William Le Queux (continued 6)

“I have revealed to you the truth, and I ask you, in return, to render me this little assistance. What I desire to know, is their movements daily, and how they intend to act.”

“Towards whom?”

“Towards myself.”

“Then they are associated against you, you believe?”

“I suspect them to be,” the old man replied. “I know them to be my enemies. They are, like thousands of other men, jealous of my success, and believe they have a grievance against me—one that is entirely unfounded.”

“And if I do this will you assist me to obtain knowledge of the reason why Marion Rolfe has been dismissed?” asked Max eagerly.

The old man hesitated, but only for a second. It was easy enough to give him a letter to Cunnington, and afterwards to telephone to Oxford Street instructions to the head of the firm to refuse a reply.

So, consenting, he took a sheet of note-paper, and scribbled a few lines of request to Mr Cunnington, which he handed to Max, saying:

“There, I hope that will have the desired effect, Mr Barclay. On your part, remember, you will keep in with Adam and Lyle, and give me all the information you can gather. I know how to repay a friendly service rendered to me, so you are, no doubt, well aware. You will be welcome here at any hour. I shall tell Levi to admit you.”

“That’s a bargain,” the younger man asserted. “When will Rolfe return?”

“To-morrow, or next day. He’s in Paris. Shall I tell him you wish to see him?”

“Please.”

“But say nothing regarding Adam or his friend. Our compact is a strictly private one, remember.”

And then Max, grasping the hands of the man whom he believed was his friend, placed the note in his pocket and went out into the blazing hot September afternoon.

As he disappeared along the pavement the old millionaire watched him unseen from behind the blind.

“To the friendship of that man—that man whom I have wronged—I shall owe my life,” he murmured aloud.

And then, crossing to the telephone on his table, he asked for Mr Cunnington.

Chapter Thirty Nine.

The City of Unrest.

Ten days had passed since Charlie had met the mysterious Lorena in Paris.

To both Charlie and Max—though now separated by the breadth of Europe—they had been breathless, anxious, never-to-be-forgotten days.

The ominous words of Lorena ever recurred to him. Apparently the girl knew far more than she had told him, and her declaration that confirmation of Adams’s charges would be found beyond that white-enamelled door in Park Lane gripped his senses. He could think of nothing else.

She had left him in the Rue de Rivoli, outside the Gardens, refusing her address or any further account of herself. She had warned him—that was, she said, all-sufficient.

He blamed himself a thousand times for not having followed her; for not having sought some further information concerning the peril of old Sam Statham.

Yet the afternoon following, just as he was about to drive from the Grand Hotel to the Gare du Nord, to return to London, one of the clerks from Old Broad Street had arrived, bearing a letter from the head of the firm, giving him instructions to proceed to Servia at once and transact certain business with the Government regarding certain copper concessions in the district of Kaopanik. The deal meant the introduction of a considerable amount of British capital into Servia, and had support from his Majesty King Peter downwards. Indeed, all were in favour save the Opposition in the Skuptchina, or Parliament, a set of unruly peasants who opposed every measure the Pashitch Government put forward.

The business brooked no delay. Therefore Charlie, that same night, entered the Orient express, that train of dusty wagons-lit which runs three times a week between Paris and Constantinople, and three days later arrived in Belgrade, the Servian capital.

He was no stranger in that rather pleasant town, perched high up at the junction of the Save with the broad Danube. The passport officer at Semlin station recognised him, and gave him a visa at once, and on alighting at Belgrade the little ferret-eyed man idling outside the station did not follow him, for he knew him by sight and was well aware that the Grand Hotel was his destination.

There are more spies in Belgrade than in any other city in Europe. So much foreign intrigue is ever in progress that the Servian authorities are compelled to support a whole army of secret agents to watch and report. Hence it is that the stranger, from the moment he sets foot in Belgrade to the moment he leaves it, is watched, and his every movement noted and reported. Yet all is so well managed that the foreigner is never aware of the close surveillance upon him, and Belgrade is as gay a town in the matter of entertaining and general freedom as, well, as any other you may choose to name.

During the days when, owing to the unfortunate events which terminated the reign of the half-imbecile King Alexander and the designing woman who became his Queen, when England had suspended diplomatic negotiations, the great stakes held in the country by Statham Brothers were in a somewhat precarious condition. For two years Servian finance had been in anything but a flourishing condition, but now, under the rule of King Peter, who had done his very utmost to reinstate his country in its former flourishing position, the confidence of Europe had been restored, and Statham Brothers were ready to make further investments.

In Charles Rolfe the great millionaire had the most perfect confidence. The letter he had sent him to Paris was clear and explicit in its instructions. If the concessions were confirmed by the Prime Minister Pashitch and the Council, a million dinars (or francs) were already deposited in the National Bank of Servia, and could be drawn at an hour’s notice upon Charlie’s signature.

So he drove to the Grand, the hotel with its great garish café, its restaurant where the sterlet is perhaps more delicious than at the Hermitage in Moscow, and its excellent Tzigane band. It was evening, so he ate a light meal, and, fagged out by the journey, retired early.

He tried to sleep, but could not. The noise and clatter of the café below, the weird strains of the gipsy music, the rattle of the cabs over the cobbles, all combined to prevent slumber.

And, over all, was the vivid recollection of that rather handsome girl who had called herself Lorena, and who had declared that the reason of Statham’s peril lay behind the door which he always kept so carefully secured.

The hours passed slowly. He thought far more of Maud Petrovitch, and of what Lorena had told him, than of the business he had to transact on the morrow. He was there, in the city where Doctor Petrovitch had been worshipped almost as a demi-god, where the people cheered lustily as he drove out, and where he was called “The Servian Patriot.” Where was the statesman now? What was the actual truth of that sadden disappearance?

Why had not Maud written? Sorely she might at least have trusted him with her secret!

The noise below had died away, and he knew that it must be two o’clock in the morning, the hour when the café closed. Presently there came a rap at his door, and the night-porter handed him a telegram. He tore it open mechanically, expecting it to be in cipher from old Sam, but instead saw the signature “Max.”

Scanning it eagerly, he held his breath. The news it contained staggered him. It stated that his sister Marion had been discharged from Cunnington’s, and her whereabouts were unknown.

“Have seen Statham, but cannot discover where your sister has gone. Can you suggest any friend she may have gone to visit? What shall I do? Am distracted. Wire immediately.”

Marion left Cunnington’s! Discharged, the telegram said. Was it possible, he thought, that old Sam would allow her discharge. He was certain he would not. He was his sister’s friend, as he was his own.

Max’s telegram added further to the burden of mystery upon him. What could it all mean?

Marion has evidently left Cunnington’s and disappeared! He tried to think to whom she would go in her distress. There was her Aunt Anne at Wimborne, her cousin Lucy who had married the bank manager at Hereford, and there was her old schoolfellow Mary Craven who had only recently married Pelham, the manager of an insurance company in Moorgate Street.

Those three addresses he wrote on a telegraph form, urging Max to make inquiry and report progress. This he despatched, and again threw himself down, full of dark forebodings.

If Marion had really been discharged, she was in some disgrace. What could it possibly be? That it was something which she dared not face was proved by the fact that she had not confided in Max. She knew Maud’s place of concealment, without a doubt; therefore, what more natural than she should have joined her?

The whole affair was a complete enigma, rendered the more tantalising by the distance which now separated him from London.

Next morning he rose, took his coffee, and went out along the broad central boulevard, gay and lively in the sunlight, thronged by well-dressed ladies and smart officers in uniforms on the Russian model—as bright and pleasant a scene as can be witnessed anywhere outside Paris. Up the hill, past the royal palace, he went. In the royal garden, separated from the roadway by high iron railings, the band of the Guards were playing, and over the palace floated the royal standard, showing that his Majesty was in residence.

Adjoining the palace was a large square castellated building, painted white, and into this he turned, saluted by the gendarmes on duty. Ascending a broad flight of steps, he passed through the swing doors, presented his card, and was shown into the large antechamber of the President of the Council of Ministers, the strongest man in Servia, Monsieur Nicholas Pashitch.

The long windows commanded a wide view of the tows and of the broad Danube shining in the morning sun, while upon the walls of the sombre apartment with its floor of polished oak and antique furniture covered with crimson plush, was a portrait of King Peter and several full length paintings of dead and gone statesmen.

“His Excellency is engaged for a few moments with the Turkish Minister,” exclaimed a frock-coated secretary in French. “But he will give m’sieur audience almost immediately. His Excellency was going to Pirot, but has remained in order to see you. He received your telegram from Budapest.”

And so Charlie Rolfe remained, gazing out of the window upon the quaint eastern town, watching the phantasmagoria of life up and down its principal thoroughfare. A company of infantry, headed by their band, marched past, hot and dusty, on their return from the early morning manoeuvres which the King had attended, as was his daily habit; and as it passed out of his sight the long doors opened, and he was ushered into the adjoining room, the private cabinet of his Excellency the Premier, an elderly, pleasant-faced old gentleman with a long grey beard, who rose from his big writing-table to greet his visitor. The meeting was a most cordial one, his Excellency inquiring after the health of his old personal friend Mr Statham.

Then, at the Prime Minister’s invitation, Charlie seated himself, and explained the nature of his mission. Monsieur Pashitch heard him with interest to the end. Then he said: “Only yesterday his Majesty expressed to me his desire that we should attract British capital into Servia, therefore all that you tell me is most gratifying to us. Mr Statham, on his last visit here, had audience of his Majesty—on the occasion of the loan—and I think they found themselves perfectly in accord. The development of the Kaopanik has long been desired, and I will this afternoon inform his Majesty of your visit and your proposals.”

