William Le Queux (continued 7)
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Charlie recollected what Sir Charles Harrison had told him in Belgrade—that the bomb outrage by which a poor innocent child had lost her life had been planned by one of his friends.
He had suspected Max. But in the light of Maud’s secret visit to Statham, he now held the last-named in distinct suspicion. Was it part of the millionaire’s cunning policy in Servia to rid the country of its greatest statesman?
No. That was impossible. The Doctor and Statham had been friends. When Petrovitch was in power they had worked hand-in-glove, with the result that the millionaire had lent money to the Servian Government upon very second-class security. Unrest in Servia would, Charlie was well aware, mean loss to Statham Brothers of perhaps a million sterling. It was therefore to the interest of the firm that the present Government should remain in power, and that the country should be allowed to develop and progress peacefully.
He tried to put behind him that increasing suspicion that Old Sam was the “friend” to whom the diplomat had so mysteriously referred.
And yet as he watched every movement, every gesture of the pair within that long room where the lights were so artistically shaded—the room wherein deals involving the loss or gain of hundreds of thousands of pounds were decided—he saw that the girl remained still defiant, and that the man stood vanquished by her slow, deliberate accusation.
Old Sam’s bony fingers were twitching—a sign of suppressed wrath which his secretary knew well. He held his thin lower lip between his yellow teeth, and standing with his back to the fireplace, he now and then cast a supercilious smile upon the pretty girl who had come there in defiance of the convenances—in defiance, evidently, of his own imperious commands.
Samuel Statham at that moment was not the hard-faced old benefactor who haunted the seats in the park and gave so much money anonymously to the deserving among the “submerged tenth.” He was a man fighting for his honour, his reputation, his gold—nay, his very life. He was a man whose keen wit was now pitted against that of a clear, level-headed girl—one who had right and justice on her side.
Was it possible, Charlie thought, that his well-beloved knew the old man’s secret—that secret which, before he would face its exposure, he would prefer the grave itself?
He watched Maud and noted how balanced was her beautiful countenance, and yet how calm and how determined she was. When the old man spoke she listened with attention, but her replies, brief and pointed, were always made with a gesture and expression of triumph, as of one who knew the naked and astounding truth.
“What can it all mean?” whispered Max. “Why is she here? How tantalising it is that we cannot catch a single word she is uttering!”
“The door’s bolted,” Charlie said in a tone of chagrin. “We can only watch. See!—she’s evidently telling him some home truths that are the reverse of palatable. He looks as though he could kill her!”
“He’d better not attempt it,” remarked Max grimly, and they both stood again in silence, peering forward in breathless eagerness.
For fully ten minutes longer the old man and the young girl were in heated discussion. Sometimes Statham spoke quickly and angrily, with that caustic assertiveness that most people found so overbearing. Of a sudden both watchers were aware of a slow, stealthy movement behind them—a shuffling of feet it seemed.
It was old Levi, on his tour of inspection to reassure himself that all was secure. In an instant both intruders drew back into the deep shadow behind a high stand upon which stood choice plants in tiers, or rather the dried-up pots which had once contained them.
They were only just in time, for old Levi, peering forth into the semi-darkness as he stood in the doorway leading from the hall, searched around. Then, finding all quiet and detecting nobody, he closed the door and locked it.
They were thus locked out by both doors!
To re-enter the house would be difficult. It was a contingency for which they had not been prepared.
Still, they were too interested in watching the pair within to think much of the contretemps that had occurred. Old Levi had shuffled away, and was waiting, no doubt, to usher out the dainty little visitor before returning to the regions below.
Maud, however, showed no sign of haste to leave. Comfortably ensconced in her chair, with her veil thrown back, she sat facing him, and replying without hesitation to his allegations.
The sinister expression upon the old man’s face told its own tale. His impatient bearing and quick gesture showed his eagerness to get rid of her. But she, on her part, seemed to have no intention of leaving just yet. She was speaking, her gloved finger raised to emphasise her words—hard words, which, from the expression upon her face seemed full of bitter sarcasm and reproach.
Of a sudden he turned upon the girl with a fierceness which took her by surprise. He uttered a few words, which she answered quickly. Then, striking his hands into the pockets of his trousers, he bent towards her with an evil grin upon his grey face and made some remarks which caused in her a quick change of attitude.
She rose from her chair, her face aflame with anger, and, taking a couple of paces towards him, replied with a vehemence which neither of the unseen onlookers suspected.
The battle of words continued. He was making some allegations, the truth of which she was denying. This girl, not yet out of her teens, was defiant of the man whose life had been one long struggle to grow rich, and whose gigantic wealth was now crushing the very soul from his body. Surely they were an incongruous pair. His defiance of her was only a half-hearted one. His sarcasm had irritated her, and now, alleging something, which was a lie, he had goaded her into all the fierce ebullition of anger which a woman, however calm and level-headed she may be, cannot at times restrain.
“I wonder what the old blackguard has said?” whispered Max to the man at his side.
“It seems as though he has made some charge against her.”
“Or against her father,” Max suggested.
“You suspected me of being privy to the Doctor’s disappearance, Max,” Charlie said, still in a whisper. “You said that you saw me at Cromwell Road that night. Are you still of that opinion?”
“No,” responded his friend. “There was a plot—a cleverly devised plot. Someone went there dressed exactly like you.”
“But you say you saw his face.”
“So I did. And I could have sworn it was you.”
“It is that conspiracy which we have to fathom,” Charlie said. “At least, we have established the fact that Maud is alive. And having found Maud, we may also find Marion. Possibly she went to her into safe hiding from us.”
“More than possible, I think.”
But while they were whispering something occurred which made them both start. The girl, crimson with anger, suddenly dived her hand into her dress pocket, and, taking out a bundle of paper, flung it at the man before her.
They saw, to their amazement, that it was a bunch of crisp banknotes. She had cast it at his feet in open defiance.
Perhaps the money was the price of her silence—money he had sent to her or to her father to purchase secrecy!
The old man gave a glance at the notes crushed into a bundle and lying upon the carpet, and then, turning to her, snapped his bony finger and thumb in defiance, and laughed in her face—a grim, evil laugh, which Charlie knew from experience meant retaliation and bitter vengeance.
Chapter Forty Eight.
Not Counting the Cost.
The girl turned to leave, but the old man placed himself between her and the door.
She stamped her little foot angrily in command to be allowed to pass.
He saw her determination, and hesitated. Then he seemed to commence to argue, to place before her the probable result of her action in casting aside the money, but she would hear nothing. Her mind seemed fully made up. She had spoken her last word, and wished to leave him.
He saw in her decision an attitude antagonistic to himself. He was in deadly peril. Though his wealth could command all that was good and all that was bad, though it placed him above his fellow men and rendered him immune from much, yet it could not ensure her goodwill.
Both Max and Charlie realised plainly that Maud was in possession of some great secret, and that she had refused a bribe of silence. This man who had believed that his money could purchase anything had discovered, to his dismay, that it could not seal her lips. He saw himself facing an imminent peril, and was undecided how to act.
He argued. But she would not listen. He appealed. But she only smiled and shook her head.
Her mind was made up. She had decided to refuse the money. He picked it from the floor and handed it to her again, but she would not take it in her hand.
