Chapter Thirty Four. The Mysterious Mademoiselle.

The future, nay, the very life, of Samuel Statham depended, according to his own admission to his secretary, upon the honour of Maud Petrovitch.

The position was, to say the least, strangely incongruous. Here was a man whose power and wealth were world-famous, a man whom kings and princes sought to conciliate and load with honours, which he steadfastly refused to accept, dependent for his life upon a woman, little more than a child.

Charlie Rolfe had thought over his master’s strange, enigmatical words many times. Maud—his Maud whom he loved so dearly, and who had so suddenly and mysteriously gone out of his life—was to be sacrificed. Why? What did old Sam mean when he uttered those words, each of which had burnt indelibly into his soul.

“You have promised to save me; you have sworn to assist me, and the sacrifice is imperative?” Statham had said. “It is her honour—or my death!”

Each time he entered the grim portals of the silent house in Park Lane those fateful words recurred to him. The house of mystery seemed dark and chilly, even on those sunny days of early September, and old Levi seemed more sphinx-like and solemn. A dozen times had he been on the point of referring again to the matter, but each time he had refrained, for the millionaire’s manner had now changed. He was less anxious, and far more bright and hopeful. The discovery of Duncan Macgregor seemed to have wrought a great change in him, for the old Scot frequently spent the evening there, being telegraphed for from Glasgow, ostensibly to discuss business matters.

On the day following Marion’s visit to Park Lane Charlie was in Paris, having been sent there overnight upon a pressing message to the branch house in the Avenue de l’Opéra, for Statham Brothers were as well-known for their stability in France as in England.

Just before twelve o’clock, as he was issuing from the fine offices of the firm into the street, he stumbled against a rather short but well-dressed girl of about twenty-four. He raised his hat, and in English asked her pardon, whereupon, with a light laugh, she replied in the same tongue.

“Oh, really no apology is needed, Mr Rolfe.”

He glanced at her inquiringly.

“I—I really haven’t the pleasure of your name,” he said, still upon the doorstep of the office. At all events, she was rather good-looking and well-bred, even if her stature was a trifle diminutive. Her gown was in excellent taste, too.

“My name really doesn’t matter,” she laughed. “I know you quite well. You are Mr Charles Rolfe, old Mr Statham’s secretary.”

Then, in an instant, the troth flashed across his mind. This girl must be one of old Sam’s friends—one of his secret agents controlled and paid from the office in Old Broad Street.

“You wish to speak to me—eh?” he asked, in a quick, businesslike way.

“Yes; I do. Let us stroll somewhere where we can talk.” Then after a moment’s reflection she added: “The Tuileries Gardens would be a good place. We might avoid eavesdroppers there.”

“Certainly,” he said, and, rather interested in the adventure, he strolled along at her side. She put up her pale blue sunshade, for it was a hot day, and at that hour the Avenue was deserted, for the work-girls were not yet out from the numerous ateliers in the neighbourhood, and half Paris was away at the spas or at the sea.

Rolfe knew many of old Sam’s spies, but had never seen this English girl before. That she was a lady seemed evident by her manner and speech, and that she had something of importance to tell him was plain. She had, no doubt, learned of his flying visit to Paris—for he meant to leave for London at four o’clock—and had come to the office in order that he could not escape her.

As he walked beside her, a well-set-up figure in dark grey flannel, he cast a furtive glance at the pretty, dark-complexioned face beneath the turquoise sunshade. She looked younger than she was, for her skirts only reached to her ankles, displaying a neat brown shoe tied with large bows. Across her brow was just a tiny wisp of stray hair, reminding him forcibly of the sweet countenance of his lost love. He recollected how he used to tease her about that unruly little lock, and how often he used to tenderly brush it back from her eyes.

“You live in Paris?” he asked as they walked together.

“Sometimes,” was her rather vague reply. “I’m always fond of it, for it is so bright and pleasant after—” and she was on the point of giving him a clue to her place of abode, but stopped her words in time.

“After what?” he asked.

“After other places,” she answered evasively.

He glanced at her again, wondering whom she might be. A girl of her age could scarcely act as secret agent in financial matters. Her white gown perhaps gave her a more girlish appearance than she otherwise possessed, but there could be no two opinions that she was really good-looking.

She had approached him with timidity and modesty, yet in those few minutes of their acquaintance she had already become quite friendly, and they were already laughing together as they crossed the Rue de Rivoli.

“I knew you were in Paris, and came here specially to meet you, Mr Rolfe,” she said at last. “I’m afraid you must think me very dreadful to purposely compel you to apologise and speak to me.”

“Not at all. Only—well, I think you know you have a rather unfair advantage of me. You ought to give me your name,” he urged.

“I have my own reasons for not doing so,” she laughed. “It is sufficient for you to know that I am your friend.”

“And a very charming little friend, too,” he laughed. “I only wish all my friends were so dainty as yourself.”

“Ah! so you are a flatterer—eh?” she said, reproving him with a smile.

“Not flattery—but the truth,” he declared, filled with curiosity as to whom she might be. Why, he wondered, had she sought him? Perhaps if he described her at the office they had just left, she might be known there.