Charlie then produced certain documents, reports of two celebrated mining engineers who had been sent out to Kaopanik by Statham Brothers, and these they discussed for a long time.

Presently Rolfe said:

“By the way, your Excellency, have you heard of late anything from Doctor Petrovitch?”

“Petrovitch!” exclaimed the old statesman, starting quickly. “Petrovitch? No!” he almost snapped.

“He has been living in England quite recently, but of late—well, of late I’ve lost sight of him. I know,” he went on, “that you and he had some little difference of opinion upon the Customs war with Austria.”

“Yes, we did,” remarked the grey-bearded old gentleman, with a smile. “We differed upon one point. Afterwards, however, I found that my ideas were unsound, and I admitted it in the Skuptchina. I heard that Petrovitch was in London. The King invited him to come to Belgrade about six months ago, as he wished to consult him in private, but he declined the invitation.”

“Why?”

“I think he feared on account of a political conspiracy which is known to have been formed against him. As you know, the Opposition are his bitter opponents.”

“And they are opponents of his Majesty also,” Rolfe remarked.

“Exactly—a fact which for the peace of Servia is most unfortunate.”

“Then you have no idea where I could find the Doctor?”

“Not the least. But—” and he paused, thinking for a moment.

“Well?”

“If I remember aright my wife told me that she had met his daughter Maud at dinner at the British Legation one night recently.”

“Then she’s here—in Belgrade!” Rolfe cried.

“I’m not quite certain. I did not pay much attention to what she told me. I was preoccupied with other things. But I will ask her, and let you know. Or you might ask the wife of the British Minister. You know her, of course?”

“Yes,” Rolfe answered, excitedly. “I will call upon her this afternoon. I’m sure I’m very much indebted to your Excellency for this information.”

And his spirits rose again at the thought that his sweet-faced well-beloved was safe and well, and that, in all probability, she was actually in that city.

Chapter Forty.

Gives a Clue.

That afternoon, at as early an hour as he decently could, he called at the British Legation, the big white mansion in the centre of the town. Both Sir Charles Harrison, the Minister, and his charming wife were well-known to him, for more than once he had been invited to dine on previous visits to Belgrade.

The Minister was out, but Lady Harrison received him in the big drawing-room on the first floor, a handsome apartment filled with exquisite Japanese furniture and bric-à-brac, for, prior to his appointment to Belgrade, the Minister had been Secretary of the British Embassy in Tokio.

The first greetings over, Charlie explained the object of his call. Whereupon the Minister’s wife replied:

“I think Mr Pashitch is mistaken, Mr Rolfe. I haven’t seen Maud Petrovitch for quite a year. She was on a visit to her aunt, Madame Constantinovitch, about a year ago, and used to come here very often.”

Charlie’s hopes fell again.

“Perhaps the Minister-President has made a mistake. It may have been at some other house Madame Pashitch met the Doctor’s daughter,” he said.

“Well, if she were in Belgrade she surely would come to see me. All her friends come to me on Thursdays, as you know,” replied the Minister’s wife, as the man brought in tea—with lemon—in the Russian style.

He glanced around the handsome room, and recollected the brilliant receptions at which he had been present. The British Legation was one of the finest mansions in Belgrade, and Sir Charles gave weekly dinners to the diplomatic corps and his personal friends. He and his wife entertained largely, to keep up the prestige of Great Britain amid that seething area of intrigue, political conspiracy, and general unrest.

Within a small room off the drawing-room, which was Sir Charles’ private den, many a diplomatic secret had been brewed, and many an important matter affecting the best interests of Servia had been decided. Surely the post of Belgrade was one of the most difficult in the whole range of British diplomacy abroad.

Before Charlie rose to go Sir Charles entered, a middle-aged, merry, easy-going man, who greeted him cheerily, saying:—

“Hullo, Rolfe! Who’d have thought of seeing you here? and how is Mr Statham? When will he buy us all up to-day?”

Rolfe briefly explained the nature of his mission to the ex-President, and then, after a few minutes’ chat, followed his host into the smaller room for a cigarette and chat. Eventually Rolfe, lying back in an easy-chair, said: “Do you know, Sir Charles, a very curious thing has happened recently in London?”

“Oh, I see by the papers that lots of curious things have happened,” was the diplomat’s reply, as he smiled upon his guest.

“Oh, yes; I know. But this is a serious matter. Doctor Petrovitch and his daughter Maud have disappeared.”

Sir Charles raised his eyebrows, and was in a moment serious.

“Disappeared! There’s been nothing about it in the papers.”

“No; it is being kept dark. The police haven’t been stirred about it. It was only a sudden removal from Cromwell Road, but both father, daughter, and household furniture disappeared.”

“How? In what manner did the furniture disappear?”

Rolfe explained, while Sir Charles sat listening open-mouthed.

“Extraordinary!” he ejaculated, when the younger man concluded. “What can be the reason of it. Petrovitch is an old and dear friend of mine. Why, I knew him years ago when I was attaché here. He often wrote to me. The last letter I had was from London about four months ago.”

“And he’s my friend also.”

“Yes; I know,” was the other’s reply. “It was whispered, Rolfe, that you were in love with the pretty Maud—eh?”

“I don’t deny it?”

“Why should you, if you love her.”

“But she’s disappeared—without a word.”

“And you are in search of her? Most natural. Well, I’ll make inquiries and ascertain if she’s been in Belgrade. I don’t believe she has, or we should certainly have seen something of her. My wife is very fond of her, you know.”

“I fear there’s been foul play?” Rolfe remarked.

The Minister shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s curious, to say the least, isn’t it?” he observed. There, in confidence, Charlie told the Minister of Marion’s friendship with Maud, of the strange and mysterious confession on the night of the disappearance, and her steadfast refusal to betray the girl’s secret.

Sir Charles paused and reflected.

“Political intrigue is at the bottom of this—depend upon it, Rolfe,” he said at last. “Petrovitch has enemies here, unscrupulous enemies, who would not hesitate to attempt his life. They fear that if he returns to power as the King had invited him, they will find themselves prisoners in the fortress—and that means death, as you know. When the Doctor acts, he acts boldly for the benefit of his country. He would make a clean sweep of his enemies once and for all.”

“Then you think they’ve anticipated this, and killed him in secret?” cried Rolfe.

“It is, I fear, quite possible,” was the diplomat’s reply.

“What causes you to believe this?”

“I possess secret knowledge.”

“Of a plot against him?”

“He was fully aware of it himself. That is why he lived in England,” the Minister replied.

“But, surely, if he knew this, he might have taken steps for his self-protection!” Rolfe exclaimed. “The fact that his furniture was spirited away to some unknown place makes it almost appear as though he was in accord with the conspirators.”

“No; I think not. The conspirators removed his furniture in order to prevent undue inquiries as to the Doctor’s disappearance. The emptying of the house may have been one to make it appear to the police that the Doctor had suddenly removed—perhaps to avoid his creditors.”

Rolfe shook his head. His opinion hardly coincided with that of the British diplomat. Besides, Max Barclay’s story of having seen a man there closely resembling him wanted explanation. With what motive had an unknown man represented him on the night in question?

“Maud Petrovitch has never written to you?” asked Harrison.

“Not a line.”

The Minister pursed his lips.

“Well,” he said, “I’m perfectly sure if she’s been in Belgrade she would certainly have come to see us. My wife used to have frequent letters from her in London.”

“I have not told Lady Harrison the reason of my inquiry—or any of the facts,” Rolfe said. “I thought I would leave it to you to tell her if you think proper. Up to the present, the Doctor’s disappearance has been kept secret between my friend Max Barclay, who was the Doctor’s most intimate chum in London, and myself.”

“At present I shall not tell my wife,” declared the diplomat. He was a man of secrets, and knew how to keep one. “Who is Max Barclay?” asked the Minister, after a pause. Rolfe explained, but said nothing regarding his engagement to his sister Marion. To it all Sir Charles listened attentively, without comment.

At last, after a long silence, he said:

“Well, look here, Rolfe. A sudden thought has occurred to me. I think it possible that to-morrow, in a certain quarter, I shall be able to make a confidential inquiry regarding the whereabouts of the Doctor. All that you’ve told me interests me exceedingly, because I have all along believed that very shortly Petrovitch was returning to power and join forces with Pashitch.”

“But didn’t they quarrel a short time ago?” Rolfe remarked.

“Oh, a mere trifle. It was nothing. The Austrian press made a great stir about it, as they always do. All news from Servia emanates from the factory across the river yonder, at Semlin. If the journalists dared to put foot on, Servian soil they’d soon find themselves under arrest, I can tell you. No, the broad lines of policy of both Petrovitch and Pashitch are identical. They intend to develop the country by the introduction of foreign capital. The king himself told me so at an audience I had a month ago. He then told me, in confidence, that he had invited the Doctor to return and rejoin the Ministry. That is why I firmly believe that the poor Doctor, one of the best and most straightforward statesmen in Europe, has fallen a victim to his enemies.”

“Then you will set to work to discover what is known among the Opposition?” urged the young man.

“I promise you I will. But, of course, in strictest confidence,” was the Minister’s reply. “Petrovitch is my friend, as well as yours. I know only too well of the bitter enmity towards him in some quarters, especially among the partisans of the late king and a certain section of the Opposition in the Skuptchina. Mention of his name there causes cheers from the Government benches, but howls from the enemies of law and order. There was, some three years ago, a dastardly plot against his life, as you know.”

“No, I don’t know it. I have never heard about it,” was Rolfe’s reply.

