Chapter Three.
Tells of a Woman’s Love
In the dull hazy London sunset Fopstone Road, which leads from Earl’s Court Road into Nevern Square, was quite deserted.
There is a silence and monotony in the eminently respectable thoroughfares in that particular district that, to their residents, is often very depressing. Traffic there is none save a stray hansom or a tradesman’s cart at long intervals, while street organs and even the muffin men avoid them because, unlike the poorer districts, they find no stray coppers and no customers.
On the same evening as the events recorded in the previous chapters, about six o’clock, just as the red dusky after-glow was deepening into twilight, Charlie Rolfe emerged from Earl’s Court Station, walked along to the corner of Fopstone Road, and, halting, looked eagerly down it.
But there was not a soul. Indeed there was no sound beyond that of a distant cab whistle somewhere in Nevern Square.
For about five minutes he waited, glancing impatiently at his watch, and then, turning upon his heel, strolled along in the direction of the Square.
A few moments later, however, there hurried up behind him a sweet-faced, smartly-dressed girl who, as he turned to meet her, laughed merrily, saying:
“I do hope, Charlie, I haven’t kept you waiting, but I’ve had such trouble to get out. Dad asked me to write some private letters in English for him; I really believe he suspects something. We meet too often.”
“No, darling,” answered Rolfe, raising his hat and taking her small gloved hand. “We don’t meet frequently enough for me. And I think that your father is entirely unsuspicious. I was with him last night, and he did not strike me as possessing any knowledge of these secret meetings of ours.”
“Yes, but you know how dangerous it is,” replied the pretty girl, glancing round. “Somebody might pass, recognise me, and tell dad.”
“And what then, dearest?” he laughed. “Why your fears are utterly groundless.”
“I know, but – ”
“But what?”
“Well, dad would be annoyed – that’s all – annoyed with both of us.”
“He must already have seen, darling, that I love you. He isn’t blind,” said Charlie Rolfe, moving slowly along at her side.
Hers was, indeed, a face that would attract attention anywhere, oval, delicately moulded, slightly flushed by the momentary excitement of meeting her lover. Her hair was well-dressed, her narrow-waisted figure still girlish; her dress, a pale biscuit-coloured cloth, which, in its refined simplicity, suited well the graceful contour of the slender form, and contrasted admirably with the soft white skin; the dark hair, a stray coquettish little wisp of which fell across her brow beneath her neat black hat, and the dark brown eyes, so large, luminous, and expressive.
Her gaze met his. Every sensitive feature, every quiet graceful movement told plainly of her culture and refinement, while on her face there rested an indescribable charm, a look of shy, sweet humility, of fond and all-consuming love for the man beside her.
As she lifted her eyes at the words of affection he was whispering into her ear as they went along the quiet, deserted street, she perceived how tall and athletic he was, and noticed, woman-like, the masculine perfection of his dress, alike removed from slovenliness and foppery.
“No,” she said at last, her eyes gazing in abstraction in front of her. “I don’t suppose dad is in any way blind. He generally is too wide-awake. I have to make all sorts of excuses to get out – dressmakers, painting-lessons, buying evening gloves, a broken watch – and all sorts of thing like that. The fact is,” she declared, laughing sweetly and glancing again at him, “I have almost exhausted all the subterfuges.”
“Ah, dearest, a woman can always find some excuse,” he remarked, joining in her laughter.
“Yes, but that’s all very well; you haven’t a father,” she protested, “so you don’t know.”
She had only left school at Brighton two years before, therefore her clandestine meetings with Charlie Rolfe were adventures which she dearly loved. And, moreover, they both of them were devoted to each other. Charlie absolutely adored her. Hitherto women had never attracted him, but from the day of their introduction on the gravelled walk in front of the Villa des Fleurs at Aix, his whole life had changed. He was hers – hers utterly and entirely.
For three months he had existed in constant uncertainty, until one warm evening at Scarborough – where she and her father were staying at the Grand – while they were alone together in the sloping garden of the Spa he summoned courage to tell her the secret of his heart, and to his overwhelming joy found that his passion was reciprocated. Thus had they become lovers.