Then he crossed to his writing-table, took out his chequebook and scribbled a cheque—one for a large amount in all probability. Tearing it from its counterfoil, he gave it to her.
But with an expression of defiance she tore it into four and cast it upon the floor with a gesture of disgust. And in triumph, before he could prevent her, she opened the door, and disappeared from the room.
“We must follow her?” whispered Charlie eagerly.
“But, my dear fellow, we can’t! We’re locked in!”
Rolfe, realising the truth that they were prevented from overtaking his well-beloved, for whom they had been so long in active search, and that she must again dip from them into oblivion, gave vent to a forcible expression of despair.
“Let’s remain here,” urged Max. “We may learn something else.”
“The old man will go to bed,” was Charlie’s response. “And we will follow and explore above.”
“How?” asked Rolfe.
“That remains to be seen. We must, in this case, act discreetly, and trust to luck.”
“But Maud? I must see her.”
“That’s impossible at present. You have seen her—that’s enough for to-night. To-morrow we may discover something further—or even to-night.”
Both men, scarce daring to breathe, were watching old Sam.
After the girl had gone, he placed his hand upon his heart, and, with face white and haggard, he sank into his writing-chair. He had collapsed as though he had received a sudden blow.
Levi entered hurriedly a few moments later, and, finding his master leaning forward upon his table muttering to himself, tried to rouse him.
A glance at his face showed that he had collapsed. Levi therefore rushed across the room, poured out some brandy from the tantalus, and compelled the old man to swallow it. This, after a few moments, revived him. The faithful servant, however, stood by in wonderment. He seemed puzzled as to what had occurred.
But the fragments of the torn cheque scattered upon the carpet showed defiance on the part of the visitor whom he had just shown out into the night.
Levi stooped as far as his rheumatism would allow, and slowly, very slowly, gathered up the torn pieces of paper and placed them in the basket, his eyes the whole time upon his master.
Straightening himself again, he spoke, making inquiry as to what had occurred. But his master, with a wave of his hand, commanded his silence. Then, sinking back in his chair, he remained, staring straight before him like a man in a dream. He seemed peering into the future—and he saw only exposure and ruin!
Hands and teeth were clenched, for he realised that he had taken a false step. He had misjudged his own power and influence. He had believed that a good and truthful woman could be purchased, as he might purchase any other thing or chattel.
She had cast his gold into his face. She had insulted him, for she had spoken a truth which he could not deny. Indeed, that slim, pale-faced girl, scarce more than a child, held over him power supreme—power for life, or for death.
The scene within that room was a strange one.
Old Levi, standing statuesque at his master’s side, uttered some words. But the millionaire was silent. He only raised his grey head and sat staring at the great painting opposite—staring like a man peering into the grim unknown.
The door that divided the watchers from the watched prevented the words from being overheard. The thickness of its glass prevented the truth being known to the two men standing breathless behind it. Had it been ordinary glass they would no doubt have overheard the conversation between the old man and his fair visitor.
The anger of both men had been aroused by Statham’s attitude towards the girl. Even Charlie, faithful and devoted as he had been to the millionaire, had now become fiercely antagonistic, for he had seen by the old man’s countenance that some terrible revenge was intended upon the girl he loved so dearly.
Levi bent and placed his hand tenderly upon his master’s shoulder.
But Statham shook him off, and, straightening himself, staggered to his feet and paced the room in a frenzy of despair.
Charlie recollected his agitation after the unexpected discovery of Jean Adam lounging outside the park railings. This repetition of his apprehension showed him to be in terror of exposure and denunciation.
Maud, so slim, sweet-faced, and innocent, had defied him. She held him, the man whose power in every European capital was recognised and feared, in the hollow of her hand.
Why? Ay, to that question there was no answer. They had witnessed the scene, but they had caught no sound of one single word.
At last Levi succeeded in calming his master. He mixed him another brandy and soda and handed it to him. The old man seized it with unsteady hand, and tossed it off at a single gulp.
Then he walked slowly from the room, followed by Levi.
An instant later the old servant turned the switch, and the room, and with it the neglected conservatory, were plunged in darkness.
The two intruders listened. Voices sounded, and then died away. A moment later they heard a thud, and knew that the old man had passed beyond the white-enamelled door and had closed it behind him.
For another few minutes they remained in silence, then Max whispered:
“What shall we do?”
“We must get out of here,” answered his friend promptly. “We’re caught like a rat in a trap. To open either of the doors leading into the house is impossible. We must try and make our exit by the back,” and, groping his way, he moved to the door, which opened on to a small, paved backyard.
But it had been secured. Levi, indeed, kept it always locked, and the key was not there.
“To break this open will create a noise, and arouse somebody,” Max remarked.
“Well, we must get out at all hazards. We can’t stay here till morning and court discovery,” Rolfe argued. “If we only had a little light we might see what we’re doing. By Jove! You’ve got a pocket-lamp, Max. Where is it?”
“Is it safe yet to show a light?” Barclay asked dubiously. “It may be seen from outside, you know!”
“It can’t. There’s a blank wall opposite.”
“But will not the reflection be seen by Levi from below?” asked Max.
Rolfe saw that, after all, there was some danger of detection, and admitted it.
“Then let’s wait a bit,” his companion whispered. “By patience we may be able to escape without detection. Don’t let us act indiscreetly.”
So the pair, leaning against one of the stands of dead flowers, waited in silence, their ears strained to catch every sound. The moments seemed hours, until at last, all being quiet, Max, at his friend’s suggestion pressed the electric button of the little hand-lamp and showed a light upon the door.
It was half of glass, with strong lock and double bolts. To escape meant to break away a hole large enough for a man’s body to pass. Max suggested that they might find the key hanging somewhere upon a nail, as conservatory keys are often kept, in that manner. But though they searched the whole place, treading lightly as they went, they were unable to discover it.
“Levi keeps it upon his bunch, I expect,” Charlie remarked. “I’ve never seen this door open in my life.”
“That’s why the flowers are all dead, perhaps,” Max remarked grimly with a low laugh.
“Flowers! Old Sam declared that they were no use to him, therefore he forbade Levi to give them any water, and they all died. The old man isn’t fond of flowers. Says they’re only useful at weddings and funerals.”
“There won’t be many at his obsequies!” laughed Max beneath his breath, as he made another examination of the door.
Both agreed that to open it was impossible, while to break out the glass was far too risky a proceeding, for some of it must fall upon the paving outside.
Rain had begun to fall, pattering heavily upon the glass roof above; and as they were both searching about blindly for some other mode of egress Max suddenly exclaimed:
“Why, look here!” and pointed to a portion of the glass side of the conservatory which had opened outwardly upon a hinge, but which had been securely screwed up.
“Excellent!” cried Charlie, realising that an exit lay there, and, quickly drawing from his pocket a serviceable-looking screwdriver, set to work upon the screws.
They were long, and hard to withdraw, but ten minutes later all six of them were taken out, and, pushing back the movable frame upon its hinges, they found themselves outside in the narrow backyard.
Once free, Max turned his face upwards to the dark windows of the first floor of the mysterious mansion, saying: “We must get up there, Charlie, somehow or other. I’m not going from this place until I’ve learnt its secret.”