“Ah! he never speaks about it, of course,” Sir Charles said, reflectively. “While driving out at Topschieder with his little orphan niece, of whom he was very fond, a bomb was thrown at the carriage. The poor child was blown to atoms, the horses were maimed, the carriage smashed to matchwood, and the coachman so injure that he died within an hour. The Doctor alone escaped with nothing more serious than a cut across the cheek. But that terrible death of his dead sister’s child was a terrible blow to him, and he has not been since in Belgrade. Because of that, I expect, he has hesitated to obey the king’s command to return to office.”

“Awful! I never knew of that. Maud has never told me,” said Rolfe. “What blackguards to kill an innocent child! Was the man who threw the bomb caught?”

“Yes. And the conspiracy was revealed by me activity of the secret police. They made a report to the Minister of Justice, who showed it to me in confidence.”

“Then you actually know who threw the explosive?”

“I know also who was responsible for the dastardly conspiracy—who aided and abetted it, and who furnished the assassins with money and promised a big reward if they encompassed the Doctor’s death!” said the Minister, slowly and seriously.

“You do! Who?” cried Rolfe.

“It was someone well-known to you,” was his reply. “The inquiries made by the Servian secret police led them far afield from Belgrade. They traced the conspiracy to its source—a source which would amaze you, as it would stagger the world. And if I am not much mistaken, Rolfe, this second plot has been formed and carried out by the same person whose first plot failed!”

“A person I know?” gasped the young man.

Chapter Forty One.

The Gateway of the East.

The diplomat would say nothing more. When pressed by Charlie Rolfe he said that it was a surmise. Until the truth was proved he refused to speak more plainly.

“You declare that the plot by which an innocent child died was formed by a friend of mine!” the younger man exclaimed.

“I tell you that such is my firm belief,” Sir Charles repeated. “To-morrow I will endeavour to discover whether the same influence that caused the explosion of the bomb at Topschieder is responsible for the Doctor’s disappearance.”

“But cannot you be more explicit?” asked Rolfe. “Who is the assassin—the murderer of children?”

“At present I can say no more than what I have already told you,” was the diplomat’s grave response.

“You believe that the same motive has led to the Doctor’s disappearance as was the cause of the bomb outrage at Topschieder?”

“I do.”

“Then much depends upon the Doctor’s death?”

“Very much. His enemies would reap a large profit.”

“His enemies in the Skuptchina, you mean?”

“Those—and others.”

“He had private enemies also—secret ones that were even more dangerous than the blatant political orators.”

“Then private vengeance was the cause?”

“No—not exactly; at least, I think not,” Sir Charles replied. “But please ask no more. I will tell you the truth when I have established it.”

“I wish I could discover where Maud is. Surely it is strange that the Prime Minister’s wife should have said she met her lately here, in Belgrade.”

“Maud Petrovitch is not in Servia. I am certain of that point.”

“Why?”

“Because her father would never allow her to return here after that tragedy at Topschieder.”

“The assassin—the man who threw the bomb. Where is he?”

“In the fortress—condemned to a life sentence,” the diplomat answered. “He was caught while running away from the scene—a raw peasant from Valjevo, hired evidently to hurl the bomb. He was subjected to a searching examination, but would never reveal by whom he was employed. He was tried and condemned to solitary confinement, which he now is undergoing. You know the horrors of the fortress here, on the Danube, with its subterranean cells—eh?”

“I’ve heard of them,” responded the younger man. “But even that fate is too humane for a man who would deliberately kill an innocent child!”

“A life sentence in the fortress is scarcely humane,” the British Minister remarked grimly. “No one has ever entered some of those underground dungeons built by the Turks centuries ago. Their horrors can only be surmised. To all outsiders, who have wished to inspect the place, the Minister of Justice has refused admission.”

“Then the assassin has only received his deserts.”

“The person who formed the plot and used the ignorant peasant as his cat’s-paw should be there too—or even instead of him,” declared Sir Charles angrily. “The peasant suffers, while the real culprit gets off scot-free and unknown.”

“Then he is still unknown?” exclaimed Rolfe in surprise.

“Save to perhaps three persons, of whom I am one.”

“And also the man who threw the bomb!”

“I have heard that the solitary confinement in a dark cell already worked its effect upon him. He is hopelessly insane.”

Rolfe drew a long breath, and glanced around the cosy room with its long row of well-filled book-cases, its big writing-table, and its smaller tables filled with Japanese bric-à-brac, of which Sir Charles was an ardent collector.

In the silence that fell the footman tapped at the door and presented a card. Then Rolfe, declaring that he must go, rose, gripped the grey-haired Minister’s hand, and extracting from him a promise to tell the truth as soon as he had established it, followed the smart English footman down the stairs.

That night, as he sat amid the clatter and music of the brilliantly lit Grand Café, he reflected deeply on all that had been told him, wondering who was the friend who had been responsible for the outrage, which had induced the Doctor to forsake his native land never to return. Servia was a country of intrigue and unrest, as is every young country. He looked around the tables at the gay crowd of smart officers with their ribbons and crosses upon their breasts and their well-dressed womenkind, and wondered whether any fresh conspiracy was in progress.

The rule of King Peter—maligned though that monarch had been—had brought beneficent reforms to Servia. And yet there was an opposition who never ceased to hurl hard epithets against him, and to charge him with taking part in a plot, of the true meaning of which he certainly had had no knowledge.

Belgrade is a city in which plots against the monarchy are hinted at and whispered in the corners of drawing-rooms, where diplomacy is a mass of intrigue, a city of spies and sycophants, of concession-hunters and political cliques. Gay, pleasant, and easy-going, with its fine boulevard, its pretty Kalamegdan Garden, and its spick-and-span new streets, it is different to any other capital of Europe; more full of tragedy, more full of plot and counter-plot.

Austria is there ever seeking by her swarm of secret agents to stir up strife and to organise demonstrations against the reigning dynasty. Germany is there seeking influence and making promises, while Bulgaria is ever watchful; Turkey is silent and spectral, and Great Britain looks on neutral, but noting every move of the deep diplomatic juggling of the Powers.

At night amid the clatter, the laughter, and the gipsy music of the Grand Café, with its billiard tables in the centre and its restaurant adjoining, the stranger would never dream of its close proximity to the tragedy of a throne. Just as the bright lights and calm, moonlit sea throw a glamour over that plague spot Monte Carlo, until the visitor believes that no evil can lurk in that terrestrial paradise, so in Belgrade is everything so pleasant, so happy, so careless that the stranger would never dream that the whole city sits ever upon the edge of a volcano, and that the red flag of revolt is ready at any, moment to be hoisted.

Charlie Rolfe knew Belgrade, and knew the tragedy that underlay its brightness. What greater tragedy could there be than the death of the innocent child blown to atoms by the bomb?

Who could be the culprit whom Sir Charles had told him was his “friend.” He had known the Doctor well, but not intimately as Max Barclay had done. Curious that Max had told him nothing concerning that tragic incident which had caused the Servian statesman and patriot to turn his back upon his beloved country and live in studious seclusion in England. Max had told him many things, but had never mentioned that subject.

Was Max Barclay the “friend” to whom Sir Charles had referred. Was it really possible? He held his breath, contemplating the end of his half-smoked cigar and wondering.

It was a strange suspicion. Of late, ever since Max had charged him with having been present at Cromwell Road on the night of the disappearance, he had somehow held aloof from the man to whom Marion was so devoted.

And now? Even she had disappeared! What could it mean?

Did Max Barclay really know how and why Marion had disappeared, and for motives of his own was making a mystery?

The message from Barclay worried him. Marion was missing. Why had she left Cunnington’s? She must have left of her own accord, he felt confident. She would never be discharged. Sam Statham would never, for a moment, allow that.

A tall man with a fair, pointed beard approached him, raised his hat, and gripped his hand. It was Drukovitch, the director of the National Theatre, and a friend of his. The new-comer seated himself at the table, and the waiter brought a tiny glass of “slivovitza,” or plum gin, that liqueur so dear to the Servian palate. Drukovitch was one of the best-known and most popular men in Belgrade; a thorough-going cosmopolitan, and a man of the world. Sometimes he went to London, and whenever there Charlie entertained him at his club, or they went to the theatre and supped at the Savoy.

As they chatted, Rolfe explaining that he was in Servia upon financial matters as usual, Drukovitch nodded to the officers and civilians whom he knew, many of them famous for the part they had played in the recent coup d’état. Some of them, indeed, wore the white-enamelled cross, which decoration marked them as partisans of the dynasty of the Karageorge. And meanwhile the orchestra were playing the popular waltz from “The Merry Widow,” the air haunting everybody and everyone.

That night there was a court hall at the Palace, and the forthcoming event was upon everyone’s lips. There was seldom any entertainment at the New Konak, for his Majesty led a very quiet life, the almost ascetic life of a soldier—riding out at dawn, attending to duties of state during the day, and retiring early.

Perhaps the most maligned man in all Europe, King Peter of Servia was, nevertheless, known to those intimate around the throne to be a most conscientious ruler, fully aware of all his responsibilities, and striving ever to pacify the various political factions, sustaining the prestige of Servia abroad, and ameliorating the condition of his people at home.

The truth regarding King Peter had never been written. Of libels and vile calumnies there had been volumes, but no journalist had ever dared to put into print the real facts of King Peter’s innocence of any connivance at the dastardly murder of Alexander and Draga.

Those who knew the real facts admired King Peter as a man and fearless patriot, but those who gathered their information from sensational newspapers and scurrilous books emanating from Austria believed every lie that the back-stairs scribes chose to write.