As Max rightly guessed, he had feared for the present to tell Dr Petrovitch the truth lest he should object and a parting be the result. His position was not what he wished it to be. As secretary to the eccentric old financier, his salary was an adequate one, but not sufficient to provide Maud with a home such as her own. He therefore intended in a little while to tell old Statham the truth, and to ask for more. And until he had done so, he hesitated to demand of the Doctor his daughter’s hand.
Together they strolled slowly on, chatting as lovers will. At the bottom of Fopstone Road they continued round the crescent of Philbeach Gardens, along Warwick Road, and crossing Old Brompton Road, entered that maze of quiet, eminently respectable streets in the neighbourhood of Redcliffe Square, strolling slowly on in the falling gloom.
“Do you know, darling,” he exclaimed at last, “I wanted to see you very particularly this evening, because I am leaving London to-night for Servia.”
“For Servia!” she cried, halting and fixing her great eyes upon his in quick surprise.
“Yes.”
Her countenance fell.
“Then you – you are leaving me?”
“It is imperative, my darling,” he said, in a low, tender voice, taking her hand in his. He wished to kiss her sweet lips, but there in the open street such action was impossible. Courtship in our grimy, matter-of-fact London has many drawbacks, even though every house contains its life-romance and every street holds its man or woman with a broken heart.
“But you never told me,” she complained. “You’ve left it until the last minute. Do you start from Charing Cross to-night?”
“Yes. I would leave to-morrow at nine, and catch the Orient express from Calais for Belgrade, but I have business to do in Paris to-morrow.”
“Ah! Belgrade!” sighed the girl. “I wonder if I shall ever see it again? Long ago I used to be so fond of it, and we had so very many good friends. Dear old dad is so popular. Why, when we drove out the people in their brown homespun clothes used to run after the carriage and cheer ‘Petrovitch the Patriot,’ as they call dad.”
“Of course you will return soon,” Charlie said. “No doubt your father will be induced to enter the new Pashitch Cabinet.”
The girl shook her head dubiously.
“I know the King has several times asked him to return to Servia, but for some mysterious reason he has always declined.”
“But he is the most popular man in the country, and he cannot remain away much longer. It is his duty to return and assist in the Government.”
“Yes. But my mother died in Belgrade, you know, and I think that may be the reason he does not care to return,” replied the girl. “Why are you going there?” she asked.
“On a mission for Statham – regarding a mining concession,” he answered. “You know we have a lot of interests out there. Perhaps I shall be away only a week or two – perhaps six months.”
“Six months!” she cried in a blank voice. “It is such a long, long time to look forward to.”
“I have no desire to leave you, my own darling,” he declared, looking straight into her beautiful face. “But the mission is confidential, and for that reason I have received orders to go.”
“Your train leaves at nine,” she said, “and it is already nearly seven – only two hours! And those two remaining hours I cannot spend with you, for I must be in to dinner at seven. I must leave you in a moment,” she added, and the faint flush in her face died away.
Her voice ceased. He looked down musing, without replying. He was impressed by her utter loneliness – impressed, too, without knowing it by the time and place. The twilight of the short evening was gathering fast. A cold damp feeling was mingled with the silence of the dull, drab London street. It struck him that it felt like a grave.
A slight nervous trembling came over his well-beloved, and a weary little sigh escaped her lips.
That sigh of hers recalled him to a sense of her distress at his departure, and the face that met her troubled eyes was, in an instant, as full as ever of resolute hopefulness.
“What matters, my own, if I am away?” he asked with a smile. “We love each other, and that is all-sufficient.”
All the pity of his strong, tender nature went forth to the lovely girl whom he loved with such strong passionate devotion.
“What matter, indeed!” she cried, hoarsely, tears springing to her eyes. “Is it no matter that I see you, Charlie? Ah! you do not know how I count the hours when we shall meet again – how – how – ” And unable to further restrain her emotion, she burst into tears.
He was silent. What, indeed, could he say?
