I can tell you is only in her favour. She was a dear—a very dear friend of mine.”

“Ah! then you have quarrelled—eh?” he said, looking at her sharply.

“You said she was your friend—you used the past tense.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Because,”—and she grew confused—“well, because something has happened.”

“To interrupt pure friendship?”

She did not reply. He had craftily led up the conversation to Maud, and was, as he had openly told her, seeking information. He watched the flush upon her cheeks, and the nervous manner in which she picked at her skirt.

“And yet, though you are friends no longer, you are in favour of your brother’s marriage with the lady? That appears strange. I suppose he loves her. Every man loves at his age, and lives to regret it at forty,” he added with that touch of biting sarcasm that was never absolutely absent from his remarks.

“Yes; Charlie does love her. I’m convinced of that. And her devotion to him has always been very marked, from the first time they were introduced at Aix-les-Bains. She has told me how deep is her affection for him.”

“At Aix-les-Bains,” Statham exclaimed in surprise: “I thought Doctor Petrovitch lived in London?”

“And so he did—until recently.”

“Where is he now? I would much like to meet him again.”

“I do not know. He left London suddenly with his daughter.”

“Your brother would know, of course.”

“No. He also is unaware of their present whereabouts,” she answered quickly, adding: “Recollect your promise not to mention the matter to him.”

“When I make a promise, Miss Rolfe, I keep it,” was his grave response. “Only forgive me for saying so, but you appear to be a little evasive regarding the Doctor’s daughter.”

“Evasive?” she echoed. “I don’t understand you, Mr Statham.”

“Well, you are trying to mislead me,” he answered, knitting his brows and looking her straight in the face. “And let me say that when you try to mislead Sam Statham you have a difficult task.”

She started at his sudden change of manner, and again became confused.

“Now,” he said, bending forward to her from his chair, “let us understand each other at the outset. You were the most intimate friend of this girl Maud who, with her father, suddenly disappeared from London. The facts of their disappearance are already known to me, I may as well tell you that much. They vanished, and took their household goods with them. Perhaps they were afraid of anarchists or political enemies, or perhaps the Doctor is wanted by the police. Who knows? It was a mystery, and as such remains, is not that so?”

She nodded. This knowledge of his astounded her. She had believed that the disappearance was only known to the two or three persons who had been the Petrovitchs’ personal friends. She little dreamed of the many spies in the pay of the great financier, men and women who reported to him any political move at home or abroad which might influence the markets. The world had often believed that Sam Statham was omnipresent. They knew nothing of his agents, or of their secret visits.

“Now, Miss Rolfe, let us advance one step further,” the old man said, still keeping his keen gaze upon hers. “If you will kindly carry your mind back to the day of their disappearance, you will remember that you accompanied the Doctor’s daughter to a concert at Queen’s Hall.”

“How do you know that?” she cried, starting up from her chair.

“How I know it is immaterial,” he said firmly. “Kindly re-seat yourself.”

“I will not,” she declared boldly. “You are cross-examining me as though I were a criminal. This is outrageous!”

“I politely request you to sit down, Miss Rolfe,” he said, never moving a muscle.

Her beautiful face was flushed with resentment and anger, as, standing erect before him, she faced him in open defiance.

“I see no further point in this interview,” was her cool reply. “I will go.”

“I think it would be wiser for you to remain,” he responded in a low, determined voice; “wiser for you to answer my questions.”

“I have already answered them.”

“I wish to know something further,” he said, stirring again in his chair, and waving his hand with a repeated request that she would be re-seated.

“I have nothing to conceal,” was her reply, attempting to smile. “Why should I?”

“Why, indeed,” he said, “I may as well tell you that I have reasons—very strong business reasons—for elucidating this mystery concerning Doctor Petrovitch. To me it involves a question of many thousands of pounds. I have considerable interests out in Servia, as your brother may have explained to you. I must find the Doctor, and the reason I have asked you here to-night is to invoke your aid in assisting me to do so. Can I be more explicit?”

He looked in her face, but a shrewd observer would have known by the wavering smile at the corners of his mouth that he was not speaking the exact truth. There was some trick or motive underlying it all.

Though she did not detect this, she was still undecided. Anger was aroused within her by his commanding manner. His attitude had changed so suddenly that she had been taken thoroughly aback.

“I am afraid, Mr Statham, that I cannot render you any assistance in discovering the whereabouts of the Petrovitchs.”

“But, my dear young lady!” he cried. “They had servants. Surely there is one who could give us some very valuable information.”