Drukovitch was one of the men who knew the truth, and many a time he had explained them to his friend, who, in turn, had told old Sam Statham, the hard-headed misanthrope whose prejudices were so strong, and yet the chords of whose heart-strings were so readily touched.

Sam had lent money to Servia—huge sums. And why? Because he knew his Majesty personally, and had heard from his own lips the story of his tragic difficulties and his high aspirations.

Once, indeed, in that silent study in Park Lane he had been reading a confidential report from Belgrade, predicting a black outlook, when he turned to his secretary and said:

“Rolfe. There will be trouble in Servia. But even though I may lose the million sterling I have loaned it will not trouble me. I have tried to assist an honest man who is at the same time a philanthropist and a king.”

Charlie Rolfe recollected these words at that moment as he sat amid the noise and chatter of the café, where, above every other sound, rose the sweet, tuneful strains of the waltz that had within the past few weeks gripped all Europe.

There was something bizarre, something incongruous with it all.

He was thinking of his lost love—his sweet-faced Maud with the unruly wisp of hair straying across her white brow.

Where was she? Ay, where was she?

Chapter Forty Two.

Advances a Theory.

Next day, and the next, Charlie called upon the British Minister, but could obtain no further information.

Sir Charles had failed to establish his suspicion, and therefore declined to say anything further.

Rolfe, on his part, had learned from Drukovitch the full details of the dastardly attempt upon the Doctor’s life at Topschieder, and how the little child had been blown to atoms. The escape of Petrovitch had been little short of miraculous, and it was now whispered that the conspiracy had no political significance, but was an act of private vengeance.

Whatever its motive might have been, it had had the desired effect of preventing the Doctor from returning to Servia.

In various quarters Rolfe made diligent inquiry, and established without a doubt that Maud Petrovitch had within the past ten days or so been in Belgrade.

A young officer of the King’s guard, a Lieutenant Yankovitch, had seen her in the Zar Duschanowa Uliza. He described her as wearing a white serge gown and a big black hat. She was walking with a short, elderly, grey-haired woman, undoubtedly a foreigner—English or American. He was marching with his company, or would have stopped and spoken to her.

Another person discovered by Drukovitch was a domestic who had once been in the Doctor’s service. She declared that early one morning when going from her home to the house in the Krunska where she was now employed, she met her young mistress Maud with the same elderly woman—a woman rather shabbily-dressed. The pair were passing the Russian Legation, and she stopped and spoke.

The young lady had told her that she was only on a flying visit to Belgrade, and that she was leaving again on the morrow. To the servant’s inquiries regarding the Doctor his daughter was silent, as though she did not wish to mention her father.

According to the servant’s description. Mademoiselle Maud looked very wan and pale, as though she had passed many sleepless nights full of anxiety and dread.

The Prime Minister’s wife had no recollection of telling her husband about meeting the Doctor’s daughter. Somebody else must have mentioned it to the grey-bearded statesman, who, full of the cares of office, had forgotten who it had been.

A third person who had seen Maud, however, was one of the agents of secret police on duty at the railway station. It was this man’s work to watch arriving passengers, and detail agents to watch any suspected to be foreign spies. According to his report, made to the chief of police, Mademoiselle Petrovitch arrived in Belgrade late one night with an elderly Englishwoman and a tall, thin man, probably a German. They hired a cab and drove out to an address near the Botanical Gardens, on the opposite side of the city. Recognising who she was, he did not instruct an agent to follow her. The two ladies returned to the railway station four days later and left again by the Orient express for Budapest.

The officials of the international express, in passing through Servia, are compelled to furnish to the secret police the names and nationalities of all passengers travelling. When the train arrives in Belgrade the commissario is always handed the list, which is filed for reference. Upon the list on that particular day was shown the names of Mademoiselle Maud Pavlovitch, of Belgrade, and Mrs Wood, of London.

The girl had only slightly disguised her name.

These results of Charlie’s inquiry showed quite plainly that his well-beloved was alive, and that she had been in Servia with some secret object. The police were unaware of the exact address near the Botanical Gardens where the couple stayed. It is only within their province to watch suspected foreigners. Of Servians they take no account.

Therefore, beyond the facts already stated, Rolfe could discover nothing.

Day after day he remained in Belgrade, sometimes spending the afternoon by going for a trip across the Danube to that dull and rather uninteresting frontier town of Hungary, Semlin, and always hoping to be able to discover something further—some clue to the strange disappearance of the Doctor, or the real reason why his Maud was so determined to hold aloof from him.

Thrice he received wild telegrams from Max Barclay, asking for information as to where he might best seek news of Marion. News of her? Her brother was just as staggered by her disappearance as was her lover.

He telegraphed that she might perhaps be at the house of an old servant of their fathers at Boston, in Lincolnshire. But next day came a report despatched from Boston that the good man and his wife had heard nothing of their late master’s daughter.

Again to Bridlington he sent Max, to some friends there; but from that place came a similar response. Marion was, like Maud, in hiding! But why?

In the bright morning sunshine he strolled the streets, which were so full of quaint and interesting types. There in Belgrade, the gateway of the East, one saw the Servian peasant in his high boots, his white shirt worn outside his trousers, and his round, high cap of astrakhan. The better-class peasant wore his brown homespun, while the women with the gay coloured kerchiefs on their heads wore their heavy silver girdles and their ornaments reminiscent of the Turkish occupation. Big, burly men in scarlet waistbands and fur caps, women in pretty peasant costumes from the distant provinces, officers gay with ribbons and crosses, and ladies in gowns and hats that spoke mutely of Bond Street and the Rue de la Paix; all were seen in the ever moving panorama of that cosmopolitan little capital where East meets West.

The financial business which Charlie had come there to transact had already been concluded, to the mutual satisfaction of his Excellency the Prime Minister and of the grey-faced old misanthrope seated in the silent room in Park Lane. Many cables in cipher had been exchanged, and Charlie had placed his signature to half a dozen documents, which in due course would be countersigned with old Sam’s scrawly calligraphy. The stake of Statham Brothers in Servia represented considerably over one million sterling, and nobody had been more conscious of old Sam’s readiness to assist in the development of the country’s rich resources than his Majesty the King.

Upon a side table in Statham’s study in Park Lane was a big autographed portrait in a silver frame, which King Peter had given him at his last audience. Therefore it was with feelings of gratification that Charlie heard from the Minister-President’s lips the verbal message which the King had sent—a message of thanks to Mr Rolfe for doing all that he had done to arrive at a satisfactory arrangement whereby with English capital Servia’s wealth was to be exploited and work provided for her industrial population.

Though he knew that Maud Petrovitch was no longer in Belgrade, yet he still lingered on at the Grand Hotel amid all its clatter, its hustle, and its music. Truth to tell, he earnestly desired to obtain the truth from Sir Charles Harrison. For that dastardly attempt at Topschieder a friend of his was responsible!

It was the identity of the friend in question that he was deeply anxious to establish, so that in future he would know whom to doubt and whom to trust.

Was Max Barclay really his friend?

Hour upon hour he reflected upon that problem. He recollected incidents which, in his present state of mind, filled him with misgivings. Why had he openly charged him with having been present at the house in Cromwell Road after the disappearance of the Doctor and his daughter? Indeed, had he not practically charged him with opening the Doctor’s safe and abstracting its contents? He had not made the charge directly, it was true, but his remarks had certainly been made in a spirit of antagonistic suspicion.

A long letter from Max explained the sudden disappearance of Marion from Cunnington’s, and begged him to give all information regarding any likely quarter where the girl had sought refuge. It was now plain enough to Charlie that his sister had been discharged from the establishment in Oxford Street—and in disgrace! In what disgrace?

When he read the letter in his room at the hotel, he crushed it in his hand with an imprecation upon his lips. Cunnington should answer to him for this indignity. He would compel the fellow to tell him the truth. His sister’s honour was at stake.

Disgraced by her sudden discharge, she had disappeared. She had, no doubt, been ashamed to face the man who loved her, ashamed, too, to write to her brother. Instead, she preferred to go away and efface herself, as, alas! so many London shop-girls have done before her.

Charlie Rolfe knew the cruelty practised by many a shop-keeper in London in discharging their female employées at a moment’s notice. For a man it matters little. Perhaps, indeed, it is best for both parties. But for a helpless girl without friends, without money, and without home to be cast suddenly upon the great world of London, filled as it is with lures and temptations, is a grave sin which no tradesman ought to commit. And yet there are to-day in London and its suburbs hundreds of smug, top-hatted, frock-coated tradesmen, who, though pillars of their chapels and churches and stalking round the aisles with their plush collecting-bags on Sundays, will on six days in the week cast forth any poor girl in their employ without a grain of sympathy or compunction merely because she may break a rule, or even because she does not lie to customers sufficiently well to induce them to make purchases.

The general public are ignorant of the tyranny of shop-life in London. There have been strikes—strikes quickly suppressed because, by lifting his finger the employer is overwhelmed with assistants glad to live on a mere bread and butter wage—and those strikes have been treated humorously by the evening papers. Ah! the tragedy of it all.

Charles Rolfe, though secretary and trusted factotum of a millionaire, knew it all. His sister had been in a snug “billet,” one from which he had fondly believed she could never have been dislodged.

But the hard, bitter truth was now apparent. Even his own brotherly protection had availed her nothing. She had been consigned to disgrace.

It was with such bitter thoughts he resolved to return to London. He went to the telegraph office and sent a long message to Sam Statham, explanatory of what had occurred, and beseeching his intervention with Cunnington.

Through the night he waited, but received no response.