Reflections, considerations, possibilities crowded in upon his mind, already disturbed and perplexed. The sweetness of the hours passed in her society had increased insensibly ever since that well-remembered afternoon in Aix; the tones of her voice, the notes of those melodious old Servian songs she so often sang, her slightest action held a charm for him such as his earnest nature had never experienced before.
And they must part.
Within himself he doubted whether they would ever meet again. He had secret fears – fears of something that was in progress – something that might entirely change his life – something he held secret from her.
But he put the thought away. It was a horrible reflection – a qualm of conscience. What would she think of him if she actually knew the truth?
He bit his lip, and in resolution again took her white-gloved hand.
“No, darling,” he said, softly, in an earnest effort to cheer her. “I will return very soon. Be brave, and remember that my every thought is of you always – of you, my love.”
“I know,” she sobbed. “I know, Charlie, but – but I cannot really help it. Forgive me.”
“Forgive you! Of course I do, sweetheart; only do not cry, or they will certainly suspect something when you sit down to dinner.”
His argument decided her, and she slowly dried her tears, saying:
“I only wish I could go to Charing Cross to see you off. But an hour ago I telephoned to your sister Marion to come and dine with us, and go with me to a concert at Queen’s hall.”
“And she accepted?” he asked, quickly, almost breathlessly.
Rolfe gave a sigh of relief. At any rate neither his sister nor his well-beloved would be at Charing Cross at nine that evening.
“I must try and bring her to the station, if possible. Does she know you are going?” asked the girl.
“Oh, yes. But I particularly asked her not to see me off.”
“In order that I might come alone. Oh! how very good of you, Charlie!”
“No. Forgive me for saying so, but like a good many men who travel a lot I never like being seen off – not even by you, yourself, my darling!”
“Very well,” she sighed, looking up into his serious eyes. “I must, I suppose, act as you wish. May God protect you, my dearest, and bring you back again in safety to me.” Then as he whispered into her ear words of courage and ardent affection, with linked arms they re-traced their steps back to Earl’s Court Road, where, with lingering reluctance, he took affectionate leave of her.
Having watched her turn the corner, he went slowly back towards Earl’s Court Station, and as he did so, beneath his breath he murmured “Ah! if she knew – if she knew! But she must never know – she shall never know – never as long as I have breath. I love her – love her better than my life – and she is mine. Yet – yet how can I, after – after – ”
And he sighed deeply without concluding the sentence, while his face went ashen pale at the thought which again crossed his mind – a thought, secret and terrible.
Chapter Four.
Which is Distinctly Mysterious
Max Barclay, on leaving Dr Petrovitch, had taken a cab straight to Charlie’s chambers in Jermyn Street, arriving there shortly before six. Green, his man, had told him, however, that his master had returned soon after luncheon, ordered two big bags to be packed, and had left with them upon a hansom, merely saying that he should be absent a week, or perhaps two, and that no letters need be forwarded.
Max was not surprised at this sudden departure, for old Statham had a habit of sending his confidential secretary hither and thither at almost a moment’s notice. The old fellow’s financial interests were enormous, and widely dispersed. Some of them were in Servia and Bulgaria, where he held concessions of great value.
He had had a finger in most of the financial undertakings in the Near East during the past fifteen years or so. Out of the Oriental Railway extension from Salonica to the Servian frontier alone he had, it was said, made a huge fortune, for he was the original concessionaire. For some years he had lived in the Balkans, looking after his interests in person, but nowadays he entrusted it all to his agents with occasional visits by this confidential secretary.
Therefore Max suspected that Charlie had left for the East, more especially that at the hour he had left Jermyn Street he could have caught the afternoon Continental service from Charing Cross viâ Boulogne.
So he went on to his own rooms, changed, dined at the Automobile Club, his mind being full of what the Doctor had told him concerning Charlie and Maud. He had, of course, suspected it all along. Marion knew the truth, but, loyal to her brother, she had said no word. Yet when he had seen Rolfe with the ex-statesman’s pretty daughter, he had long ago guessed that the pair were more than mere friends.