“No,” responded his friend. “Neither am I.”
Chapter Forty Nine.
What Lay behind the Door.
Above the dome-shaped roof of the conservatory was a row of four long dark windows, and still above them two further storeys. On the second storey in the centre of the house was a high window covered with wire network, evidently a staircase window of stained glass.
The whole place was in darkness, as were the houses on either side, while at rear of them rose a blank wall, the back of one of the houses in Park Street. The only light showing was in the basement—a faint glimmer behind the green holland blinds, which showed the presence of Levi in the lower regions.
“He sleeps in the front,” remarked Charlie. “I expect, however, he keeps this on all night.”
“Where does old Sam sleep?”
“That I don’t know. We’ll have to discover.”
The windows above the conservatory were their objective, but to ascend there was full of peril, for, even though they could climb up, one false step and they would come crashing through the glass roof. This would mean both serious personal injury as well as instant discovery.
In the whispered consultation that followed, both recognised the danger, but both were equally determined to risk it. They had plenty of time. The night was still young, therefore there was no need for haste.
They made careful examination as far as they could in the very faint light. Max was afraid to flash his electric lamp too often lest the attention of any neighbour might be attracted and an alarm of “burglars” given. Neither knew whether a servant might not be looking out upon the night. The house they desired to enter had earned a reputation as a house of mystery, therefore it was more than likely that some watchful eye of a curious neighbour, master or servant, was kept upon the rear of the premises.
At last, Max, who was the more athletic and nimble of the two, decided that the only way by which to reach the roof of the conservatory was by the spouting at the side. The ascent was a difficult one, but he resolved to attempt it.
Taking a small coil of thin but very strong rope which Charlie produced from the capacious pocket of the shooting-jacket he wore for that purpose, he mounted upon his friend’s shoulders, and then climbed slowly up, with an agility which surprised his friend.
Once upon the roof he made fast the rope to one of the iron stays of the spouting, and let it down to Charlie, who a few moments later swarmed up it and stood on the edge of the glass roof beside his companion.
Their position there was one of greatest peril. They stood together upon the narrow edging of lead by which the glass roof was joined to the wall of the house. They moved slowly and gingerly, for it was quite uncertain whether it would bear their weight. Besides, there was nothing to grasp by which to relieve their weight, for above them rose the wall sheer to the ledges of the row of windows, too high for them to reach.
A step in the wrong direction, and down they must come with a crash into the neglected conservatory.
Max could hear his own heart beating. The risk was greater than he had ever anticipated. Yet so greatly was their curiosity now aroused that nothing could brook their attempt to learn the secret that dark mysterious house contained.
They stood together, not daring to move. At a short distance away was a thin iron support running into the wall—part of the framework of the roof—and towards that Max crept carefully, until at last he reached it and stood in a safer position.
The weight of both men caused the curved roof to give slightly, and more than once they heard sharp noises where the glass, fitting too tightly, cracked across by the undue pressure.
Neither spoke. Max was eagerly searching for some means by which to reach one of the windows above. In his ascent there he had torn his coat, and a great strip of it was hanging. He had left his hat below, and the light rain was falling upon his uncovered head.
Slowly he crept forward from iron to iron until he reached the opposite side of the big glass roof, and there found, as he had hoped, another iron rain-spout which led straight up past the end window, to the roof of the house.
Back he came to his companion in order to obtain the rope, and then, with it bulging in his pocket, he stole along and ascended the second pipe as he had done the first. This proceeding was, however, far more dangerous, for to fall with the glass beneath him meant almost certain death.
Charlie watched his form ascending in the darkness, scarce daring to breathe. Slowly he went up, until, on a level with the window, he halted. Around the ledge, six inches above, was an iron bar let into the wall in order to prevent flowerpots from being blown down upon the conservatory roof. This iron proved Max’s salvation, for gripping it he steadied himself while he secured the rope to the spout as he had previously done on the first ascent.
Then, with a firm grip upon the strong bar, and his knee upon the stone ledge, he tried the window.
It was fastened. The green holland blind was drawn, but as far as he could ascertain the shutters were not closed.
From his pocket he drew a glazier’s putty-knife, and, inserting it between the sashes, worked quietly until his heart gave a bound of satisfaction at feeling the latch slowly give.
A second later it went back with a sharp snap, and the window was free!
He lifted the sash, pushed the blind aside, and crept within.
Then leaning forth he whispered to Charlie to follow. Up the latter came by means of the rope as quickly as he was able, and a few moments later both men stood within the room.
By its sound, and by the fact that it was carpetless, they knew it was devoid of furniture. Max flashed on the light, and the truth was at once made plain. The apartment was square and of fair size, but within was not a single thing; was perfectly empty.
In a second a thought occurred to Charlie.
“If the door’s locked on the outside we’re done!” he gasped.
They both crossed to the door in an instant, and Max placed his hand upon it. The handle turned slowly, and the door yielded. By great good fortune it was not locked.
Creeping noiselessly outside, they found themselves upon a big square landing above half a dozen broad stairs. Below them was the white-enamelled iron door, which opened only to its owner and which no person had been known to pass.
The landing and stairs were thickly-carpeted, just as they were below the door. But about the place was the close musty smell of a house that for years had remained closed and neglected.
From the landing were three other doors beside the one at which they stood, all of them closed.
Charlie took his bearings, and, pointing to the door farthest away from them, whispered:
“That’s the drawing-room, no doubt. And that’s the door of the room adjoining. I expect it’s a big room opening from back to front like all drawing-rooms in these houses.”
“Awkward if it proves to be the old man’s bedroom,” Max replied, with a laugh.
“We must risk that. My own belief is that he sleeps up on the next floor. These are all reception-rooms, without a doubt,” was Charlie’s answer. It was strange, after all the time he had been in the old man’s employ, that this should be the first occasion he should explore the house.
Those moments of pitch darkness were exciting ones.
They resolved to enter the door furthest away, the door which they believed led to the drawing-room, and together they moved noiselessly across with that purpose.
The key was in the lock. Without noise Max turned it, and slowly pushed open the door.
Both entered, holding their breath and fearing to make the slightest sound, for they knew not whether old Sam was asleep there.
For a full ten minutes they paused listening for sounds of breathing in the pitch darkness. But there were none, only the beating of their own hearts.
Then, with Charlie’s whispered consent, Max pressed the button of the pocket-lamp, and it shed a streak of light across to the opposite wall of the big apartment.
What was revealed held them aghast and amazed.
“This is indeed strange?” gasped Charlie. “What can it be?”
Max was turning the light from side to side of the room, examining every corner.
What they saw had held them both speechless.
Charlie saw an electric switch near his hand, and touched it. In an instant the great room was flooded with light, revealing a scene, curious, unusual, extraordinary.
There was no thick carpet or upholstered furniture; no painted ceiling or pictures upon the walls; no cabinet or bric-à-brac, or grand piano, or palms, or anything connected with drawing-room furniture.
Instead, the two intruders found themselves inside a peasant’s cottage in some far-off country—a house, it seemed, with quaint furniture painted and carved. Before them was an old-fashioned oak press, black with smoke and age, and along the wall a row of shining cooking utensils of copper. In the centre was a long old table, with big high-backed wooden chairs; at the side a high brick stove.