Then he went round in the morning to bid Sir Charles adieu.

“Well, Rolfe!” exclaimed the representative of the British Government; “I’m sorry you’re off so quickly. My wife was asking you to dine to-morrow night—usual weekly dinner, you know.”

“And have you discovered nothing regarding Petrovitch?” asked Charlie quickly.

“Well,” replied the diplomat, after a moment’s hesitation, “to tell the truth, I have.”

“You have!” gasped the young man eagerly. “What?” The other knit his brows, and was for a moment silent.

“Something—something!” he said, “that is astounding. I—I cannot give it credence. It is all too amazing—too tragic—too utterly incomprehensible.”

Chapter Forty Three.

The Lost Beloved.

Weeks had dragged by. To Max Barclay they had been weeks of keen anxiety and unceasing search to discover traces of his lost beloved.

Once, and only once, had he seen Jean Adam, against whom Sam Statham had warned him. He had met the man of brilliant financial ideas by appointment at lunch at the Savoy, and had told him plainly that he had reconsidered the whole matter of the Turkish concession, and had decided to have nothing to do with it.

His excuse was lack of funds at that moment. To the old millionaire he owed a good deal for giving him the “tip” regarding the plausible Anglo-Frenchman. Adam, alias Adams, received Max’s decision without the alteration of a muscle of his face. He was a perfect actor, and betrayed no sign of surprise or of chagrin.

“Well, my dear fellow,” he remarked, raising his glass of Brauneberger and contemplating it before placing it to his lips; “you’re losing the chance of a lifetime. If Baron Hirsch had been alive he wouldn’t have allowed such a thing to slip. When old Statham knows of it he’ll move heaven and earth to come in.”

Max was silent. He did not allow his companion to know that Statham had been responsible for his refusal to join in the project.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said. “But just now I’m rather pressed. I was hard hit last week over those Siberians.”

“But the money required is a mere bagatelle. I have mine ready.”

“I regret,” answered Max, “but my decision is final.”

“Very well, my dear fellow,” replied Adam lightly. “I don’t want to persuade you. There are a thousand men in the City who’ll be ready to put up money to-morrow morning.”

And the pair finished their luncheon and parted, Adam, of course, entirely unsuspicious of the part Statham had played in upsetting his deeply-laid plans.

To every address which Marion’s brother had furnished he had gone at post-haste, only to draw blank every time. Charlie had, at Statham’s instructions, gone first to Constantinople, then to Odessa and Batoum, after which he had returned direct to London.

In Odessa he had been met by a special messenger from the London office bearing a number of documents, and his business in that city had occupied him nearly a fortnight. Therefore it was early in October when, arriving by the evening train at Charing Cross from Paris, he took a cab straight to Park Lane.

In greeting him, old Sam was rather curious in his manner, he thought. There was a lack of cordiality. Usually, when he came off a long journey, the old fellow ordered Levi to bring the decanter of whisky and a syphon. But on this occasion the head of the great financial house merely sat in his chair at his desk and heard his secretary’s report without even suggesting that he might be fagged by his rush across Europe.

Rolfe related, briefly and plainly, the various points upon which he had failed, and those upon which he had been successful. Some of his decisions had brought many thousands of pounds into the already overflowing coffers of Statham Brothers, and yet the old man made no sign. He heard all without any comment save now and then a grunt of satisfaction.

The younger man could not disguise from himself the fact that the millionaire was not himself. His face was paler and more transparent, while the green-shaded electric lamp shed upon it a hue that was unreal and ghastly. Old Levi, too, as he flitted in and out like a white-breasted shadow, seemed to regard him with unusual suspicion and distrust.

What could it all mean?

He looked from one to the other in puzzled surprise.

He was unaware that only on the previous night a thin, dark, bearded man had been ushered into that very room and had sat for two hours with the great financier. His countenance, his gestures, the cut of his clothes, all showed plainly that he was not English. Besides, the consultation was in French, a language which old Sam knew fairly well.

That man was a spy, and he was from Belgrade.

From the moment Charlie Rolfe had descended at the station to the moment he had left it, secret observation had been kept upon his movements. And to furnish the report to his master the spy had travelled from Servia to London. Samuel Statham trusted nobody. Even his most confidential assistant was spied upon, and his own reports compared with those of a spy’s.

More than once, as Charlie Rolfe, all unconscious of the surveillance upon him, related what had occurred in King Peter’s capital, the old man smiled—in disbelief. This the younger man could not understand. He was in ignorance of the great conspiracy in progress, or of the millionaire’s ulterior motives. The old man’s face was sphinx-like, as it ever was—a countenance in which no single trait was visible, neither was there human joy or human sympathy. It was the face of a statue—the face of a man whose greed and avarice had rendered him pitiless.

And yet, strangely enough, this very man was, to Charlie’s knowledge, a philanthropist in secret, giving away thousands yearly to the deserving poor without any thought of laudatory comment of either press or public.

Samuel Statham was not well; of that Charlie felt assured. He noticed the slight trembling of the thin white hands, the fixed, anxious look in his eyes, the curl of the thin grey lips, all of which caused him anxiety. In his ignorance he had grown to be greatly fond of the eccentric old man who pulled so many of the financial wires of Europe and whose word could cause the stock markets to fluctuate. A scribbled word of his that night would be felt in Wall Street on the morrow, whilst the pulses of the Bourse of Berlin, Paris, and Vienna were ready at any moment to respond instantly to the transactions of Statham Brothers, often so gigantic as to cause a sensation.

Presently Sam Statham commenced his cross-questioning regarding the exact situation in Belgrade, the attitude of the Minister-President, and the strength of the Opposition in that wooden shed-like Parliament-house, the Skuptchina, of whom he had seen, and what information he had gathered regarding the tariff-war with Austria.

To all the questions Charlie replied in a manner which showed him to be perfectly alive to all the requirements of the firm. To those in Old Broad Street, City, secret information regarding the future policy of Servia means the gain or loss of many thousands, and though during his sojourn in the City of the White Fortress his mind had been so perturbed over his own private affairs, he had certainly not neglected those of the great firm who employed him.

The old man gave little sign of approbation, and after nearly an hour suddenly dismissed him abruptly, saying:

“Very well. You’re tired, I expect. You’d better go to dinner. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“There’s another matter I wanted to speak to you about,” Charlie said, still remaining in his chair, watching the old fellow as he turned towards his desk and drew some papers on to his blotting-pad.

“Eh? What?” asked the old fellow sharply, turning again to the other.

“You did very well in Odessa. I was very pleased to receive that last cable from you. Souvaroff grew frightened evidently—afraid I should withdraw and let the whole business go into air.” And he chuckled to himself in delight at how he had worsted a powerful Russian banker who was his enemy.

“It was not of that I wish to speak,” remarked Rolfe quietly. “It was with regard to my sister Marion.”

The old fellow started uneasily at his secretary’s words. “Eh? Your sister?” he said. “What about her?”

“She’s left Cunnington’s,” Charlie said. “According to what I hear, she’s been discharged in some disgrace.”

“Ah! yes,” was the old man’s response, as though recalling the fact. “I’ve heard so. Your friend Barclay came to see me, and told me some long story about her. I wrote to Cunnington, but I haven’t seen any reply from him. It may have gone to the office.”

“My sister has left Oxford Street—and hidden herself, in disgrace. We can’t find her.”

“Then if you can’t find her, Rolfe, I don’t see how I can assist you,” remarked the elder man. “Girls entertain strange fancies, you know—especially the sentimental-minded. Been reading novels, perhaps—eh? Was she given to that?”

“The girls at Cunnington’s have little time for reading,” he said, piqued at Statham’s careless manner. Hitherto he had believed that the old man was genuinely interested in her, but he now saw that her future was to him nothing. He was too much occupied in piling up wealth to trouble his head over a girl’s distress, even though that girl might be the sister of the man who by his acute business foresight often won for him thousands in a single day.

Charlie rose, full of suppressed anger. He did not notice the look of anxiety and shame upon the old man’s face, for his head was bowed beneath the lamplight as he pretended to fumble with his papers.

“Perhaps your sister was tired of the place—too much hard work. Thought to better herself.”

“My sister was, like myself, much indebted to you, Mr Statham,” was Rolfe’s reply. “If she has been discharged in disgrace, it is, I feel confident, through no fault of her own. Therefore, I beg of you, to ask fit. Cunnington to make full inquiry.”

“What is the use? It is Cunnington himself who engages the hands and discharges them,” replied Statham evasively. “I can’t interfere.”

“But,” Rolfe argued, “for the sake of my sister’s good name you will surely do me this one small favour?”

“I have already seen Barclay, who says he’s engaged to her. Call on him, and he’ll explain what I have already said and the inquiry I have already made,” replied the old man in growing impatience.

“But weeks have gone by, and you’ve received no reply from Cunnington. He does not usually treat you with such discourtesy.”

“I can only think that he acted as his own judgment directed him,” the millionaire replied. “You know how strict the rules are that govern shop-assistants, and I suppose he could not favour your sister any more than the others.”

“Marion wanted no favours,” he declared. “She never asked one of anybody at Oxford Street. She only desires justice and troth—and I mean to have them for her.”

“Then go and see Cunnington for yourself,” snapped the old man. “I’ve done all I can do. If your sister chooses to go away and hide herself, how can I help it?”

“But she was sent away?” cried Rolfe in anger. “Sent away in disgrace, and I intend to discover what charge there is against her—and the truth concerning it?”

“Dear me, Rolfe!” snapped the old man impatiently. “Do go home, for heaven’s sake. You’re tired and hungry—consequently out of temper.”