That the Doctor disapproved of the affair was somewhat disconcerting, more especially as he had openly declared that he had other ideas of Maud’s future. What were they? Was her father hoping that she would marry some young Servian – a man of his own race?
He sat in the club over a cigar till nearly nine o’clock, wondering how he could assist the man who was not only his dearest friend but brother of the girl to whom he was so entirely devoted and whom he intended to make his wife.
He sighed with regret when he thought of her undergoing that shop drudgery to which she had never been accustomed. The early rising, the eternal drive of business, the calm, smiling exterior towards those pettish, snapping women customers, and those hasty scrambles for meals. He had seen her engaged in her business, and he had met her after shop hours, pale, worn, and fagged out.
And yet he – the man who was to be her husband – lived in that ease and idleness which an income of twelve thousand a year secured.
Had Petrovitch not told him that Marion was dining at Cromwell Road and going to a concert with Maud afterwards, he would have wired to her to meet him. But he knew how devoted the two girls were to each other, notwithstanding the difference of their stations, and how Maud welcomed Marion’s company at concerts or theatres to which her father so seldom cared to go.
Suddenly it occurred to him that if he returned to the Doctor’s he would meet Marion there later on, when she came back from Queen’s Hall, and be able to drive her home to that dull street at the back of Oxford Street where the assistants of Cunnington’s, Limited, “lived in.”
This reflection aroused him, and, glancing at the smoking-room clock, he saw it wanted a quarter to ten.
Two other men, friends of his, were sitting near, discussing motoring matters, and their eternal chatter upon cylinders, tyres, radiators, and electric horns bored him. Therefore he rose, put on his coat, and, hailing a cab, told the man to drive to Victoria, where he took the underground railway to Gloucester Road Station.
From there to the house of the ex-Minister was only a very short walk. The night was mild, bright, and starlight, for the haze of sundown which had threatened rain had been succeeded by a brilliant evening. Cromwell Road is always deserted at that hour before the cabs and carriages begin to return from restaurants and theatres, and as he strolled along, knowing that he was always welcome at the Doctor’s house to chat and smoke, his was the only footfall to be heard in the long open thoroughfare.
Ascending the steps beneath the wide portico, he pressed the visitors’ bell, but though he waited several minutes, there was no response. Again and again he rang, but the bell was apparently out of order, so he gave a sounding rat-tat with the knocker.
Then he listened intently; but to his surprise no one stirred.
Over the door was a bright light, as usual, revealing the number in great white numerals, and through the chinks of the Venetian blinds of the dining-room he could see that the electric lamps were on.
Again and again he rang and knocked. It was surely curious, he thought, that all the servants should be out, even though the Doctor might be absent. The failure to arouse anybody caused him both surprise and apprehension. Though the electric bell might be out of order, yet his loud knock must be heard even up to the garrets. London servants are often neglectful in the absence of their masters, and more especially if there is no mistress, yet it seemed hardly creditable that they would go out and leave the place unattended.
Seven or eight times he repeated his summons, standing upon the door-steps with his ears strained to catch the slightest sound.
Once he thought he heard distinctly the noise of stealthy footsteps in the hall, and he held his breath. They were repeated. He was quite certain that his ears had not deceived him, for in the street all was silent as the grave. He heard someone moving within as though creeping slowly from the door.
What could it mean? Were thieves within?
He examined the door to see if the lock had been tampered with, but, so far as he could discern, it was untouched. He was undecided how to act, though now positively certain that something unusual was in progress.
He glanced up and down the long road, with its rows of gas lamps, but no one was visible. The only sound was the far-distant rat-tat of the postman on his last round.
For the Doctor to be out of an evening was very unusual; and that stealthy footstep had alarmed him. If there were actually thieves, then they had probably entered by the area door. Max was by no means a coward. There was a mystery there – a mystery he intended to at once investigate.
Doctor Petrovitch was one of his dearest friends and he meant to act as a friend should act.
What puzzled him most of all was the absence of the servants. All of them were apparently highly trustworthy, yet the foreigner in London, he remembered, often engaged servants without sufficient inquiry into their past.
For a few moment he stood motionless, his ears strained, at the door.
