The Pauper of Park Lane
his mind, and he stood breathless for a few seconds.
"I thought you had left for Servia, Rolfe," exclaimed the old man in histhin, weak voice. He had seated himself at the writing-table prior tohis secretary's appearance, and had tried to assume a businesslike air.But his face was unusually drawn and haggard.
"I missed the train last night," was the young man's reply. "It isuseless to leave till to-night, as I can then catch the Orient Expressfrom Paris to-morrow morning. Therefore I thought I'd call to see ifyou have any further instructions."
The old man grunted. His keen eyes were fixed upon the other's face.The explanation was an unsatisfactory one.
Samuel Statham, as became a great financier, had a wonderful knack ofknowing all that passed. He had his spies and secret agents in everycapital, and was always well informed of every financial move inprogress. To him, early information often meant profits of manythousands, and that information was indeed paid for generously.
In London, too, his spies were ever at work. Queer, mysterious personsof both sexes often called there in Park Lane, and were admitted toprivate audience of the king of the financial world. Rolfe knew them tobe his secret agents, and, further, that his employer's knowledge of hisown movements was often wider than he had ever dreamed.
No man in the whole City of London was more shrewd or more cunning thanold Sam Statham. It was to the interest of Statham Brothers to be so.Indeed, he had once remarked to his secretary that no secret, howevercarefully kept, was safe from his agents, and that he could discoverwithout difficulty anything he wanted to know.
Had he discovered the truth regarding the strange disappearance of theDoctor and his daughter?
"Why did you lose the train last night, Rolfe?" asked the greatfinancier. "You did not go to Charing Cross," he added.
Rolfe held his breath again. Yes, as he had feared, his departure hadbeen watched for.
"I--well, it was too late, and so I didn't attempt to catch the train."
"Why too late?" asked Statham, reprovingly. "In a matter of business--and especially of the magnitude of yours at this moment--one shouldnever be behindhand. Your arrival in Belgrade twenty-four hours latemay mean a loss of about twenty thousand to the firm."
"I hope not, sir," Rolfe exclaimed, quickly. "I trust that the businesswill go through all right. I--I did my best to catch the train!"
"Your best! Why, you had half a day in which to pack and get to CharingCross!"
"I quite admit that, but I was prevented."
"By what?" asked Statham, fixing his eyes upon the young man before him.
"By a matter of private business."
"Yes--a woman! You may as well admit it, Rolfe, for I know all aboutit. You can't deceive me, you know."
The other's face went ghastly white, much to Statham's surprise. Thelatter saw that he had unconsciously touched a point which had filledhis secretary with either shame or fear, and made a mental note of it.
"I don't deny it, sir," he faltered, much confused. He had no idea thathis employer had any knowledge of Maud.
"Well--you're an idiot," he said, very plainly. "You'll never get on inthe world if you're tied to a woman's shoe strings, depend upon it.Girls are the ruin of young men like you. When a man is free, he's hisown master, but as soon as he becomes the slave of a pretty face thenhe's a lost soul both to himself and to those who employ him. Take theadvice of an old man, Rolfe," he added, not unkindly. "Cast off thetrammels, and be free to go hither and thither. When I was your age, Ibelieved in what men call love. Bah! Live as long as I have, and watchhuman nature as I have watched it, and you'll come to the sameconclusion as I have arrived at."
"And what is that?" asked Rolfe, for such conversation was altogetherunusual.
"That woman is man's ruin always--that the more beautiful the woman themore complete the ruin," he answered, in the hard, unsympathetic waywhich he sometimes did when he wished to emphasise a point.
Charlie Rolfe was silent. He was familiar with old Sam'seccentricities, one of which was that he must never be contradicted.His amazing prosperity had induced an overbearing egotism. It wasbetter to make no reply.
At heart the old man was beside himself with delight that his secretaryhad not left London, but it was his policy never to betray pleasure atanything. He seldom bestowed a single word of praise upon anyone. Hewas silent when satisfied, and bitterly sarcastic when not pleased.