“Yes,” he cried, “I am out of temper because you refuse to render my sister justice! But she shall have it—she shall?”

And he stalked out of the room and closed the door noisily behind him.

Then, after the door had closed, old Sam raised his head, and his eyes followed the young man. In them was a look such as was seldom seen there—a look of double cunning which spoke mutely of false and double-dealing.

Chapter Forty Four.

Tells of a Determination.

Entering his chambers in Jermyn Street half an hour later, Rolfe was met by the faithful Green, to whom he gave orders to “ring up” Mr Barclay at Dover Street.

Then he went along to his room to wash and dress.

A few moments later Green came in, saying:

“Mr Barclay left town five days ago, sir. He’s up at Kilmaronock.”

His master made no reply for some moments. Then at last he said:

“Pack my suit-case, and ’phone to Euston to reserve me a seat to Perth on the ten-five to-morrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And to everybody except my sister, if she calls, you don’t know where I’ve gone—you understand?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

And the man set about packing up his master’s traps.

“You may as well put in a dinner-coat Max may have friends,” Rolfe said.

“Very well, sir.”

His master dressed quickly and went alone to the club for a late dinner. Most of his friends were away shooting, therefore he idled alone for an hour over the paper and then returned to his chambers.

Next morning he scribbled a hasty note to Mr Statham, making an excuse for his sudden absence, and directly after ten was seated in the Scotch express travelling out of London.

At eight that evening he stepped out upon the big, dark station at Perth, sent a telegram to the Crown Inn at Kilmaronock village for a “machine,” as a fly is called, and then took the slow branch line that runs by Crieff and skirts Loch Earn to the head of Glen Ogle, where lay the old castle and fine shooting of which Max Barclay was possessor.

A drive of three miles on the road beside Loch Voil brought him to the lodge-gates, and then another mile up through the park he came to the great portico of the castle.

It was nearly midnight. Lights were still in the billiard-room of the fine old castellated mansion, which Max’s father had modernised and rendered so comfortable, and when Charlie rang, Burton, the butler, could not suppress an exclamation of surprise.

In a few moments, however, Charlie burst into the room where Max and five other men were playing “snooker” before retiring.

The host’s surprise was great, but the visitor received a hearty welcome, and an hour later, when the guests had gone to their rooms, the two friends stood alone together in the long old-fashioned drawing-room which, without a woman’s artistic hand to keep things in order, was rapidly going to decay.

A big wood fire blazed cheerfully in the wide old-fashioned grate, for October evenings in the Highlands are damp and chill, and as the two men stood before it they looked at one another, both hesitating to speak.

Across Charlie’s mind flashed those suspicions which had oppressed him in Belgrade. Was the man before him his enemy or his friend?

“Well,” he blurted forth, “I’ve come straight up to see you, Max. I only arrived home last night. I want to see you concerning Marion.”

His companion’s lips hardened.

“Marion!” he exclaimed. “I have done all I can. I’ve left no effort untried. I have sought the aid of the best confidential inquiry agency in London, and all to no avail. She’s disappeared—as completely as Maud has done!”

“Yes, I know,” replied her brother, thrusting his hands deep into the trousers-pockets of his blue serge travelling-suit. “I’ve seen Statham.”

“And so have I. He wrote to Cunnington’s, but the latter has not replied. I saw Cunnington myself.”

“And what did he say?”

“The fellow refused to say anything,” he replied in a hard tone.

Silence again fell between the pair.

The long, old-fashioned room, with its blue china, its chintz coverings, its grand piano, and its bowls of autumn roses, though full of quaint charm, was weird and unsuited to the home of a bachelor. Indeed, Kilmaronock was a white elephant to Max. He received a fair rental from the farms on the estate, but he never went near the place except for sport for six weeks or so each autumn. The old place possessed some bitter memories for him, for his mother had died there quite suddenly of heart disease on the night of a large dinner-party. He was only eighteen then, but he remembered it too well. It was that tragic memory which had caused him to abandon the place except when he invited a few of his friends to shoot over the estate.

“Let’s go into my own room to talk,” he suggested. “It’s more cosy there.” As a man hates all drawing-rooms, so did Max Barclay detest his. It was for him full of recollections of his dear dead mother.

And so they passed along the corridor to Max’s own little den in the east wing of the house, a pleasant little room overlooking the deep shady glen from whence rose the constant music of the ever-rippling burn.

As Charlie sank into the big armchair near the fire Max pushed the cigar-box towards him. Then he seated himself, saying:

“Now, old fellow, what are we to do? Marion must be found.”

“She must. But you’ve failed, you say?”

“Utterly,” he sighed. “She was discharged from Cunnington’s—disgraced!”

“Why?”

Max shrugged his shoulders. Both men knew well that the reason of the girl’s disappearance was the shame of her dismissal. Both men knew also that by lifting his finger Sam Statham could have reinstated her—or could at least have had inquiry made as to the truth of what had really occurred.

But he had refused. Therefore both were indignant and angry. During the next half-hour they discussed the matter fully and seriously, and were agreed upon one main point, that Statham had acted against them both in refusing his aid to clear the unfortunate girl.

“Whatever fault she has committed,” declared Max, “the truth should be told. I went to him acknowledging my love for her and beseeching his aid. And yet he has refused.”

“Then let us combine, Max, in trying to discover the truth,” her brother suggested. “Marion shall not be cast aside into oblivion by these drapery capitalists who gain fat profits upon the labour and lives of women.”

“You may imperil your position with Statham if you act without discretion,” remarked Max warningly.

“I shall do nothing without full consideration, depend upon it. Statham refused his assistance, therefore we must act for ourselves.”

“How? Where shall we begin?” asked Max.

His friend raised his palms in a gesture of bewilderment.

“Look here, Charlie,” said the other in a confidential tone. “Has it not occurred to you that there may be a method in old Statham’s eccentricity regarding that house of his. Now tell me, what do you know of its interior? Let’s be frank with each other. You have lost both your sister and the woman you adored, while I have lost Marion, my well-beloved. Let us act together. During these past weeks I’ve been thinking deeply regarding the mystery of that house in Park Lane.”

“So have I, many times. I only know the ground floor and basement. I have never ascended the stairs, through that white-enamelled iron door concealed by the one of green baize.”

“Where does old Levi sleep?”

“In a room at the back of the kitchen—when he sleeps at all. He’s like a watch-dog, on the alert always for the slightest sound.”

Max paused for a moment before making any further remark. Then he said in a quiet voice:

“There are some very queer stories afloat concerning that place, Charlie.”

“I know. I’ve heard them—about mysterious people who enter there at night—and don’t come forth again. But I don’t believe them. Old Sam has earned a reputation for being eccentric, and his enemies have tacked on all sorts of sensational fictions.”

“But I’ve heard lately from half a dozen sources most extraordinary stories. Up at the Moretouns’ at Inversnaid the night before last, they were talking of it at dinner. They were unaware that I knew Statham.”

“Just as the gossips are unaware that the persons who come and go so mysteriously at the Park Lane mansion are secret agents of the great financier,” Rolfe said. “Of course it would not do to say so openly, but that’s who they are. The allegation that they don’t come forth again is, I feel confident, mere embroidery to the tale.”

“But,” exclaimed Max with some hesitation, “has it not ever occurred to you somewhat curious that, so deeply involved in Servian finance, Statham has never sought to solve the mystery of the doctor’s disappearance? Remember, they knew each other. The doctor, when he was in power at Belgrade, was probably the old man’s cat’s-paw. Is it not therefore surprising that he has never expressed a desire to seek out the truth?”

Rolfe held his breath as a new and terrible suspicion arose within him. He had never regarded the affair in that light. Was it possible that his master knew well all the circumstances which had led the doctor to disappear in that manner so extraordinary? Had he really had a hand in it?

Was he the “friend” of whom Sir Charles had spoken in Belgrade?

But no! He would not believe such a thing. Sam Statham was always honest in his dealings—or, at least, as honest as any millionaire can ever be. The man who habitually deals in colossal sums must now and then, of necessity ruin his opponents and wreck the homes of honest men. And strange it is that the world is ever ungrateful. If a very wealthy man gave every penny of his profits to the poor he would only be dubbed a fool or an idiot for his philanthropy.

He recollected that afternoon when, at work in old Sam’s room, he had mentioned the doctor’s sudden departure, and how deftly the old man had turned the conversation into a different channel.

Until two days ago he would hear no word nor believe any ill against the man who had befriended him. But the man’s refusal to assist him to discover the truth concerning the charge against Marion or to order her to be reinstated had turned his heart.

He was now Sam Statham’s enemy, as before he had been his friend.

The two men seated together discussed the matter carefully and seriously for the greater part of the night, and when they parted to go to their rooms they took each other’s hands in solemn compact.

“We will investigate that house, Rolfe,” Max declared; “and we’ll lay bare the mystery it conceals!”

Chapter Forty Five.

The Impending Blow.

Four nights later Max and Charlie alighted from the Scotch express at Euston on their return to London to make investigation.

Next morning Rolfe went as usual to Park Lane, and spent some hours attending to the old man’s correspondence. The excuse Charlie made for his absence was that he had been away in an endeavour to find his sister, whereat the millionaire merely grunted in dissatisfaction. Both Charlie and Max were full of sorrow and anxiety on Marion’s behalf. What had befallen her they dreaded to guess. She had left Oxford Street, and from that moment had been swallowed in the bustling vortex of our great cruel London, the city where money alone is power and where gold can purchase everything, even to the death of one’s enemy. Perhaps the poor girl had met with some charitable woman who had taken her in and given her shelter; but more probable, alas! she was wandering hungry and homeless, afraid to face the shame of the dastardly charge against her—the charge that to neither her brother nor her lover none would name.