The men stepped within and gazed around, bewildered.
At one end was a small square window, where beyond lay a snow-clad scene, lit by the moon’s rays—a cleverly contrived piece of scenery, showing the white road winding into the distance lined on each side by the dark forest of firs.
The scene was intended to be Russian, without a doubt, for over the stove a holy ikon hung against the wall, a small painted head surrounded by a square of highly burnished gold.
Every object was quaintly shaped and foreign. In one corner stood an old spinning-wheel with the flax upon it, while in another was an old-fashioned gun. A couple of wolves’ skins were spread upon the floor, while upon the cleanly-scrubbed table showed a large brown stain—it might be of coffee, or it might be of blood!
The walls had been whitewashed, and across the ceiling, once gilt and adorned, no doubt, ran blackened beams in exact imitation, it seemed, of some house in the far east of Russia beyond the Volga.
Upon a side table lay a big, rather thin book, bearing upon its black, greasy cover the Imperial Russian arms—the double-headed eagle. Charlie opened it, and found it ruled like an attendance book, with careful entries in Russian in various hands. Neither could read the language, therefore it was to them unintelligible. By the stove was a low wooden settle, upon which lay a man’s fur cap and big sheepskin winter coat, as though the owner of the place had just risen and left.
“What can this possibly mean?” asked Max, gazing around in sheer wonderment.
To this query, however, Charlie could venture no suggestion.
They stood amid surroundings that were to both a complete mystery.
Charlie touched the switch when, lo! the lights in the room were extinguished, and only a line of white brilliance as that of the full moon entering the window from the snow-covered land beyond, fell across the silent place full upon the table which bore that ugly dark brown stain.
Both men stood motionless and wondering, fascinated by the extraordinary and striking effect.
Was that stain shown so vividly beneath the white moonbeams actually the stain of blood?
Chapter Fifty.
Face to Face.
That a Park Lane drawing-room should be transformed into the interior of a log-built house of the Russian steppe was surely unsuspected by any of those who passed up and down that renowned thoroughfare every day.
The popular idea associated that long row of millionaires’ houses facing Hyde Park with luxuriant saloons, priceless paintings, old Persian carpets, and exquisite furniture. Who would believe that behind those windows with their well-kept curtains, and brisé-brisé of silk and lace, was a room arranged with such care, with the snowy road and moonlight shown beyond the false window?
“With what object, I wonder, is all this?” asked Charlie, speaking in an undertone, as though to himself. There was something weird and uncanny about the scene with that white streak of brilliance falling like a bar across the place, an indescribable something which made it plain that all had been arranged with some evil design by the old man.
No second glance was needed to show that every bit of furniture, and every article in the place was genuine. They were no stage properties, but real things, brought from some far-distant spot in Eastern Russia. But with what motive?
Ay, that was the question!
They had turned, and were about to withdraw from the place, Max leading the way, when suddenly he halted, for his quick ears caught some sound. It was a curious, low, whirring noise, followed almost instantly by a swift swish close to him, so near, indeed, that it caused a current of air in his face as some object passed him from above.
At the same moment the noise of mechanism ceased.
For a few seconds both intruders hesitated.
Charlie asked breathlessly what it could be, whereupon his friend turned on the light, and the truth stood revealed.
By an ace he had escaped with his life!
At the door, in order to prevent the egress of any intruder, a cunning but dastardly mechanical device had been placed. A long iron lever, to which was attached a keen-edged Japanese cutlass, had come forth from its hiding-place in the lintel of the door, and, descending with terrific force, had only just escaped cutting Max down.
Both men saw the means by which old Statham guarded the secret of that room, and shuddered. To enter was easy, but it was intended that he who entered might not emerge alive.
Apparently one of the floor boards just within the door was loose, and, being trodden upon, the weight released the spring or mechanism, and the razor-edged cutlass shot forth with murderous force.
“By Jove!” gasped Charlie. “I had no idea the old man set traps for the unwary. We’d better be careful!”
“Yes. That was indeed a narrow escape!” whispered Max. “It would have been certain death. Let’s get out of it.”
The steel lever was down, the point of the cutlass touching the floor. Therefore they were both compelled to step over the death-trap in order to leave the remarkable apartment.
Then with careful hands Charlie tried the next door. It was locked.
Brief examination showed it to be the door of the back drawing-room, which had been thrown into the larger room with the mysterious purpose of constructing that striking rural interior.
So they crossed to the third door, on the opposite side of the landing, and, with greatest caution lest another pitfall should lurk there, opened it.
That night of investigation was full of surprises.
The instant Max flashed on his light the pair drew back with low exclamations of horror.
The small apartment was unfurnished. It contained only one object—gruesome and unexpected. In the centre of the place, upon the black trestles, stood a coffin of polished oak with shining electro handles and fittings.
The lid, they noticed, was screwed down. Was it possible that it contained an unburied corpse. Did that white-enamelled door upon the stairs conceal from the world the evidence of a crime?
For a moment both men stood in that bare, uncarpeted room, rooted to the spot.
The secret of Sam Statham stood revealed.
Then with a sudden effort Charlie crept forward, nearer the coffin, and read upon its plate the words, plainly engraved:
JEAN ADAM. AGED 49.
Then Adam had been entrapped there—and had lost his life!
Both men started as the tragic truth dawned upon them. Adam was old Sam’s most bitter enemy. He was dead—in his coffin—yet the millionaire had, up to the present, been unable to dispose of the remains. There was no medical certificate, therefore burial was impossible.
The weird stories which both men had heard of nocturnal visitors to that house who had never been seen to emerge, and of long boxes like coffins which more than one person said they had seen being brought out and loaded upon four-wheeled cabs all now flashed across their minds.
Of a verity that house was a house of grim shadows, for murder was committed there. Men entered alive, and left it dead.
Max stood by the coffin of the man who had so cleverly sought to entice him away to Constantinople with stories of easily obtained wealth, and remained there breathless in wonder. He recollected Sam’s words, and saw in them a bitter hatred of the Franco-English adventurer. Had he carried this hatred to the extreme limit—that of secret assassination?
Charlie, on his part, stood silent also. He knew well that upon the death of Adam depended the future prosperity of his master. He was well aware, alas! that Adam, having suddenly reappeared, had vowed a terrible and crushing vengeance upon the head of the great firm of Statham Brothers.
But old Sam, with his usual crafty forethought and innate cunning, had forestalled him. The adventurer had been done to death, and was already in his coffin!
In his cool audacity old Sam had actually prepared the lead-lined coffin with its plate ready inscribed!
Its secret arrival at night had evidently been witnessed, and had given rise to strange and embellished stories.
The last occasion Max had seen Adam was one night three weeks before when, dining with two other men in the gallery of the Trocadero Restaurant, he had seen him below seated with a rather young and good-looking lady in an evening-dress of black net. The pair were laughing together, and it struck him that the companion of the adventurer might be French. He had afterwards discovered that she was Lorena Lyle, daughter of the old hunchback engineer who was his partner in certain ventures.
