Chapter Twenty Three. London Lovers.

Nearly three weeks had now passed since the extraordinary disappearance of Dr Petrovitch and his daughter from the house in Cromwell Road.

The cleverness with which the removal of their household goods had been effected, and the cunning and ingenuity displayed regarding them, showed Max Barclay plainly that the disappearance had been carefully planned, and that those assisting had been well paid for keeping their secret.

And yet, after all, it was quite possible that the men who had removed the furniture from the house were merely hired for the job, and had gone away thinking they had acted quite legitimately. Harmer’s Stores often engage extra hands, and what would have been easier than for the foreman to have paid them, and driven the van with the false name upon it to another part of London. That was, no doubt, what had really been done.

Max had devoted the greater part of his time to endeavouring to elucidate the mystery, but had failed ignominiously. The statement made by Marion concerning what seemed to be some confession of Maud’s greatly puzzled him. His well-beloved was loyal to her friend, and would not betray her. Times without number he had reverted to the question, but she always evaded his questions.

Only a few evenings before, while they were seated at one of the little tables on the lawn of the Welcome Club at the Earl’s Court Exhibition, of which he was a member, he had again referred to Maud, and asked her, in the interests of his inquiry, to give him some idea of what she had stated on that night when they last met.

“I really cannot tell you, Max,” was her reply, as she lifted her eyes to his in the dim light shed by the coloured lamps with which the place was illuminated. “Have I not already told you of the promise I gave her? You surely do not wish me to break it! Would it be fair, or just? I’m sure you, who are always loyal to a woman, would never wish me to mention what she told me.”

“Of course. If it is anything against her reputation—her honour—then it is certainly best left unsaid,” he replied quickly. “Only—well, I—I thought, perhaps, it might give us a clue to the motive of their unaccountable flight.”

“Perhaps it might,” she admitted; “and yet I cannot tell you.”

“Does Charlie know? Would he tell me, do you think?”

“I don’t think Charlie knows. At any rate, she would not tell him. If he does know, it must be through some other source.”

“And you anticipate that what Maud told you had some connection with their sudden disappearance?” he asked, looking steadfastly into the face of the woman he dearly loved.

“I’ve already told you so.”

“But when you parted from her that night, did you believe that you would not meet her again?”

She was silent, looking straight before her at the crowd of idlers circulating around the illuminated bandstand and enjoying the music and the cool air after the stifling London day.

At last she spoke, saying in a low, rather strained voice:

“I can hardly answer that question. Had I suspected anything unusual I think I should have mentioned my apprehension to you.”

“Yes, I feel sure you would have done, dearest,” he declared. “I quite see the difficulty of your present position. And you understand, I’m quite sure, how anxious I feel regarding the safety of the doctor, who was such a dear friend of mine.”

“But why are you so anxious, Max?” she asked.

“Because if—well, if there had not been foul play, I should have heard from the doctor before this!” he said seriously.

“Foul play?” she gasped, starting forward. “Do you suspect some—some tragedy, then?”

“Yes, Marion,” was his low, earnest reply. “I do.”

“But why?” she queried. “Remember that the doctor was a diplomat and statesman. In Servia politics are very complex, as they are, I’m told, in every young nation. Our own English history was a strange and exciting one when we were the present age of Servia. The people killed King Alexander, it is true; but did we not kill King Charles?”

“Then you think that some political undercurrent is responsible for this disappearance?” he suggested.

“That has more than once crossed my mind.”

“Yet would he not have sent word to me in secret?”

“No. He might fear spies. You yourself have told me how secret agents swarm in the Balkan countries, and that espionage is as bad there as in Russia.”

“But we are in London—not in Servia.”

“There are surely secret agents of the Servian Opposition party here in London!” she said. “You were telling me something about them once—some facts which the doctor had revealed to you.”

“Yes, I remember,” he remarked thoughtfully, feeling that in her argument there was much truth. “Yet I have a kind of intuition of the occurrence of some tragedy, Marion,” he added, recollecting how her brother had stolen in secret from that denuded house.