That morning Charlie wrote on, mechanically, speaking little, with the old man seated near him sucking the stump of a cheap cigar. His mind was too full of the action he was about to execute—an action which in other circumstances would have indeed been culpable.

Both he and his friend had carefully considered all ways and means by which they might enter those premises. To get in would be difficult. Old Levi bolted the heavy front door each night at eleven, and then retired to his room in the basement, where he slept with one ear and his door open to catch the slightest sound.

And even though they obtained access to the hall and study there was the locked iron door at the head of the staircase—the door through which they must pass if their investigation of the house was to be made.

That morning he made excuse to leave the old man seated in his study, saying that he wanted to speak to Levi and give him a message for one of the clerks from Old Broad Street. Outside in the hall he sprang noiselessly up the stairs, and, pulling open the baize-covered door, swiftly examined the great iron fireproof door so carefully concealed and secured. His heart failed when he recognised the impossibility of passing beyond. The door was enamelled white like the panelling up the stairs, only over the small keyhole was a flap of shining brass bearing the name of a well-known safe-maker. At imminent peril of discovery by Levi, who often shuffled in noiseless slippers of felt, he lifted the flap and peered eagerly beyond. He could, however, see nothing. The hole did not penetrate the door.

Then, fearing that he might be discovered, he slipped downstairs again, and went to examine the front door. The bolts were long and heavy, and the chain was evidently in use every night.

In the kitchen he found Levi, preparing his master’s frugal meal, which usually consisted of a small chop, a piece of stale bread, and one glass of light claret. His visit below gave him an opportunity of examining the fastenings of the windows. They were all patent ones, and, besides, the whole were protected from burglars by iron bars.

Patent fastenings were also upon the windows of the study, looking forth upon Park Lane, while often at night the heavy oaken shutters were closed and barred. He had never before noticed how every precaution had been taken to exclude the unwelcome intruders.

Through the whole morning his brain was actively at work to discover some means by which an entry might be effected, but there seemed none.

The secret, whatever it might be, was certainly well guarded.

He went across to the club to lunch, and returned again at three o’clock. About four he rose, asking old Sam, who was seated writing, for a document from the safe, the key of which was upon his watch-guard. The millionaire took out his watch and chain and handed them to his secretary, as he so often did, while the latter, crossing the room, opened the safe and fumbled about among some papers in one of the drawers.

Then he re-locked the safe, handed back the watch and chain, and re-seated himself at the table. Those few brief moments had been all-sufficient, for upon the bunch was the latch-key of the front door, an impression of which he had taken with the wax he had already prepared. The duplicate key could, he knew, be filed out of the handle of an old spoon, and such was his intention.

He had hoped to find upon the bunch the key to the iron door on the stairs, but it was not among them. He knew each key by sight. The old man evidently kept it in a safer place—some place where the hand of none other might be placed upon it.

Where did he keep it?

Its hiding-place must be somewhere handy, Charlie reflected, for at least half a dozen times a day the old man passed that iron barrier which shut off the upper part of the mansion. He wondered where he could find that key, but remained wondering.

That evening he took the impression of the latchkey to Dover Street, and with Max’s help tried to fashion a key to that pattern, but though they tried for hours it was in vain. So they gave it up. Next day Max took train to Birmingham, and handed the impression to a locksmith he chanced to know. The latter, having looked at it, shook his head, and said:

“This impression is no use, sir. It’s what they call a paracentric lock, and you must have impressions of both sides, as well as the exact width back and front before I can make you a duplicate.”

The man showed how the impressions should be taken. Max, of course, concocting a story as to why it was wanted, and then back to London he travelled that same night to consult with his friend.

The outcome of this was that two days later complete impressions were taken of the small latchkey, and within three days came the duplicate by post.

Max bought two electric torches, two pairs of felt slippers, a piece of thin but very strong rope, screwdriver, chisel, and other implements, until he had a full burglar’s equipment. The preparations were exciting during the next few days, yet when they came down to bed-rock fact there was that locked door which stood between them and the truth.

Charlie’s object in obtaining a duplicate latchkey was to enter noiselessly one night shortly before eleven, and secrete, themselves somewhere until Levi bolted the door and retired. They must take their chance of making any discovery they could. Both were well aware of Levi’s vigilance, and his quickness of hearing. Therefore they would be compelled to work without noise, and also to guard against any hidden electric burglar alarms which might be secreted in the sashes of windows or in lintels of doors.

Investigation by Charlie had not revealed the existence of any of these terrors to thieves; yet so many were the precautions against intruders that the least suspected contrivance for their detection was to be expected.

Nearly a fortnight passed before all arrangements were complete for the nocturnal tour of investigation. Daily Rolfe, though attentive to his duties as the old man’s secretary, was always on the alert to discover the existence of that key to the iron door. By all manner of devices he endeavoured to compel Statham to unwittingly reveal its whereabouts. He made pretence of mistaking various keys to deed boxes and nests of drawers, in order that the old man should produce other keys. But he was too wary, and never once did he fall into the trap.

Yet often he left the study, passed up the stain, and through the door swiftly, until the younger man began to suspect that it might be opened by means of some secret spring.

Standing below, he could not obtain sight of the old fellow as he opened the door, and to follow him half-way up was too dangerous a proceeding. He had risked a good deal, but he dare not risk the old man’s wrath in that.

Still that he passed the door quickly and without hindrance was plainly shown. He had a key secreted somewhere—a key which, when applied, turned quickly, with ease and without noise, to admit the owner of the great mansion to the apartments where his secret was so successfully hidden.

Sometimes he would descend pale, haggard, and agitated, his hand upon his heart, as though to recover his breath. At others he was flushed and angry, like a man who had a moment before taken part in a heated discussion which had ended in a serious difference.

Charlie watched all this, and wondered.

What secret could possibly be hidden in those upper storeys that were at times so brilliantly lit?

Each evening he called on Max at Dover Street, and with closed door, so that the man should not hear, they discussed the situation.

Of Jean Adam nothing further had been seen. Neither had the hunchback engineer, Leonard Lyle, been at all it evidence. Ever since Max had given the Frenchman his decision not to go to Constantinople Adam had held aloof from him. They had parted perfectly good friends, but Max could detect the bitter chagrin that his reply had caused.

One evening as the two sat together Charlie related his curious experience of the short, dark, good-looking girl who had met him in Paris and talked so strangely of Maud in the Tuileries Gardens.

Max sat smoking his cigar listening to every word.

“Curious—very curious!” he ejaculated. “Didn’t she tall you her name?”

“She gave it as Lorena.”

“Lorena!” gasped the other, starting up. “Lorena—why, it must have been Lorena Lyle—old Lyle’s daughter?”

“His daughter! I never knew he had one.”

“No; perhaps not. He doesn’t often speak of her, I believe. I saw her once, not long ago.”

“They have quarrelled—father and daughter!” exclaimed Rolfe. “And that accounts for her exposure of the plot against Statham to compel him to commit suicide rather than to face exposure. Remember, she would not betray who was Adam’s associate in the matter. Because it is her own father, without a doubt.”

“She alleged that Statham committed a secret crime, by which he laid the foundation of his great fortune,” Max remembered. “And, further, that confirmation of the charge brought by Adam will be found beyond that locked door?”

“Yes,” said his companion, in a hollow voice; “I see it all. The girl wishes to exclude her father from the business. Yet she knows more than she has told me.”

“No doubt. She probably knew Maud also, for she has lived for years—indeed, nearly all her life—in Belgrade,” Barclay remarked. “She quarrelled with her father, and went on the stage as a dancer in the Opera at Vienna. She is now in Paris in the same capacity. If I remember aright she was here at Covent Garden last season. They say she has great talent and that she’s now being trained in Paris for the part of première danseuse.”

“She alleged that there still live two witnesses of Statham’s crime, whatever it was,” Charlie went on.

“And they are probably Adam and her hunchback father—both men who have lived the life of the wilds beyond the fringe of civilisation—both men who are as unscrupulous as they are adventurous.”

“But from all I knew of Lyle he was a most highly respectable person. In Belgrade they still speak of him with greatest respect.”

“Leonard Lyle in Belgrade, my dear chap, may have been a very different person to Leonard Lyle in other countries, you know,” was his friend’s reply.

“But why has his daughter given me this warning, at the same time taking care to conceal her identity.”

“She was a short, dark-haired girl, rather good-looking, except that her top teeth protruded a little; about nineteen or so—eh?”

“Exactly.”

“And depend upon it that she has warned you at Maud’s request, in order that you may be forearmed against the blow which the pair are going to strike.”

“And which we—you and I, Max—are going to assist—eh?” added the other, grimly.

Chapter Forty Six.

To Learn the Truth.

The mystery by which old Sam Statham sometimes passed beyond that white-enamelled door was inexplicable.

Whenever he left the library to ascend the stairs, Charlie Rolfe stole quietly out behind him, and listened. Sometimes he distinctly heard the key in the lock; at others it sounded as though the closed door yielded to his touch and swung aside for him to pass beyond. It closed always with a thud, as though felt had been placed upon it to prevent any metallic clang.

While Charlie watched the great financier’s every movement, Max was unceasing in his inquiries regarding Marion. Advertisements had Men published in the “personal” columns of various newspapers, and the private inquiry agents whose aid he had sought had been unremitting in their vigilance.

