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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!”
Chapter Thirty One.
“His Name!”
“Not a question of honour, Mr Statham!” she cried. “Is it not a question of my own honour!” and she stood before him, erect and defiant.
“My dear young lady,” he laughed, “pray calm yourself. Let us discuss the matter quietly.”
“There is nothing to discuss,” she exclaimed resentfully, looking straight into the old man’s grey face. “You have threatened to divulge the secret of my visit to you to-night if – if I refuse to betray my friend! Is such an action honourable? Does such a threat against a defenceless woman do you credit?” she asked.
“You misunderstand me,” he hastened to assure her, realising the mistake he had made.
“I understand that you ask me a question,” she said. “You wish me to repeat what was told to me in confidence – the secret imparted to me by the girl who was my beat friend!”
“Yes; I wish to know what Maud Petrovitch told you,” he answered, standing with his thin hands behind his back.
“Then I regret that I am unable to satisfy your curiosity,” was her firm response. “I now realise your motive in inviting me here at this hour to see you in secret. You meant me to compromise myself – to remain away from Cunnington’s and be punished for my absence – the punishment of dismissal,” she went on, her fine eyes flashing in anger at his dastardly tactics. “You know quite well, Mr Statham, that the world is only too ready to think ill of a woman! You anticipate that I will betray my friend, in order to save myself from calumny and dismissal from the service of the firm. But in that you are mistaken. No word shall pass my lips, and I wish you good-night,” she added with serve hauteur, moving towards the door.
“No, Miss Rolfe!” he cried, quickly intercepting her. “Surely it is unnecessary to create this scene. I hate scenes. Life is really not worth them. You have denounced what you are pleased to call my ungentlemanly tactics. Well, I can only say in my defence that Samuel Statham, although he is not all that he might be, has never acted the blackguard towards a woman, and more especially, towards the daughter of his dear friend.”
“You have told me that you will refuse to assist me further!” she said. “In other words, you decline to preserve the secret of my visit here, although you made a promise that my absence to-night from Cunnington’s should not be noted!”
“I have given you a promise, Miss Rolfe, and I shall keep it,” was his quiet and serious response.
She looked at him with distrust.
“You have asked me a question, Mr Statham – one to which I am not permitted to reply,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because – well, because I have made a vow to regard what was told me as strictly in confidence.”
Sam Statham pursed his lips. Few were the secrets he could not learn when he set his mind upon learning them. In every capital in Europe he had his agents, who, at orders from him, set about to discover what he wished to know, whether it be a carefully-guarded diplomatic secret, or whether it concerned the love affair of some royal prince to whom he was making a loan. He knew as much of the internal affairs of various countries as their finance ministers did themselves, and with the private affairs of some of his clients he was as well acquainted as were their own valets.
To the possession of sound but secret information much of the old man’s success was due. The mysterious men and women who so often came and went to that house all poured into his ear facts they had gathered – facts which he afterwards duly noted in the locked green-covered book which he kept in the security of his safe.
Surely the contents of that book would, if published, have created a huge sensation; for there were noted there many ugly incidents in the lives of the men who were most prominent in Europe, together, be it said, with facts concerning them that were highly creditable, and sometimes counterbalanced the black pages in their history.
And this man of many secrets stood there thwarted by a mere chit of a girl!
He regarded her coldly with expressionless eyes. His gaze caused her to shudder. She withdrew from him with instinctive dislike. About this man of millions, whose touch turned everything to gold, there seemed to her something superhuman, something indescribably fearsome. His very gaze seemed to fascinate her, and yet at the same time she regarded him with distrust and horror. She was a fool, she told herself, ever to have listened to his appeal. She ought to have had sense enough to know that by bringing her there at that hour he had some sinister motive.
His motive was to wring from her the words of Maud Petrovitch.
Suddenly he altered his tactics, and, drawing her chair forward again, said:
“Let us sit down and talk of something else. You look pale. May I offer you something?”
“No, thank you,” she replied. It was true that his threatening words a few moments ago had upset her, therefore she was glad to be seated again. He evidently did not intend that she should leave yet.
Having re-seated himself near his writing-table, he said: “As I explained, I want you, if you will, to go on a journey for me. The car is awaiting you round in Deanery Street.”
“A journey? Is it far?”
“That all depends – if you are prepared to render me this service,” he replied.
“I am prepared to render you any service, Mr Statham, that is within my power, and my conscience permits me,” she said in a firm voice.
“Ah, now, that’s better. We’re beginning to be friends. When you know me, you will not accuse me of ungentlemanly conduct – especially towards a woman. But,” he added with a laugh, “I’m a woman hater. I daresay you’ve heard that about me – eh?”
She smiled also.
“Well – yes. I’ve heard that you are not exactly a ladies’ man. But surely you are not alone in the world in that!”
“If all men were like me, Miss Rolfe,” he said, “there wouldn’t be much work for the parsons in the matter of marrying.”
“You’ve been unfortunate, perhaps, in your female acquaintances,” she ventured to suggest. His manner towards her had altered, therefore she was again perfectly at her ease.