“The girl who met me in Paris and gave me warning!” Rolfe exclaimed.
“Yes, the same. They dined together that night and hurried out to get to the theatre.”
“And you’ve never seen him since?”
“No. Ten days ago, I wrote to the National Liberal Club giving him an appointment, but he never kept it.”
“Because he was lying here, I suppose,” remarked Charlie with bated breath, adding: “This, Max, is all utterly incomprehensible. How dare the old man do such a thing?”
“He’s been driven into a corner, and as long as he preserves his secret he will still remain a power in the land.”
“But his secret is out—we have laid it bare.”
“At risk of our lives—eh?” remarked Max, shuddering again as he recollected his own narrow escape of a few minutes before.
They stood before the mortal remains of the man who had sworn vengeance upon Statham, neither of them speaking. Presently, however, Charlie proposed that they should make further investigation on the floor above.
Closing the door of the death-chamber, they stole noiselessly up the wide, thickly-carpeted staircase to the next landing, where four white doors opened. Which they should enter first they were undecided. They were faced by a serious problem. In either of those four chambers the old millionaire might be asleep. To enter might awaken him.
This they had no desire to do. They expected to be able to open the iron door from within and pass down the stairs into the hall, and so into the street without detection. That was their intention. To return by the way they had come would be impossible.
Together they consulted in low whispers, and, both agreed, Charlie very carefully turned the handle of the door nearest them. It yielded, and they crept forward and within. At first Max feared to show his light, yet as they found no carpet beneath their feet, and as they felt a vague sense of space in the darkness, he became bolder, and pressed the button of his little lamp.
It was, like the other apartments, entirely devoid of furniture! The upper part of those premises, believed by the world to be filled with costly furniture and magnificent antiques, seemed empty. Charlie was amazed. He had heard many romantic stories of why the old man never allowed a stranger to ascend the stairs, but he had never dreamed that the fine mansion was unfurnished.
The next room they examined was similar in character, rather larger, with two long windows overlooking the Park. They were, however, carefully curtained, and the blinds were down. Beyond a rusty old fender before the fireplace and a roll of old carpet in a corner, it, however, contained nothing.
They passed to the third apartment, likewise a front room, and Max slowly turned the door-handle. In the darkness they stepped within, and again finding it uncarpeted, he shone his light across the place.
Next instant the pair drew back, for sitting up upon a low, iron camp bedstead, glaring at them with eyes haggard and terrified, was old Sam Statham himself.
The room was bare save an old painted washstand and chest of drawers, dirty, uncarpeted, and neglected. The low, narrow bed was covered by an old blue and white counterpane, but its occupant sat glaring at the intruders, too terrified to speak.
In the darkness he probably could not recognise who it was. The electric light blinded him. Next second, however, he touched the switch near his hand, and the wretched room became illuminated, revealing the two intruders.
He tried to speak, but his lips refused to articulate. The old man’s tongue clave to the roof of his mouth.
He knew that his carefully-guarded secret was out!
Chapter Fifty One.
Describes Another Surprise.
“To what, pray, do I owe this intrusion?” demanded the old man fiercely, rising from his bed, and standing erect and defiant before them.
“To your own guilt, Mr Statham,” was Max Barclay’s quiet but distinct response.
“My guilt?” gasped the old man. “Of what crime am I guilty?”
“That’s best known to yourself,” answered the younger man. “But I think, now that we’ve investigated your house and discovered your death-trap, we will bid you good-night.”
“You’ve—you’ve found it—eh?” gasped the old fellow, pale as death.
“Yes; and, furthermore, we know how Maud Petrovitch had cast your money at your feet, and defied you.”
“I—I must explain,” he cried, as in frantic eagerness he put on his clothes. “Don’t leave me. Come below, and—and’ll tell you.”
The pair remained in the wretchedly uncomfortable room, while the old man finished dressing. Then all three descended, the millionaire walking first. They passed the door of the room where stood the coffin, and by touching a spring the iron door opened, and they descended to the library.
The noise wakened old Levi, who appeared at the head of the back stairs, full of surprise.
A reassuring word from his master, however, caused him to at once retire again.
Within the library old Sam switched on the light, and invited both his unwelcome visitors to be seated. Then, standing before them, he said:
“I presume, gentlemen, that your curiosity led you to break into my house?”
Max Barclay nodded.
“I can understand you acting thus, sir; but I cannot understand Rolfe, who knows me so well and who has served me so faithfully.”
“And, in return, how have I been served?” asked Charlie, bitterly. “My poor sister has been turned adrift, and you have refused to lift a finger to reinstate her.”
“I admit that on the face of it, Rolfe, I have been hard and cruel,” declared the old man. “But when you know the truth you will not, perhaps, think so unkindly of me as at this moment.”
The old fellow was perfectly calm. All his fear had vanished, and he now stood his old and usual self, full of quiet assurance.
“Well,” Rolfe said, “perhaps you will tell us the truth. Why, for instance, did Maud Petrovitch visit you to-night?”
“She came upon her own initiative. She wished to ask me a question.”
“Which you refused to answer.”
“It was not judicious for me to tell her what she desized to know—not at present, at least.”
“But now that we are here together, in confidence you will, no doubt, allow us to know where she and her father are in hiding,” Charlie asked, breathlessly.
“Certainly, if you will promise not to communicate with them or call upon them without my consent.”
“We promise,” declared Max.
“Then they are living in strictest seclusion at Fordham Cottage, Arundel, in Sussex.”
“But you have quarrelled with Maud?” Charlie remarked, at the same time remembering that closed coffin in the room above.
“Upon one point only—a very small and unimportant one,” responded the old man.
“Where is my sister?”
“Unfortunately, I have no knowledge of where she is at present.”
“But you have just assured me that when I know the truth I shall not regard you so harshly,” Rolfe exclaimed.
“And I repeat it,” Statham said.
The old man’s attitude amazed them both. He was perfectly calm and quite unperturbed by the grim discoveries they had made.
“You mean that you refuse to tell me anything concerning my sister?” Charlie asked, seriously.
“For the present—yes.”
“Why not now? Why forbid us also from seeking the Doctor and his daughter?”
“For reasons of my own. I am expecting a visitor.”
Max laughed sarcastically. The reason put forward seemed too absurd.
“Ah! you don’t believe it!” cried the old fellow. “But you will see. Your curiosity has, no doubt, led you to misjudge me. It was only to have been expected. I ought to have guarded my secret better.”
Neither man spoke. Both had their eyes fixed upon the grey face of the old millionaire before them. They recollected his despair before he had retired to rest, and remembered, too, the tender care of his faithful Levi.
The clock chimed the half-hour—half-past three in the morning.
The night had been fraught by so many surprises that neither Charlie nor his friend could believe in the grim reality of it all. They never suspected that that fine mansion was practically unfurnished, or that its millionaire owner practically lived the life of a pauper. Had not Charlie been well aware of his master’s shrewdness in his business and clearness in his financial operations, he would have believed it all due to an unbalanced brain. But there was no madness in Samuel Statham. He was as sane as they were. All his eccentricity was evidently directed towards one purpose.
As he stood there he practically told them so.