The whole affair from beginning to end now showed the existence of some powerful hand which had directed and rendered the mystery beyond solution. The strange re-appearance of Jean Adam and Leonard Lyle had been followed quickly by the extraordinary flight of Doctor Petrovitch and Maud. The latter had only an hour before she had disappeared into space made some remarkable confession to Marion—a confession which might or might not save Samuel Statham from an ignominious death.

But the girl had preserved the secret of the confession confided to her by her friend, and, preferring shame and misjudgment, she in turn had disappeared, whither no one knew.

The two men, brother and lover, who had now united their forces to solve the problem and at the same time ascertain for themselves what the secret of the house in Park Lane really was, were at their wits’ ends. Their inquiries and their efforts always led them into a cul-de-sac. At every turn they seemed foiled and baffled. And was it surprising when it was considered the power of Samuel Statham and the means at his command for the preservation of a secret?

Charlie felt that he was being watched hourly by one or other of those spies who sometimes gave such valuable information to the head of the firm. Some of these secret agents of Statham he knew by sight, but there were others unseen and unknown.

Even though Max and his friend were able to enter unheard and secrete themselves before the place was locked up by old Levi, yet there was that white door barring their passage to the mystery beyond. Many times they discussed the possibilities, and each time hesitated. Charlie was sorely puzzled regarding the key of the iron door. Sometimes it was undoubtedly used, sometimes not.

At last one evening, after both men had dined at the St. James’s, of which Max was a member, they resolved upon a bold move. Charlie suggested it, and the other was at once ready and eager.

So after Max had been round to his rooms to put on a suit of dark tweeds, he went to Charlie’s chambers where the various implements were produced and laid upon the table. It was then nearly ten o’clock.

Rolfe, having sent Green to the other end of Jermyn Street out of the way, drew out the whisky decanter from the tantalus stand, poured out two “pegs” with soda, and drank:

“Success to the elucidation of old Statham’s secret.”

Then, carefully stowing the various articles in their pockets, they slipped down into the street and were out of sight before the inquisitive Green had returned.

Arrived in Park Lane, after a hasty walk, they strolled slowly along by the park railings past the house. All was in darkness save the hall, where the electric lamp showed above the fanlight. Old Sam was probably in his study, smoking his last cigar, for the shutters were that night closed, as they sometimes were. The shutters of the basement were also closed behind their iron bars, while at the upstairs windows all the blinds were carefully drawn.

Indeed, the exterior of the house presented nothing unusual. It was the same as any other mansion in Park Lane. Yet there were many who on going up and down the thoroughfare afoot or on the motor-’buses jerked their thumbs at it and whispered. The house had earned a reputation for mystery. Sam Statham was a mystery in himself, and of his house many weird things were alleged.

Thrice the pair passed and repassed. At the corner of Deanery Street stood a constable, and while he remained there it was injudicious to attempt an entry with a latchkey. So they strolled back in the direction of the fountain, conversing in undertones.

Max glanced at his watch, and found that it wanted a quarter to eleven. At last they crossed the road and passed the door. All seemed quiet. At that moment the only object in sight was a receding motor-’bus showing its red tail-light. Not a soul was on the pavement.

“All clear!” cried Charlie, scarce above a whisper, as he slipped up the two or three steps, followed by his companion.

That moment was an exciting one. Next second, however, the key was in the latch, and without a sound the wards of the lock were lifted.

In another moment the pair stood within the brightly-lit hall, and the door was closed noiselessly behind them.

Standing there, within a few yards of the door of the library, where from the smell of tobacco smoke it was evident that old Sam was taking his ease, they were in imminent risk of discovery. Besides, Levi had a habit of moving without sound in his old felt slippers, and might at any moment appear up the stairs from the lower regions.

Instinctively Charlie glanced upstairs towards the locked door. But next second he motioned his companion to follow, and stole on tiptoe over the thick Turkey carpets past the millionaire’s door and on into a kind of small conservatory which lay behind the hall and was in darkness.

Though leading from the room behind the library, it was a fairly good spot as a place of hiding, yet so vigilant was old Levi that the chances were he would come in there poking about ere he retired to rest.

The two men stood together behind a bank of what had once been greenhouse plants, but all of them had died by neglect and want of water long ago. The range of pots and dried stalks still remained, forming an effectual barrier behind which they could conceal themselves.

Through the long French window of the room adjoining the light shone, and Charlie, slowly creeping forward, peered within.

Then he whispered to his friend, and both men bent to see what was transpiring.

The scene was unusual.

A full view of the library could be obtained from where they stood in the darkness. In the room two of the big armchairs had been pulled up, with a small coffee table between them. On one side was old Sam, lazily smoking one of his big cigars, while on the other was Levi, lying back, his legs stretched out, smoking with perfect equanimity and equally with his master. Upon the table was a decanter of whisky and two glasses, and, judging from the amused countenances of both men, Sam had been relating to Levi something which struck the other as humorous.

It was curious, to say the least, that Levi, the humble, even cringing, servant should place himself upon an equality with his master. That he was devoted to old Sam, Charlie knew well, but this friendship he had never suspected. There was a hidden reason for it all, without a doubt.

The two intruders watched with bated breath, neither daring to make a sound.

They saw Levi, his cigar stuck in the side of his mouth, lean back and thrust his hands deep into his trousers-pockets, uttering some words which they could not catch. His manner had changed, and so had Sam’s. From gay the pair had suddenly grown grave. Upon the millionaire’s brow was a dark shadow, such as Charlie, who knew him intimately in all his moods, had seldom seen there.

Levi was speaking quickly, his attitude changed, as though giving serious advice, to which his master listened with knit brows and deep attention. Then, with a suddenness that caused the two watchers to start, the electric bell at the hall-door sounded.

In an instant Levi tossed his cigar into the fire, whipped off his glass from the table, and in a single instant became the grave family servant again, as with a quick gesture of his hand he left the room to answer the summons at the door.

In a few moments he returned, closing the door quickly after him, so that whoever was in the hall could not overhear what was said.

Approaching his master he made some announcement in a whisper, whereat the millionaire clenched his fist, and struck violently in the air. Levi urged calmness; that was evident from his manner.

Then Sam, with a resigned air, shrugged his shoulders, paced the room in quick agitation, and turned upon his servant with his eyes flashing with anger.

Again Levi placed his thin hand on the old man’s arm which calmed him into almost instant submission.

Then the grave-faced old servant went out, and an instant later ushered in a woman, all in black—a woman who, in instant, both Max and Charlie recognised.

They both stood watching, breathless—rooted to the spot.

The mystery, as they afterwards discovered, was even greater than they had ever anticipated.

It was beyond human credence.

Chapter Forty Seven.

Contains More Mystery.

The old-fashioned, ill-cut gown of black stuff and the rather unbecoming big black hat gave Sam’s visitor an appearance of being older than she really was. A spotted veil concealed her features, but as she entered the room she raised it quickly.

The face revealed was the soft, sweet countenance of Maud Petrovitch.

Charlie gripped his companion’s arm and gave vent to an exclamation of amazement as he stood peering forth open-mouthed.

As the girl entered the old man turned fiercely upon her and uttered some inquiry. What it was the watchers could not distinguish, for thick plate glass stood between the conservatory and the library. Yet whatever he said or however caustic and bitter his manner, the young girl stood defiant.

Her chin was raised, her eyes flashed upon him, and her gloved hand was outstretched in a gesture of calm denunciation as she replied with some words that caused the old fellow to draw back in surprise and confusion.

The door had closed, for Levi had left the pair together. Max wondered whether the old servant would now come and search the back premises prior to locking up. If so, they might easily be discovered. Those felt-soled boots of old Levi struck fear into their hearts. Charlie was, however, too occupied in watching the old man and the girl at that moment to think of any danger of detection.

His well-beloved stood pale, beautiful, and yet defiant before the man who a moment before had shaken his fist and clenched his teeth on hearing of her demand to see him. The words she had uttered had caused an instant change in his manner. His sudden anger had been succeeded by fear. Whatever she had said was evidently straight to the point.

For a moment he regarded her in silence, then over his grey face came a crafty smile as with mock courtesy he offered her a chair, still remaining standing himself.

She leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair, and, bending towards him, was speaking again, uttering slow, decisive words, each of which seemed to bite into his very soul. His countenance again changed; from mock humour it became hard, drawn, almost haggard.

Charlie, who knew the old man in every mood, had never witnessed such an expression upon his face. Beneath it all, however, he detected a look of unrelenting, almost fiendish revenge. He longed to rush forward and grasp his loved one in his arms, but Max, seeing his agitation, laid his hand firmly upon his shoulder.

“Let us watch in patience, Charlie,” he urged. “We may learn something interesting.”

Maud had altered but little since that afternoon when, in the haze of the red London sunset, Charlie had last walked with her in Nevern Square. She was, perhaps, a trifle pinched in the cheeks, but the sweet dimples were still there, and the little wisp of hair still strayed across her white brow. Her gown, however, seemed shabby and ill-fitting. Perhaps she had borrowed it in order to come there in garments by which she would not be recognised. For a young girl to make a visit at that late hour was, to say the least, somewhat unusual.

Both men standing in the shadow behind the thick glass longed to hear what the pair were saying. It was tantalising to be so near the disclosure of a secret—indeed, to have it enacted before one’s eyes—and yet be debarred from learning the truth.

Max examined the door, hoping to open it ever so slightly, but to his chagrin he found it locked and bolted. Old Levi had already prepared to retire before they had made their surreptitious entrance there.

That he had at last found Maud again was to both a source of immense gratification. At last the truth of the doctor’s strange disappearance would now be known. But what connection could old Statham have with the affair?