"I do not think, sir, that whatever you may have heard concerning thelady in question is to her detriment," he could not refrain fromremarking.
"All that I have heard is very favourable, I admit. Understand that Isay nothing against the lady. What I object to is the principle of ayoung man being in love. Why court unhappiness? You'll meet withsufficient of it in the world, I can assure you. Look at me! Should Ibe what I am if I had saddled myself with a woman and her worries ofsociety, frocks, children, petty jealousies, flirtations, and thethousand and one cares and annoyances which make a man's life a burdento him.
"No. Take my advice, and let those fools who run after trouble go theirown way. Sentimentalists may write screeds and poets sonnets, butyou'll find, my boy, that the only true friend you'll have in life isyour own pocket."
Charlie was not in the humour to be lectured, and more especially uponhis passionate devotion to Maud. He was annoyed that Statham shouldhave found it out, and yet, knowing the wide-reaching sources ofinformation possessed by the old millionaire, it was scarcely to bewondered at.
"Of course," he admitted, somewhat impatiently, "there is a good deal oftruth in your argument, even though it be a rather blunt one. Yet arenot some men happy with the love of a good wife?"
"A few--alas! a very few," Statham replied. "Think of our greatest men.Nearly all of them have had skeletons in their cupboards because oftheir early infatuations. Of some, their domestic unhappiness iswell-known. Others have, however, hidden it from the world, preferringto suffer than to humiliate themselves or admit their foolishness," hesaid, with a calm cynicism. "To-day you think me heartless, withoutsentiment, because you are inexperienced. Twenty years hence recollectmy words, and you will be fully in accord with me, and probably regretdeeply not having followed my advice."
With his thin hand he turned over some papers idly, and then, after amoment's pause, his manner changed, and he said, with a good-humouredlaugh:
"You won't listen to me, I know, Rolfe. So what is the use ofexpounding my theory?"
"It is very valuable," the young man declared, deferentially. "I knowthat you are antagonistic towards women. All London is aware of that."
"And they think me eccentric--eh?" he laughed. "Well, I do not wantthem. Society I have no use for. It is all too shallow, too ephemeral,and too much make-believe. If I wished to go into Society to-morrow, itwould welcome me. The door of every house in this neighbourhood wouldbe opened to me. Why? Because my money is the key by which I canenter.
"The most exclusive set would be delighted to come here, eat my dinners,listen to my music, and borrow my money. But who among the whole ofthat narrow, fast-living little world would care to know me as a poorman? I have known what it is to be poor, Rolfe," he went on; "poorerthan yourself. The world knows nothing of my past--of the romance of mylife. One day, when I am dead, it may perhaps know. But until then Ipreserve my secret."
He was leaning back in his padded chair, staring straight before him,just as he had been an hour ago.
"Yes," he continued; "I recollect one cold January night, when I passedalong the pavement yonder," and jerked his finger in the direction ofthe street. "I was penniless, hungry, and chilled to the bone. A manin evening-dress was coming from this very house, and I begged from hima few coppers, for I had tasted nothing that day, and further, my poormother was dying at home--dying of starvation. The man refused, andcursed me for daring to beg charity. I turned upon him and cursed himin return; I vowed that if ever I had money I would one day live in hishouse. He jeered at m
e and called me a maniac.
"But, strangely enough, my words were prophetic. My fortune turned. Iprospered. I am to-day living in the house of the man who cursed me,and that man himself is compelled to beg charity of me! Ah, yes!" heexclaimed suddenly, rising from his chair with a sigh. "The worldlittle dreams of what my past has been. Only one man knows--the manwhom you told me, Rolfe, a little time ago, is in England and alive."
"What--the man Adams?" exclaimed Rolfe, in surprise.
"Yes," replied his employer, in a hoarse, changed voice. "He knowseverything."
"Things that would be detrimental to