Though out of the season, there was still life and movement in the Rue de Rivoli, as there always is between the Magasins du Louvre and the Rue Castiglione. The tweeds and blouses of the Cook’s tourists were in evidence as usual, and the little midinette tripped gaily through the throng.

At last they entered the gate of the public gardens, which in the afternoons are given over to nurses in white caps and children with air-balls, and, walking some distance, still chatting, presently found a seat in full view of the Quai with its traffic and the sluggish Seine beyond.

Then as he seated himself beside her she, with her sunshade held behind her head, threw herself back slightly and laughed saucily in his face, displaying her red lips and even, pearly teeth.

“Isn’t this a rather amusing meeting?” she asked, with tantalising air. “I know you are dying to know who I am. Just think. Have you never seen me before?”

Charlie was puzzled—sorely puzzled. He tried to think, but to his knowledge he had never previously set eyes upon the dark-haired little witch before in all his life.

“I—well I really don’t recollect. You’ve asked me a riddle, and I’ve given it up.”

“But think. Have you never seen me before?”

“In London?”

“No; somewhere else—a long way from here.”

He shook his head. She was a complete enigma this girl not yet out of her teens.

“I must apologise to you, but I do not recollect,” he said. “If you refuse to tell me who you are, you can surely give me your Christian name.”

“Why?”

“Well, because—”

“Because of your natural curiosity!” she declared. “Men are always curious. They always want to get at hard facts. Half the romance of life is taken away by their desire to go straight to the truth of things. Women are fond of a little imagination.”

Was she merely carrying on a mild flirtation with him because of a sheer love of romance? He had heard of girls of her age, overfed upon romantic novels and filled with daydreams, starting out upon adventures similarly perilous. He looked into her eyes, and saw that they danced with tantalising merriment. She was making fun of him!

“My curiosity is certainly natural,” he said, a little severely, piqued by her superiority. “You have told me that you wish to speak with me in confidence. How can I repose equal confidence in you if you refuse me your name?”

“I do not ask you to repose confidence in me, Mr Rolfe,” was her quick response, opening her eyes widely. “I have brought you here to tell you something—something which I know will greatly interest you, more so, indeed, than the question of whom and what I am.”

“Then tell me your Christian name, so that I may address you by that.”

For a moment she did not reply. Her gaze was fixed straight before her. The wind stirred the dusty leaves above them, causing them to sigh slightly, while before them along the Quai a big cream-coloured automobile sped swiftly, trumpeting loudly.

At last she turned to him, and with a smile upon her fresh dimpled cheeks, she said:

“My name is a rather unusual one—Lorena.”

“Lorena!” he echoed. “What a very pretty name! Almost as charming as its owner!”

She moved with a gesture of mock impatience, declaring: “You are really too bad, Mr Rolfe! Why do you say these things?”

“I only speak the truth. I feel flattered that you should deign to take notice of such an unimportant person as myself.”

“Unimportant!” she cried, again opening her eyes and making a quick gesture which showed foreign residence. “Is Mr Statham’s secretary an unimportant man?”

“Certainly.”

“But he is of importance to one person at least.”

“To whom?”

For a moment she did not answer. Then, she turned her dark eyes full upon his, and replied:

“To the woman who loves him!”

Charlie started perceptibly. What could the girl mean? Did she mean that she herself entertained affection for him, or was she merely hinting at what she believed might possibly be the case—that he was beloved.

He was more than ever dumbfounded by her attitude. There was something very mysterious about her—a mystery increased by her own sweet, piquante and unconventional manner. In his whole career he had never met with a similar adventure. At one moment he doubted her genuineness, but at the next he reflected how, at the first moment of their meeting, she had been extremely anxious to speak with him alone. Her attitude was of one who had some confidential information to impart—something no doubt in the interests of the world-renowned firm of Statham Brothers.

Other secret agents of Sam Statham whom he had seen on their visits to Park Lane had been mostly men and women advanced in age, for the most part wearing an outward aspect of severe respectability. Some were, however, the reverse. One was a well-known dancer at the music-halls of Paris and Vienna, whose pretty face looked out from postcards in almost every shop on the Continent.

But the question was, who could be this dainty girl who called herself Lorena?

“What do you mean by the woman who loves me?” he asked her presently, after a pause. “I don’t quite follow you. Who does me the great honour of entertaining any affection for me?”

“Who? Can you really ask that?” she said. “Ask yourself?”

“I have asked myself,” he laughed, rather uneasily, meeting her glance and wavering beneath it.

“Ah! you will not admit the truth, I see,” she remarked, raising her finger in shy reproof.

“Of what?”

“That you are beloved—that you are the lover of Maud Petrovitch!”

“Maud Petrovitch!” he gasped. “You know her? Tell me,” he cried quickly.

“I have told you,” she answered. “I have stirred your memory of a fact which you have apparently forgotten, Mr Rolfe.”

“Forgotten—forgotten Maud!” he exclaimed. “I have never for a moment forgotten her. She is lost to me—and you know it. Tell me the truth. Where is she? Where can I see her?”

But the girl only shook her head slowly in sadness. Over her bright, merry face had fallen a sudden gloom, a look of deep regret and dark despair.

“Where is she?” he demanded, springing up from the seat and facing his companion.

But she made no response. She only stared blankly before her at the dark sluggish waters of the Seine.