“Well, I think, dear, that your fears are quite groundless,” she declared. “I know how the affair is worrying you, and how much you respected the dear old doctor. But, if I were you, I would wait in patience. He will surely send you word some day from some remote corner of the earth. Suppose he had sailed for India, South America, or South Africa, for instance? There would have been no time for him to write to you from his hiding-place.”

“Then he is in hiding—eh?” asked Max, eager to seize on any word of, hers that might afford a clue to the strange statement of Maud.

“He may be.”

“Is that your opinion?”

“I suspect as much.”

“Then you do not believe there has been a tragedy?”

“I believe only in what I know,” replied the girl with wisdom.

“And you know there has not been a tragedy?”

“Ah! no. There you are quite mistaken. I have no knowledge whatsoever.”

“Only surmise?”

“Only surmise.”

“Based upon what Maud told you—eh?” he asked at last, bringing the conversation to the point.

“What Maud told me has nothing whatever to do with my surmise,” was her quick reply. “It is a surmise, pure and simple.”

“And you have no foundation of fact for it?”

“None, dear.”

Max was disappointed. He sat smoking, staring straight before him. At the tables around, beneath the trees, well-dressed people were chatting and laughing in the dim light, while the military band opposite played the newest waltz. But he heard it not. He was only thinking of how he could clear up the mystery of the strange disappearance of his dearest friend. He glanced at the soft face of the sweet girl at his side, that was so full of affection and yet so sphinx-like.

She would tell him nothing. Again and again she had refused to betray the confidence of her friend.

For the thousandth time he reflected upon that curious and startling incident which he had seen with his own eyes in Cromwell Road, and of the inexplicable discovery he had made. He had not met Rolfe. That he should keep away from him was, in itself, suspicious. Without a doubt he knew the truth.

Max wondered whether Charlie had told his sister anything—whether he had told her the truth, and the reason of her determination not to speak was not to incriminate him. He knew in what strong affection she held her brother—how she always tried to shield his faults and magnify his virtues. Yet was it not only what might be very naturally supposed that she would do? Charlie was always very good to her. To him, she owed practically everything.

And so he pondered, smoking in silence while the band played and the after-dinner idlers gossiped and flirted on that dimly-lit lawn. He pondered when later on he took her to Oxford Street by the “tube,” and saw her to the corner of the street in which Cunnington’s barracks were situated, and he pondered as he drove along Piccadilly to the Traveller’s to have a final drink before going home.

Next morning, about eleven, he was in his pleasant bachelor sitting-room in Dover Street going over some accounts from his factor up in Scotland, when the door opened and Charlie Rolfe entered, exclaiming in his usual hearty way:

“Hulloa, Max, old chap, how are you?”

Barclay looked up in utter surprise. The visit was entirely unexpected, and so intimate a friend was Rolfe that he always entered unannounced.

In a moment, however, he recovered himself.

“Why, Charlie,” he exclaimed, motioning him to a low easy-chair on the other side of the fireplace, “you’re quite a stranger. Where have you been all this long time?”

“Oh! I thought you knew through Marion. I’ve been up in Glasgow. Had a lot of worries at the works—labour trouble and all that sort of thing,” he replied. “Those Scotch workmen are utterly incorrigible, but I must say that it’s due to agitators from our side of the border.”

“Yes; I saw something in the papers the other day about an impending strike. Have a cigar?” and he pushed the box towards his friend.

“There would have been a strike if the old man hadn’t put his foot down. The men held a meeting and reconsidered their position. It’s well for them they did, otherwise I had orders to close down the whole works for six months—or for a year, if need be.”

“But you’d have lost very heavily, wouldn’t you?”

“Lost? I should rather think so. We should have had to pay damages for breach of contract with the Italian railways to the tune of a nice round sum. But what does it matter to the guv’nor. When he takes a stand against what he calls the tyranny of labour he doesn’t count the cost.”