“You misjudge me!” said he, his grey face relaxing in a smile. “You think me mad—eh? Well, you are not alone in that. A good many people believe the same of me. I am gratified to think they believe it. It is my intention that they should.”
“But, Mr Statham, we have asked you a question to which you have refused to answer. We wish to know what has become of Marion Rolfe.”
“You were engaged to her—eh? Yes, I know,” responded the old man. “For that very reason I refuse to tell you. I can only reassure you, however, that you need experience no anxiety.”
“But I do. I love her!”
“Then I am very sorry, your mind must still continue to be exercised. At present I cannot tell you anything.”
“Why?”
“Have I not already told you? I am expecting a visitor.”
It was all the satisfaction they could obtain.
Charlie longed for an opportunity to refer to the gruesome object in that locked room upstairs. The man who had so suddenly reappeared and sworn vengeance upon the great financier was dead—fallen a victim, no doubt, to the old man’s clever cunning. He had, without doubt, been enticed there to his death. The secret reason of the white-enamelled door at the top of the stairs was now quite plain. In that house was a terrible death-trap, as deadly as it was unexpected.
They held knowledge of the truth. How would the old man act?
Contrary to their expectations, he remained quite indifferent. He even offered them a drink, which they refused.
His refusal to tell them anything regarding Marion and his treatment of Maud had incensed them, and they both were bitterly antagonistic towards him. He was, no doubt, playing a huge game of bluff. His disregard of their discoveries was in order to lessen their importance, and his story of a visitor told to gain time.
Probably he intended to make good his escape.
Both were expecting every moment that his coolness would break down, and that he would suggest that they kept silence as to what lay concealed on the floor above.
Indeed, they were not mistaken, for of a sudden he turned to them, and in rather strained voice said:
“Now, gentlemen, I admit that you have discovered my secret; that my position is—well—a disagreeable one, to say the least. Is there any real reason why you should divulge it—at least for the present?”
Charlie shrugged his shoulders, and Max at the same time realised that a deadly fear was creeping back upon the old man, whose enormous wealth had stifled all human feeling from his soul.
“I merely ask your indulgence,” said the old man, in a low, eager tone.
“For how long?”
“For a day—maybe for a week—or perhaps a month. I cannot tell.”
“That means that we preserve the secret indefinitely?”
“Until the arrival of my visitor.”
“Ah! the visitor!” repeated Max, with a grin of disbelief. “When do you expect the visit?”
“I have expected it during many months,” was the millionaire’s brief reply.
“And you can tell us nothing more? Is not your story a somewhat lame one?”
“Very—I quite admit it. But I can only assure you of its truth.”
“It is not often you speak the truth, Mr Statham, is it?” asked Max, pointedly.
“I suppose I am like many another man,” was his reply. “I only speak it when obliged!”
As he uttered those words there sounded in the hall the loud electric bell of the front door. It was rung twice, whereupon old Sam drew himself up in an instant in an attitude of alertness.
“The visitor!” he gasped, raising his bony finger. “The long-expected caller!”
The two rings were evidently a pre-arranged signal.
They heard old Levi shuffling outside. The door opened, and he stood expectant, looking at his master, but uttering no word.
“Gentlemen,” exclaimed old Sam. “If you will permit me, I will go and receive my visitor. May I ask you to remain here until I return to you—return to answer any inquiries you may be pleased to put to me?”
The old fellow was quite calm again. He seemed to have braced himself up to meet his visitor, whoever he or she might be. It was one of his secret agents, Charlie thought, without a doubt.
Both men consented, and old Sam withdrew with Levi.
“Please remain here. I ask you both to respect my wishes,” he said, and going out, closed the door behind him.
The two men listened with strained ears.
They heard the sound of footsteps outside, but as far as they could distinguish, no word was spoken. Whether the mysterious visitor was male or female they could not ascertain.
For several moments they stood at the door, listening.
Then Max, unable to resist his own curiosity, opened the door slightly, and peered into the hall.
But only Levi was there, his back turned towards the door. His master and his visitor had ascended the stairs together, passing the iron door which now stood open for the first time.
Max beckoned Charlie, who, looking outside into the hall, saw Levi standing with both hands pressed to his brow in an attitude of wildest despair.
His agitation was evidently for his master’s safety.
A visitor at a quarter to four in the morning was unusual, to say the least. Who could it be?
Levi turned, and as he did so Max closed the door noiselessly, for he did not wish the faithful old servant to discover him as an eavesdropper.
Fully ten minutes elapsed, when of a sudden the sharp crack of a pistol-shot echoed through the empty upstairs rooms.
It caused both men to start, so unexpected was it.
For a second they hesitated; then opening the door, they both dashed up the forbidden stain.
Chapter Fifty Two.
Contains a Complete Revelation.
A complete surprise awaited them.
The door of the small room on the first floor stood open, and within the light was switched on.
Upon the threshold they both paused, dumbfounded by the scene before them.
Just as they had left it, the coffin stood upon its trestles, but lying on the floor beside was the body of the man whose name it bore upon its plate—the man Jean Adam!
In his nerveless grasp was a big service revolver, while the small round hole in his white temple told its own tale—a tale of sudden denunciation and of suicide.
The dead man wore evening-dress. On his white shirt-front was an ugly crimson splash, while his fast-glazing eyes, still open, stared blankly into space. At the opposite wall, leaning against it for support, was old Sam Statham, his countenance blanched, his jaw set, unable to utter a word.
The sudden unexpectedness of the tragedy had appalled him. He stood speechless. He could only point to the inanimate form upon the floor.
Max lifted the body and sought eagerly for signs of life. There were, however, none. The bullet had penetrated his brain, causing instant death.
Sam Statham’s enemy—the man whom they had presumed was already in his coffin was dead! Yet what was the meaning of it all? The whole affair was a complete enigma. Why had Jean Adam, the adventurer who had lived by his wits for years and the hero of a thousand thrilling adventures, taken his own life beside his own coffin?
Rolfe and Barclay turned away from the gruesome scene, and in silence descended the stairs, where, standing back in the shadow, trembling like an aspen, stood old Levi.
As they passed down, the servant entered the room to join his master, with whispered words of awe.
Then, at the millionaire’s suggestion, when he descended to them five minutes later, Charlie went forth into Park Lane, and, walking hastily towards the fountain, found a constable, whom he informed of the tragedy.
As he went back to the house with the policeman at his side, he wondered whether, after all, he had not misjudged old Sam. In any case, there was a great and complete mystery which must now be elucidated.
Just outside the little old town of Arundel in rural Sussex at the top of the steep hill which leads on to the high road to Chichester, a road rendered dusty in summer and muddy in winter by the constant succession of motor cars which tear along it, stands Fordham Cottage, a small unpretentious redbrick house, surrounded by a pretty garden, and divided from the road by a high old wall clothed completely by ivy.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon.
Within the neat old-fashioned front parlour—for the owners of the house were two prim maiden ladies—stood Rolfe and Barclay, together with the grey-haired, grey-bearded man who, having rented the place furnished, was living there in complete seclusion—Doctor Michael Petrovitch.
They were in earnest conversation, but Charlie kept his eyes upon the window, as though in expectation of the arrival of someone. The autumn day was fine and dry, and Maud, returning from London by the first train, which had arrived at half-past six that morning, had, after luncheon, gone out upon her cycle as was her daily habit.