“Perhaps so, if he or she could be found,” she remarked. “They, no doubt, took every precaution against being followed. As a matter of fact, so great a care has the Doctor taken that his most intimate friend in London is in ignorance.”

“And who is he, pray?” asked the millionaire quickly.

“A gentleman named Barclay—Mr Max Barclay.”

“Max Barclay! I’ve heard of him. A friend of your brother’s, eh? And so he was the Doctor’s friend?”

“They were inseparable, but the Doctor left without a word of farewell.”

“And also the daughter—except to you, Miss Rolfe,” he said, looking at her meaningly.

“To me?”

“Yes,” he went on, his keen gaze again upon her. “It is useless to assume ignorance. You know quite well that the doctor’s daughter, on the night of their disappearance, made a statement to you—an important statement.”

“My brother told you that!” she cried. “He has told you everything!”

“He has told me nothing,” replied the old man coldly. “I only ask whether you deny that she made a statement.”

The girl hesitated.

“She certainly spoke to me,” she admitted at last. “I was her most intimate friend, and it was only natural perhaps that she told me what was most uppermost in her mind.”

“And what was that?”

“I regret,” she replied, “that I cannot repeat it; Mr Statham.”

“What! You refuse to say anything?”

“Under compulsion—yes,” was her firm answer. “I did not know,” she added, “that you had invited me here to ply me with questions in this manner.”

“Or you would not have come, eh?” he laughed. “Well, my dear young lady, you apparently don’t quite realise how very important it is to me to discover Doctor Petrovitch. I have asked you here in order to beg a favour of you. I may be rough and matter-of-fact, but I trust you will pardon my apparent rudeness.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Mr Statham,” was her quiet, dignified response. “My reply, quite brief and at the same time unalterable, is that I have nothing to say.”

“You mean you refuse to tell me?”

She nodded.

He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his old grey trousers, and stared down at the carpet. Marion Rolfe was more difficult to question than he had anticipated. She possessed the same firm, resolute nature of her father and her brother. That Maud Petrovitch had made a statement to her which possessed a most important bearing upon the serious interests involved, he was absolutely certain. Ever since the day following the strange disappearance, certain secret agents of his had been at work, but they had discovered next to nothing. Marion Rolfe alone was in possession of the actual facts. He knew that full well, and was therefore determined that she should be compelled to speak and explain.

“I wish, Miss Rolfe, that I could impress upon you the extreme importance of this matter to myself personally,” he said, assuming an air quite conciliatory in the hope that he might induce her to reveal the truth. “I have begged of you to assist me in a very difficult task—one which, if I fail in accomplishing, will mean an enormous financial revenue. Your brother is in my service, while you yourself are also indirectly in my service,” he added; “and if, as result of your information, I am able to discover the Doctor, I need not tell you that I shall mark your services in an appreciable manner.”

“You have already been very generous to us both, Mr Statham, but I think you cannot know much of me if you believe that for sake of reward I will betray the Doctor,” was her dignified answer.

“It is not a question of betrayal,” he hastened to reassure her. “It is to his own interest as well as to mine that we should meet. If we do not, it will mean ruin to him.”

“And if he is dead?” suggested Marion.

“My own belief is that he is not dead,” was the millionaire’s reply. “I know more of him and of his past than you imagine. There is every reason why he should live.”

“And Maud—what of her?”

He shrugged his shoulders, and replied:

“As regards her—you know best. She told you the truth.”

“Yes—and which I will not repeat.”

“Oh! but, my dear young lady, you must! Why waste time like this? Every day, nay every hour, causes the affair to assume increased gravity. I would have gone to the police long ago, only such a course would have brought the Doctor into a criminal dock. I have his interests, as well as my own at heart.”

“I have given my promise of secrecy, Mr Statham, and I will not betray it,” she repeated, again rising from her chair, anxious to leave the house.

“You still refuse!” he cried starting to his feet also, and standing before her. “You still refuse—even to save yourself!”

“To save myself!” she exclaimed. “I do not follow you, Mr Statham.”

A sinister grin spread over his grey face.

“You are perfectly free to leave this place, Miss Rolfe,” he said in a hard, meaning voice, “but first reflect what they will say at Cunnington’s regarding your visit here to-night!”

“You—you will tell them!” she gasped, drawing back from him, pale as death as she realised, for the first time, how she had imperilled her good name, and how completely she was in his power. “I—I believed, Mr Statham, that you were an honourable man!”

“Where a man’s life is concerned it is not a question of honour,” was his reply. “You refuse to assist me—and I refuse to assist you. That is all!”