Chapter Twenty. Explains Jean Adam’s Suggestion.

Over whiskey and soda in Barclay’s chambers, Jean Adam pushed his sinister plans a trifle further.

He was aware that Max had taken the opinion of a man he knew on the Stock Exchange as to the probable value of the concession for the Danube-Adriatic Railway, and that his reply had been highly favourable. Therefore he was confident that such an opportunity of making money by an honest deal Max would not let slip.

They had known each other several months, and Adam, with his engaging manner and courteous bearing, had wormed himself into the younger man’s confidence. A dozen times Max had been his host, but on each occasion the other took good care to quickly return the hospitality. To Max he represented himself as resident in Constantinople. A few years ago he had been fortunate enough to obtain a concession from the Ottoman Government which, being floated in Paris, had placed him in a very comfortable position; and he was now about to aim for bigger and more lucrative things.

“You see,” he was saying as he produced an official report to the Foreign Office—a pamphlet-like document in a blue paper cover—“here is what our consul in Belgrade reported on the scheme two years ago. Such a line, he says, would tap nearly half the trade that now goes to Odessa, besides giving Servia a seaport. It will be the biggest thing in railways for years, depend upon it.”

Max went to the writing-table, where the lamp was burning, and glanced through the paragraphs of the consular report and several other printed documents which his friend handed to him in succession. Then Adam produced a map, and upon it traced the route of the proposed line.

“Well,” Barclay said at last, rising and lighting a cigar.

“It all seems pretty plain sailing. I’ll go to-morrow and see old Statham about it. His secretary, Rolfe, is a friend of mine.”

“No, Mr Barclay,” said the wily Adam. “If I were you I would not.”

“Why?”

“Well, if you do, you’ll queer all our plans—both yours and mine,” he mused vaguely.

“How?”

“Sam Statham has agents in Constantinople—agents who could offer Muhil double the price immediately, and the ground would be cut from under our feet. Statham knows a good thing when he sees it, you bet, and if he knew anything about this he wouldn’t stick at a thousand or two.”

“Then he doesn’t know?”

“At present he can’t know. It is a secret between Muhil, Osman, and myself?”

“And what about the French people?”

“Of course they know; but they’re not such fools as to let out the secret,” replied Adam.

“Well, what do you suggest?” Max asked, taking a pull at the long tumbler.

“That we keep the affair strictly to ourselves. Once we have the concession in our hands there’ll be a hundred men in the City ready to take it up. Why, old Statham would give us a big profit on it, especially if, as you say, you know his secretary.”

“That was his secretary’s sister whom you met with me to-night,” Max remarked.

“What an extremely pretty girl,” exclaimed Adam enthusiastically.

“Think so?” asked Barclay with a smile of satisfaction. “Why, of course. A face like here isn’t seen every day. I was much struck with it when I first noticed you from the circle, and wondered whom she might be. Rolfe’s her name, is it?” he added with a feigned air of uncertainty.

“Yes. Charlie Rolfe is old Sam’s confidential secretary.”

“Well, afterwards, through him, we might interest Sam,” remarked Adam. “What we have first to do is to get hold of the concession.”

“But how?”

“By buying it.”

The two men smoked in silence. Adam’s quick eye saw that the affair was full of attraction for the man he had marked down as victim.

“You mean that I should put twelve thousand into it?” he said.

“Not at all,” responded the wily Adam at once. “In any case I do not propose that you should put up the whole sum. My idea is that we should put up six thousand each.”

“And go shares?”

“And go shares,” repeated Adam, knocking the ash from his cigar. “But prior to doing so I think it would be only right for you to go out to Constantinople, see Muhil, and ascertain the truth of the whole affair. You have only my word for it all—and the letter. I quite admit that they are not sufficient guarantee for you to put down six thousand. You are too good a business man for that.”

Max was flattered by that last sentence.

“Well,” he said smiling, “I really think it would be more satisfactory if I had—well, some confirmation of all these comments.”

“You can obtain that at once by going out to Constantinople,” declared Adam. “You’ll be out and home in ten days, and I’ll go with you,” he added persuasively.