Her lover, anxious and impatient, scarcely heeded what the Doctor was explaining to Max.
For the past hour both men had been describing in brief what had occurred since the ex-Minister’s disappearance from Cromwell Road, relating practically what has already been chronicled in the preceding chapters. They had told him of Adam’s threats, of the warning given to Charlie by Lorena Lyle, of Adam’s endeavour to entice Max to Constantinople and of Statham’s evident terror of Adam’s vengeance. To it all the grave grey-bearded statesman had listened attentively.
Only when they described their secret visit to the house in Park Lane, and the extraordinary discoveries they had made there, did their hearer evince surprise. Then, knitting his brows, he nodded as though he understood. And when they told him of Adam’s suicide, he drew a deep breath of apparent relief.
“That man,” he said, in a low, distinct voice, with scarce a trace of accent—“that man was my enemy, as well as Statham’s. It was he who, in order to further his speculative financial schemes, paid an assassin to throw a bomb at my carriage—the bomb that killed the poor little child! He was an adventurer who had filched money from widows and orphans—a scoundrel, and an assassin. The assassin, when in the fortress at Belgrade, confessed to the identity of his employer. But in the meantime he disappeared—to South America, it is believed. Prior to the attempt upon me, Lyle, the mining engineer, was his cat’s-paw, as he has ever since been—a good fellow at heart, but weak and at the same time adventurous. Once or twice they made big profits out of concessions for copper mining obtained from my predecessor in office. When Adam found that I refused to participate in business that was a fraud upon the public in Paris and London, he plotted to get rid of me. Fortunately he did not succeed; but when the truth was exposed to the Servian Government that he was the real assassin, certain valuable concessions were at once withdrawn from him, and he was thereby ruined. He vowed vengeance upon me, and also upon Statham—to whom the concessions had been transferred—a terrible vengeance. But soon afterwards he disappeared, and we heard, upon what seemed to be good authority, that he was dead. He had been shot in a drunken brawl in Caracas.”
“And then he suddenly turned up again—eh?” Max remarked.
“Yes; and for that reason Mr Statham suggested that I and my daughter Maud should disappear to some place to which he could not trace us. Statham defied his threats, but at the same time thought that if we disappeared in such a manner that the police would not seek us, it would be a wise step. For that reason I arranged that the furniture, as well as ourselves, should disappear, in order to make it appear that we had suddenly removed, and also to prevent the police searching too inquisitively for ‘missing persons.’ Had they done this, our hiding-place would soon have been discovered. I disappeared more for Maud’s sake, than for my own. I knew the desperate character of the man, and the mad vengeance within his villainous heart.”
“But Statham also feared him,” remarked Charlie, recollecting the occasion when his employer had betrayed such terror.
“Yes. The exact facts I do not know. He will tell you himself,” answered the ex-Minister.
“Maud was in London last night, and called upon Statham,” Max remarked.
“She called in secret lest she might be seen and followed by Adam,” her father replied. “She went there to return to Statham a sum of money he had sent her.”
“For what?”
“He wished to know the whereabouts of Lorena Lyle, who had been her schoolfellow in Belgrade. Statham, I fear, intended, in some way, to avenge himself upon Lyle—and on his daughter more especially—on account of his association with his enemy. The girl is in London, and he wished to know where she was living.”
“And the money which she returned was given her in order, to induce her to divulge?”
The Doctor nodded in the affirmative, adding:
“You see that Statham, surrounded by unscrupulous enemies as he has been, was bound to act always for his own protection. He has been misjudged—by you—by everybody. I, who know him more intimately, perhaps, than anyone save his own brother Levi, assure you that it is so.”
“His brother Levi!” cried Charlie.
“Of course, Levi, who poses as his servant, is his brother. They have been inseparable always, from the early days when Sam Statham was a mining prospector and concession-hunter—the days before fortune smiled upon the three Statham brothers, and they were able to open the doors of the offices in Old Broad Street. The romance of old Sam’s life is the romance of the great firm.”
“He treated my sister badly,” declared Charlie. “For that I can never forgive him.”
“No; there you are wrong. It is true that he would not allow her to be reinstated at Cunnington’s, and, on the face of it, treated her unjustly. But he had a motive. True, she refused to betray to him something which my daughter had told her in confidence. For that refusal he allowed her to be dismissed from her situation; but on the following day he sent her down to me here to remain in concealment.”
“Why?”
“Because of that man Adam. He had been attracted by her good looks, and had begun to pester her with his attentions. Statham knew this from the report of one who had watched her in secret. Therefore, by sending her here into hiding, he was acting in her best interests.”
“Then she is here?” cried Max, anxiously, his face suddenly brightening.
“Yes. See! here she comes—with Maud!” and as both men turned quickly to the window they saw the two laughing girls, flushed by their ride, wheeling their cycles up the path from the road.
Next moment both men dashed outside, and both girls, utterly amazed and breathless, found themselves suddenly in the arms of their lovers.
The Doctor looked on, smiling, and in silence. He saw the lips of both girls covered with the hot fervent kisses of good and honest men. He heard their whispered words, and then he turned away.
Those long black days of suspicion and despair were at an end. The mystery of it all was now being rapidly solved, and both girls within that little parlour wept tears of joy upon the shoulders of the men whom they had chosen as their husbands.
The happiness of four young hearts was complete. The grim shadow had lifted, and upon them now fell at last the bright sunshine of life and of love.
The self-effacement of that little household was at an end. Freed from the bondage of silence, the truth was at last told. Maud, with her own lips, explained to Charlie the confession she had made to Marion on the night of their disappearance. She had told her how the man Adam, whom she had known in Belgrade, had followed her several times in the neighbourhood of Earl’s Court, had spoken to her, and had declared his love for her. She never suspected that he had been her father’s enemy—the man who had been the instigator of the dastardly outrage—until on the previous evening, her father had, in confidence, told her the truth, and added that, because of his re-appearance, they had to fly. She dared not tell him they had met, but she had made Marion her confidante. It was the story of the bomb outrage that had held Marion horrified.
Charlie, when he had listened open-mouthed to the explanation of his well-beloved, cried:
“The assassin! And he dared to speak to you of love!”
“He is dead, dearest,” answered the girl, quietly stroking his hair from his brow. “Let us forgive him—and forget.” For answer he took her again in his arms, and kissed her tenderly upon the lips.
Three days later.
The coroner’s jury had returned a verdict of “suicide while of unsound mind,” and the body of Jean Adam had, with the undertaker’s assistance, been buried in Highgate Cemetery in the actual coffin which had been so long prepared for him. It was surely a weird revenge of old Sam’s.
But the whole occurrence was a grim and terrible repayment of an old debt.
In the fading twilight of the wet and gloomy day on which the dead man’s body was, without a single follower, committed to the grave, Rolfe and Barclay were seated with the millionaire in the familiar library in Park Lane.