“Yes,” he sighed. “You have guessed correctly – unfortunate.”
And then a dead silence fell, and Marion, watching his face, saw that he was reflecting deeply.
Of a sudden, he looked straight into her face again, and said:
“You have a lover, Miss Rolfe – and you are happy. Is not that so?”
The girl blushed deeply at this unexpected statement. How could the old man possibly know, unless some of the people at Cunnington’s had carried tales to him. Perhaps Mr Warner had told Mr Cunnington, and he had spoken to the millionaire!
“I see,” he laughed, “that I’ve spoken the truth. Max Barclay loves you, doesn’t he? He’s a friend of your brother’s. I know him, and allow me to congratulate you. He’s a thoroughly good fellow, and would be better if he’d keep off hazardous speculation.”
She did not reply. The old man’s final sentence impressed her. Max’s speculations were hazardous. This was news to her.
“You don’t deny that you love young Barclay, do you?” the old man demanded.
She hesitated, her cheeks crimsoning.
“Well, why should I?” she asked. “He is very good to me – very good, indeed.”
“That’s right,” he said approvingly. “If I did not think him an honest, upright fellow I should warn you against him. Girls in your dependent position, you know, are too frequently victims of men whom the world call gentlemen. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she answered in a low voice. She was impressed by his solicitude on her behalf. In his eyes was a kindly glance, and she began to declare within herself that she had misjudged him.
“Well,” he went on, “when it came to my knowledge that Max Barclay was paying court to you, and that you were seen together of an evening and on Sundays, it gave me great satisfaction. I owe a debt of gratitude to your poor father, Miss Rolfe, and I am endeavouring to repay it to his children. Therefore I admit to you now that more than once I wondered what kind of lover would be yours. I anticipated annoyance, but, on the contrary, I have only the most complete satisfaction.”
“I am sure, Mr Statham, it is very kind of you to say this. And surely it is very generous of you to take in interest in Charlie and myself.”
“It is not a matter of kindness, but a matter of duty,” he said. “We were talking of Barclay. How did you meet him?”
“Charlie introduced him to me one Sunday afternoon in the Park.”
“And he has promised you marriage? Tell me frankly.” She nodded, again blushing deeply.
“Then you have my very heartiest wishes for your future happiness,” he declared with a pleasant smile. “Mind I am told the date, so that I can send you the usual teapot!”
Whereat they both laughed in chorus. The old man could be charming when he wished.
“Oh! we shan’t be married for a long time yet, I suppose!” Marion exclaimed. “Max talks of going with a shooting party up the Zambesi next spring. They’ll be away a full year, I expect.”
“And you’ll be left all alone?” he said in a tone of surprise. “No, I don’t think he’ll do that. He ought not to leave you alone at Cunnington’s.”
“Oh, but he’s going out to Turkey now – in a few days I think. He has some financial business out there. Something which will bring him in a very big sum of money.”
“Oh, what’s its nature?” asked the old financier, instantly pricking up his ears.
“I believe it’s a concession from the Sultan for the construction of a railway from some place on the Servian frontier, across Northern Albania, down to San Giovanni di Medua – if I pronounce the name aright – on the Adriatic.”
“What!” cried Statham, starting up. “Are you quite certain of this?”
“Yes; why?” she asked, surprised at the sudden effect her words had produced upon him.
“Well – well, because this is a surprise to me, Miss Rolfe,” he said. “Tell me the details, as far as you know them. Has he spoken to you about it?”
“Yes. He is hesitating to go, not wishing to leave me.”
“Of course. Did I not tell you so a moment ago?” he remarked with a smile. “But are you aware that this concession, if the Sultan really gives it, is of the greatest importance to the commercial development of the Near East? There are big interests involved, and correspondingly big profits. Curious that I have not heard anything of the scheme lately! It’s a dream that every Balkan statesman has had for the past fifteen years – the creating of an outlet for trade to the Adriatic; but the Sultan could never be induced to allow the line to run through his dominion. He is not too friendly with either Bulgaria or Servia. I thought I was being kept well informed of all the openings in Constantinople where British capital can be employed. Yet I haven’t heard anything of this long discussed scheme for quite a year.”
“Your informants believe, perhaps, that it would not interest you?”
“Interest me!” he echoed. “Why, they could not successfully carry it through in London without my aid – or, at least, without my consent. Whoever is getting the concession – if it is being obtained at all, which I very much doubt – knows full well that in the long run he must come to Sam Statham. Do you happen to know who, besides Barclay, is interested in the scheme?”
“There is a French gentleman – a friend of Max’s – who wants him to go to Constantinople with him.”
“What is his name? I may probably know him?”
“Adam – Jean Adam.”
“Jean Adam!” gasped the old man. “Jean Adam – a friend of Max Barclay?”
“Yes,” she answered, staring at him. “Why?”
“Why, girl!” he cried roughly. “Don’t ask me why? But tell me all about it – tell me at once!”