“Well, I shall have to consider it,” the younger man replied after a brief pause.

“There is very little time to consider,” Adam said. “The French people are at work, and if they raise the purchase price to Muhil we shall be compelled to do the same.”

“But we can get an option, I suppose?”

“I have it. But it expires in ten days from to-morrow. After that Muhil will make the best terms he can with the French. The latter will have to pay through the nose, no doubt, but they’ll get it, without doubt. Their Embassy is helping them.”

“And how long can I have to decide?”

“To reach Constantinople in time we have six days more. We might then take the Orient Express from Paris and just do it. But,” he added, “of course if your inclination is against the journey and inquiry I hope you’ll allow me to assess it before somebody else. Personally,” he laughed, “I can’t afford to miss this chance of making a fortune. This, remember, is no wild mining speculation: it’s solid, bed-rock enterprise. The Servians surveyed the line four years ago and got out plans and estimates. There’s a printed copy of them at the Servian Consulate here in London. So it’s all cut-and-dried.”

“Well I hope, Adam, you’ll allow me a little time to reflect. Six thousand is a decent sum, you know.”

“I don’t want it until you’ve been out there and seen Muhil, Mr Barclay,” Adam declared. “Indeed, I refuse to touch it until you have personally satisfied yourself of the bonâ fides of the scheme. Muhil himself must first assure you of the existence of the iradé, and that it is actually in is possession. Then I will put up six thousand if you will put up the balance.”

“And if it is more than twelve?”

“Why, we share the increase equally, of course.”

“Very well. So far as it goes it is agreed,” said Max. “It only remains whether I go out to Turkey, or not.”

“That’s all. The sooner you can decide, the better for our plans,” Adam remarked. “Only take good care that old Statham does not learn what’s in the wind. You know him, I believe?”

“Yes, slightly. He’s a queer old fellow—very eccentric.”

“So I’ve heard,” said the other, betraying ignorance. What would Max Barclay have thought if he had witnessed that scene so recently when the millionaire had glanced out of his cosy library and seen the shabby stranger lounging against the railings of the Park? What, indeed, would he have thought if he had witnessed old Sam’s consequent agitation, or overheard his confession to Rolfe?

But he knew nothing of it all. Adam had shown him the best side of his nature—the easy-going and keen money-making cosmopolitan whose manner was so gentlemanly and so very charming. He had not seen the other—the side which Samuel Statham knew too well.

Adam, seated there in the big saddle-bag chair, in the full enjoyment of the excellent cigar, knew that with the exercise of a little further ingenuity he would make the first step towards the goal he had in view. He was a man who took counsel of nobody, and even the old hunchback Lyle, his closest friend, knew nothing of his object in drawing Max Barclay, until recently a perfect stranger, into the fatal net spread for him.

He smiled within himself as he calmly contemplated his victim through the haze of tobacco smoke. The dock upon the mantelshelf had struck two.

He took a final drink, slipped on his coat, and with a merry bon soir and an injunction to make up his mind and wire him at the earliest moment, he shook his friend’s hand and went out.

Max sat alone for a long time, still smoking. In his ignorance he was reflecting that the business seemed a sound one. Adam had not asked him to put down money before full inquiry, and had, at the same time, offered to put up half. This latter fact, in itself, showed that his friend had confidence in the scheme.

And so, before he turned in that night, he had practically made up his mind to pay a flying visit to the Sultan’s capital. There could be no harm done, he argued. He had never been in Constantinople, and to go there with a resident like Adam was in itself an opportunity not to be missed.

Meanwhile the astute concession-hunter, as he drove to Addison Road in a cab, was calmly plotting a further step in the direction he was slowly but surely following. His daring and ingenuity knew no bounds. He was a man full of energy and resource, unabashed, undaunted, unscrupulous, and yet to all, even to his most intimate friend, a perfect sphinx.

The second step in his progress he took on the evening of the day after.