Old Sam had been making explanations similar to those made by the Doctor down at Arundel. Suddenly he said, looking from one to the other:
“And now I have to apologise to you both. In arranging the disappearance of my dear friend the Doctor, I contrived to mislead you, in order to add mystery to the occurrence. I knew, Rolfe, you lost your train at Charing Cross that night; that you did not wish to be seen off by your sister Marion because you had—in my interests—quarrelled with Adam and had made murderous threats against him—perhaps unwisely. These threats, however, you believed Adam had told to Barclay, hence your fear of the last-named later on. I arranged that a man should be present at Cromwell Road in clothes resembling your own, that a garment should be placed in the house with a bloodstain upon it, and that the doctor’s safe should be blown open as though thieves had visited the place after the removal of the furniture. I knew from the Doctor that you, Barclay, would go there that evening, and my object was to puzzle and mislead you, at the same time believing that, having suspicions of your friend Rolfe, you would not go to the police. Again, in order to test Rolfe’s devotion to myself, I suggested that the honour of the woman he loved, if sacrificed, could save me. I made this suggestion in order to put Rolfe off the scent.”
“Then it was all your own doing?” Max cried, in surprise.
“Entirely,” was the old man’s response. “In the interests of myself, as well as of both of you. Adam believed that you were aware of his secret intentions, therefore he was plotting to entice you to Turkey—a country where you might have disappeared with ease. That was undoubtedly his object.”
For a few moments he paused; then, clearing his throat, the old man said, in a distinct voice:
“The other night you were no doubt both surprised to find my drawing-room transposed into the interior of a Russian house. Well, it was done with a distinct purpose—to defeat my enemy. He, with his friend and accomplice Lyle, had made a false charge against me—a charge supported by the perjured evidence of the hunchback—a charge of having in the old days, years ago, murdered a woman—the woman who was my wife.”
A shadow of pain crossed the old man’s brow at what seemed a bitter remembrance. Then, after a moment’s pause, he went on:
“She was worthless! Ah! yes, I admit that. But I swear I am innocent of the charge they brought against me. She was killed in Caracas in a brutal manner, but by whom I could never discover. After her death I left South America. Adam and his friend dropped their foul charge against me, and I lost sight of them for years. Later on, I was prospecting in the Timan Mountains, in Northern Russia, within the Arctic Circle, a wild snow-covered country outside the edge of civilisation. Both gold and emeralds had been discovered along the Ishma Valley, and there had been a rush there. Among the many adventurous spirits attracted thither was Jean Adam, with his attendant alter ego Lyle. We met again. It was in winter, and we were in a state of semi-starvation, all three of us. Not a word was said regarding the charge they had made against me. Both were without means, and both down on their luck. For a fortnight we remained together, then, finding things hopeless resolved to struggle back to civilisation at the nearest little Russian village, a miserable little place called Ust Ussa, four hundred and fifty versts south. On the way we all three nearly succumbed to the intense cold and want of food. At last, however, late one night we came across a lonely house in a clearing in the pine forest on the outskirts of the village which was our goal. Sinking with fatigue, we begged shelter of the white-bearded old man who lived there. He took us in, gave us food, and allowed us to sleep. I was drowsy and slept heavily. It was late when I awoke—when I awoke to find lying beside the table opposite me the old man stone dead, stabbed to the heart! The place had been ransacked; the old man’s hoard of money—for there are no banks there—had been found, and my two companions were missing. They had gone—no one knew whither! What could I do? To remain, would mean to be accused of the crime, and probably sent to Siberia. Well, I reflected for a moment. Then I took some food, stole out, and made my way again into the snow-covered wilderness. Ah! the recollection of it all is still upon me, though years have since elapsed.”
“And then?” asked Max, when he found tongue.
“Since then I and my brothers Levi and Ben have abandoned the old life, but I have ever since been determined to avenge the brutal murder of that poor old peasant. I made a vow not to enjoy the luxuries which my money brought me until my conscience had been cleared and the assassin brought to justice. Hence, I have lived in the desolation attendant upon pauperism. I have been the Pauper of Park Lane. Seven years ago I sent an agent to the place, and purchased all the interior of the house. Then, when I came to live here, I had the drawing-room fitted as you see it, and have since awaited my opportunity. The other night, as you know, Jean Adam came to renew his false charge against me, and I took him upstairs and ushered him suddenly into the scene of his crime. Ah! his terror was horrible to witness: he trembled from head to foot. He saw the hangman’s rope around his neck. Then I took him into the next room, and showed him in silence what I had prepared for him. He read his own name inscribed there, and with a curse upon his lips, drew his revolver and put an end to his life.”
Both his hearers remained in silence. It had surely been a just vengeance—blood for blood!
A year has now passed.
Marion is now the wife of Max Barclay, and the pair spend the greater part of their time at the beautiful old castle Kilmaronock, up in Perthshire, for in her perfect happiness she prefers a healthy out-door life to that of London.
Rolfe, who is still confidential secretary to Mr Samuel Statham, has married Maud, and has abandoned his bachelor chambers in Jermyn Street for a pretty little house in Curzon Street, where he is quite near to the mansion in Park Lane.
Doctor Petrovitch has returned to Servia at the invitation of the King, and is expected every day to accept the portfolio of Prime Minister. Old Duncan Macgregor has been promoted to be general manager of the great Clyde and Motherwell Locomotive Works; while Levi acts as servant to his brother, their secret still being kept, and the position of Statham Brothers in the City is to-day higher than it has ever been.
As regards the Park Lane mansion, with the red-striped sun-blinds—the house you know well, without doubt—there is now no further mystery concerning it. The rumours regarding its beautiful interior, and the sounds of piano-playing were all of course, the outcome of gossip. The truth, however, is now common knowledge, and society during the past nine months or so has been amazed to see painters, decorators, and upholsterers so busily at work. It is evident that old Sam intends to entertain largely during this coming season.
The house is now exquisitely furnished from top to bottom. He no longer sleeps on his little camp bed, or dines off a chump chop cooked over a gas-stove by old Levi. The dark shadow has now been lifted from his life.
In fact, he no longer lives in the squalor of an empty house as “The Pauper of Park Lane.”
The End.
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Chapter 1
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Chapter 2
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Chapter 3
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Chapter 4
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Chapter 5
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Chapter 6
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Chapter 7
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Chapter 8
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Chapter 9
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Chapter 10
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Chapter 11
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Chapter 12
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Chapter 13
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Chapter 14
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Chapter 15
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Chapter 16
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Chapter 17
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Chapter 18
| |
Chapter 19
| |
Chapter 20
| |
Chapter 21
| |
Chapter 22
| |
Chapter 23
| |
Chapter 24
| |
Chapter 25
| |
Chapter 26
| |
Chapter 27
| |
Chapter 28
| |
Chapter 29
| |
Chapter 30
| |
Chapter 31
| |
Chapter 32
| |
Chapter 33
| |
Chapter 34
| |
Chapter 35
| |
Chapter 36
| |
Chapter 37
| |
Chapter 38
| |
Chapter 39
| |
Chapter 40
| |
Chapter 41
| |
Chapter 42
| |
Chapter 43
| |
Chapter 44
| |
Chapter 45
| |
Chapter 46
| |
Chapter 47
| |
Chapter 48
| |
Chapter 49
| |
Chapter 50
| |
Chapter 51
| |
Chapter 52
|