The movement was repeated. Someone seemed to be leaving the dining-room, for he distinctly heard the light footfall.
Therefore, with scarce a sound, he crept down the steps to the pavement and descended the winding flight to the area door. With great caution he turned the handle, but alas! the knob went right round in his hand, the door remaining still fastened.
A light showed in the kitchen, but whether anyone was there he of course could not tell. Again he tried the door, but without avail. It was securely fastened, while, as far as he could ascertain, there were no marks of any forcible entry.
Should he rap at the door? Or would that further alarm the intruders? He had knocked many times at the front door, it was true, but they would no doubt wait until they believed he had gone. Or else they might escape by the rear of the premises.
What should he do?
He hesitated again, with bated breath.
Next instant, however, he heard upon the stone steps above him, leading from the pavement to the front door, the light tread of feet quickly descending. Someone, having watched him descend there, was leaving the house! And yet so noiselessly that at first Max believed himself mistaken.
In a second he had dashed up the area steps and stood upon the pavement. But already he realised the truth. The front door stood ajar, and the intruder was flying as fast as his feet could carry him in the direction of the Brompton Road.
Swiftly, without looking back, the man sped lightly along the pavement to the next corner, which he turned and was a moment later lost to view.
Max Barclay did not follow. He stood there like a man in a dream.
“What – in Heaven’s name – is the meaning of this?” as, held powerless, he stood staring in the direction the fugitive had taken.
His first impulse had been to follow, but next moment, as the escaping intruder had passed beneath a street lamp he recognised the figure unmistakably, both by the clothes and hat, as none other than his friend Charles Rolfe!
He fell back, staggered by the discovery.
For quite a brief space he stood unable to move. Then, seeing the door ajar, he ascended the steps and entered the house. The lights were switched on everywhere, but, on going in, something – what it was he could never describe – struck him as peculiar. Hardly had he crossed the threshold than he became instinctively aware that some mystery was there.
In a few seconds the amazing truth became apparent, for when he entered the dining-room, to the left of the hall, he started, and an involuntary exclamation of surprise escaped him. The place was empty, devoid of every stick of furniture!
From room to room he dashed, only to find that everything had been mysteriously removed. In the few brief hours or his absence Doctor Petrovitch had apparently fled, taking with him all his household effects.
He stood in the hall utterly dumbfounded.
Why had Rolfe been there? What had he been doing in the empty house?
The swift manner in which the removal had been effected increased the mystery, for he had not left the Doctor till five o’clock. Besides, he had no doubt dined with his daughter Maud and with Marion, and they would not leave until about eight o’clock.
Again, a removal of that magnitude, requiring at least two vans, after dark could not possibly be effected without attracting the notice of the constable on duty!
Perhaps the police really did know who carried out the sudden change of residence. Anyhow, the whole affair was a complete enigma which amazed and stupefied him.
Presently, when he had somewhat recovered from his surprise, he ascended the stairs, his footsteps now echoing strangely through the empty place, and there found that the drawing-room, and, in fact, all the other rooms, had been completely and quickly cleared. The carpets had in some cases been left, but in the hasty removal curtains had been torn down from the rings, leaving cornices and poles, and the grand piano remained, it being apparently too large and heavy for rapid transit.
He ascended, even to the servants’ rooms on the top floor, but found scarcely a vestige of furniture left.
In one back room, a small half-garret with a slightly eloping roof, he noticed a cupboard which curiosity led him to open, as he had opened other cupboards. As he did so, he saw a bundle upon the floor, as though it had been hastily thrown there.
As he pulled it forth it unrolled, and he then saw that it was a woman’s light grey tweed skirt and coat.
The latter felt damp to his touch, and as he held it up to examine it he saw that the breast and sleeve were both saturated with blood!
It dropped from his nerveless fingers. Some secret crime had been committed in that house, so suddenly and mysteriously divested of its furniture.
But what?
Max Barclay, pale as death, stood gazing around him, staggered, bewildered, horrified, scarce daring to breathe.
Why had Charles Rolfe fled so hurriedly and secretly from the place?