In the afternoon, about four, a shabbily-dressed man called upon him at his flat, and they remained together for ten minutes or so. At half-past eight, as Marion was about to enter a ’bus at Oxford Circus to take her up to Hampstead for a blow—a trip she frequently took in the evening when alone—she heard her name uttered, and turning, found Max’s polite French friend behind her, about to mount on the same conveyance.

To avoid him was impossible, therefore they ascended to the top together, he declaring that he was on his way to Hampstead.

“I’m going there too,” she told him, although he already knew it quite well. “Have you seen Mr Barclay to-day?”

“Not to-day. I have been busy in the City,” Adam explained. He glanced at her, and could not refrain from noting her neat appearance, dressed as she was in a black skirt, white cotton blouse, and a black hat which suited her beauty admirably. He knew that she was at Cunnington’s, but, of course, appeared in ignorance of the fact. He was most kind and courteous to her, and so well had he arranged the meeting that she believed it to be entirely an accident.

Presently, after they had chatted for some time, he sighed, saying—

“In a few days I suppose I must leave London again.”

“Oh! are you going abroad?”

“Yes, to Constantinople. I live there,” he said.

“In Constantinople! How very strange it must be to live among the Turks!”

“It is a very charming life, I assure you, Miss Rolfe,” he answered. “The Turk is always a gentleman, and his country is full of beauty and attraction, even though his capital may be muddy under foot.”

“Oh, well,” she said laughing, “I don’t think I should care to live there. I should be afraid of them!”

“Your fears would be quite ungrounded,” he declared. “A lady can walk unmolested in the streets of Constantinople at any hour of the day or night, which cannot be said, of your London here.”

Then, after a pause, he added—

“I think your friend Mr Barclay is coming with me.”

“With you?—to Constantinople?” she exclaimed in dismay. “When?”

“In two or three days,” he replied. “But you mustn’t tell him I said so,” he went on. “We are going out on business—business that will bring us both a sum of money that will be a fortune to me, if not to Mr Barclay. We are in partnership over it.”

“What nature is the business?”

“The building of a railroad to the Adriatic. We are obtaining permission from the Sultan for its construction.”

“And Max—I mean Mr Barclay—will make a large sum?” she asked with deep interest.

“Yes, if he decides to go,” replied Adam; “but I fear very much one thing,” and he fixed his dark eyes upon hers.

“What do you fear?”

“Well—how shall I put it, Miss Rolfe?” he asked. “I—I fear that he will refuse to go because he does not wish to leave London just now.”

“Why not?”

“He has an attraction here,” the man laughed—“yourself.”

She coloured slightly. Max had probably told this friend that they were lovers.

“Oh! that’s quite foolish. He must go, if it is really in his interests.”

“Exactly,” declared Adam. “I have all my life been looking for such a chance to make money, and it has at last arrived. He must go.”

“Most certainly. I will urge him strongly.”

“A word from you, Miss Rolfe, would decide him—but—well, don’t you think it would be best if you did not tell him that we had met. He might not like it if he knew we had discussed his business affairs—eh?”

“Very well,” she said. “I will say nothing. When he speaks to me about the suggested journey I will strongly advise him to go in his own interests.”

“Yes; do. It will be the means of putting many thousands of pounds into both our pockets. The matter is, in fact, entirely in your hands. May I with safety leave it there?”

“With perfect safety, Mr Adam,” was her reply. “It is, perhaps, fortunate that we should have met like this to-night.”

“Fortunate!” he echoed. “Most fortunate for all of us. If you are really Mr Barclay’s friend you will see that he goes with me.”

“I am his friend, and he shall go if it is to his interest to do go.”

“Ask him, and he will tell you,” was the reply of the man who had lounged in Park Lane as a shabby stranger, and of whom old Sam Statham went in such deadly fear.

He went with Marion to the end of her journey, and then left her in pretence of walking to his destination.

But after he had raised his hat to her so politely, and bent over her hand, he turned on his heel muttering to himself—

“You think you are his friend, my poor, silly little girl! No. You will compel him to go with me to the East, and thus become my catspaw—the tool of Jean Adam.”

And giving vent to a short, dry laugh of triumph, he went on his way.