“Well,” sighed Max, looking across at Marion’s brother, “it’s rather nice to be in such a position, and yet—”

“And yet it isn’t all honey to be in his shoes—eh? No, Max, it isn’t,” he said. “I know more about old Sam than most men, and I tell you I’d rather be as I am than stifled by wealth as he is. He’s a millionaire in gold, but a pauper in happiness.”

“I can’t help thinking that his unhappiness must, in a great measure, be due to himself,” Max remarked, wondering why Charlie had visited him after this length of time. “I think if I had his money I should try and get some little enjoyment out of it. Other wealthy men have yachts, or motor cars, or other hobbies. Why doesn’t he?”

“Because he doesn’t care for sport. He told me once that in his younger days abroad he was as keen a sportsman as anybody. But now-a-days he’s too old for it, and prefers his armchair.”

“And yet he isn’t a very old man, is he?”

“Sometimes wealth rejuvenates a man, but more often the worry of it ages him prematurely,” Rolfe remarked. “I only got back from Glasgow again last night, and I thought I’d look in and see you. Seen Marion lately?”

“I was with her at Earl’s Court last night. She’s all right.”

Then a silence fell between the pair. Rolfe lit the cigar he had been slowly twisting between his fingers. Max looked furtively into his friend’s face, trying to read what secret thought lay behind. Charlie, however, preserved his usual easy, nonchalant air as he leaned back in his chair, his weed between his teeth and his hands clasped behind his head.

“Look here, Charlie,” Max exclaimed at last, in a tone of confidence. “I want to ask you something.”

The other started visibly, and his cheeks went just a trifle paler.

“Well, go on, old chap.” He laughed uneasily. “What is it?” And then he held his breath.

“It’s about old Statham.”

“About old Statham!” the other echoed, breathing freely again.

“Yes. Do you know that there are going about London a lot of queer stories regarding that house of his in Park Lane—I mean a lot more stories.”

“More stories!” laughed the private secretary. “Well, what are people saying now?”

“Oh, all sorts of weird and ridiculous thing.”

“What is one of them? I’m interested, for they never tell me anything.”

“Because they know you to be connected with the place,” Max remarked. “Well, just now there are about a dozen different tales going the rounds, and all sorts of hints against the old man.”

“Set about by those with whom he has refused to associate—eh?”

“Probably concocted by spiteful gossips, I should think. Some of them bear upon the face of them their own refutation. For instance, I’ve heard that the reason lights are seen upstairs is because there’s a mysterious Mrs Statham and her family living there in secret. Nobody has seen them, and they never go out.”

“Oh! And what reason is given for that?”

“Because they say she’s a Turkish woman, and that he still keeps her secluded as she has been ever since a child. The story goes that she’s a very beautiful woman, daughter of one of the most powerful Pashas in Constantinople, who escaped from her mother’s harem and got away over the frontier into Bulgaria, where Statham joined her, and they were married in Paris.”

Rolfe laughed aloud. The idea of old Sam being an actor in such a love-romance was distinctly amusing.

“They call him Statham Pasha, I suppose! Well, really, it is the very latest, just as though there may not be lights upstairs when the old man goes to bed.”

“Of course,” said Max. “But the fact that the old man refuses to allow anybody in the house has given rise to all these stories. You really ought to tell him.”

“What shall I tell him? Is there any other gossip?”

“Yes,” replied Max, looking the secretary straight in the face in suspicion that he knew more about the mysteries of that house than he really did. “There’s another strange story, which I heard two or three days ago, to the effect that one night recently a person was seen to go there secretly, being admitted at once. Then, after the lapse of an hour or so, old Levi came forth, signalled to a four-wheeled cab which was apparently loitering about on the chance of a fare. Then from out of the house was carried a long, heavy box, which was placed on the cab and driven away to an unknown destination.”

“A box!” gasped Rolfe in surprise, bending quickly across to the speaker. “What do you mean—what do you suggest?”

“Well the natural suggestion is that the body of the midnight visitor was within that box?”

Charlie Rolfe did not reply. He sat staring open-mouthed, as though Max’s story had supplied the missing link in a chain of suspicions which had for a long time existed in his mind—as though he now knew the terrible and astounding truth.