unusual, and heput it down to guiltiness of her secret.
"Marion," he said at last, taking her hand firmly in his again, andspeaking in earnest, "you said just now that you believed I loved you,but--something. But what? Tell me. What is it you wish to say? Come,do not deny the truth. Remember what we are both to each other. I haveno secrets from you--and you have none from me!"
She cast her eyes wildly about her, and then they rested upon his. Aslight shudder ran through her as he still held her soft, little hand.
"I know--I know it is very wrong of me," she faltered, casting her eyesto the floor, as though in shame. "I have no right to hold anythingback from you, Max, because--because I love you--but--ah!--but you don'tunderstand--it is because I love you so much that I am silent--for fearthat you--"
And she buried her head upon his shoulder and burst into tears.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
IN WHICH A SCOT BECOMES ANXIOUS.
That same Sunday evening, at midnight, in a cane chair in the lounge ofthe Central Station Hotel, in Glasgow, Charlie Rolfe sat idly smoking acigar.
Sunday in Glasgow is always a dismal day. The weather had been grey anddepressing, but he had remained in the hotel, busy with correspondence.He had arrived there on Saturday upon some urgent business connectedwith that huge engineering concern, the Clyde and Motherwell LocomotiveWorks, in which old Sam Statham held a controlling interest, but as themanager was away till Monday, he had been compelled to wait until hisreturn.
The matter which he was about to decide involved the gain or loss ofsome 25,000 pounds, and a good deal of latitude old Statham had allowedhim in his decision. Indeed, it was Rolfe who practically ran the bigbusiness. He reported periodically to Statham, and the latter wasalways satisfied. During the last couple of years, by his cleverfinance, Rolfe had made much larger profits with smaller expenditure,even though his drastic reforms had very nearly caused a strike amongthe four thousand hands employed.
He had spent a most miserable day--a grey day, full of bitter reflectionand of mourning over the might-have-beens. The morning he had idledaway walking through Buchanan Street and the other main thoroughfares,where all the shops were closed and where the general aspect wasinexpressibly dismal. In the afternoon he had taken a cab and gone fora long drive alone to while away the hours, and now, after dinner, hewas concluding one of the most melancholy days of all his life.
There were one or two other men in the lounge, keen-faced men ofcommercial aspect, who were discussing, over their cigars, prices,freights, and other such matters. In the corner was a small party ofAmerican men and women, stranded for the day while on their round tourof Scotland--the West Highlands, the Trossachs, Loch Lomond, StirlingCastle, the Highlands, and the rest--anxious for Monday to come, so asto be on the move again.
Rolfe stretched his legs, and from his corner surveyed the scene throughthe smoke from his cigar. He tried to be interested in the people abouthim, but it was impossible. Ever and anon the words of old Sam Stathamrang in his ears. If the house of Statham--which, after all, seemed tobe but a house of cards--was to be saved, it must be saved at thesacrifice of Maud Petrovitch!
Why? That question he had asked himself a thousand times that day. Theonly reply was that the charming half-foreign girl held old Statham'ssecret. But how could she? As far as he knew, they had only met once,years ago, when she was but a child.
And Statham, the elderly melancholy man who controlled so manyinterests, whose every action was noted by the City, and whose firm wasbelieved to be as safe as the Bank of England, actually asked him tosacrifice her honour. What did he mean? Did he suggest that he was towilfully compromise her in the eyes of the world?
"Ah, if he knew--if he only knew!" murmured Rolfe to himself, his facegrowing pale and hard-set. "Sam Statham believes himself clever, and sohe is! Yet in this game I think I am his equal." And he smoked on insilence, his frowning countenance being an index to his troubled mind.
He was reviewing the whole of the curious situation. In a few years hehad risen from a harum-scarum youth to be the private secretary,confidant, and frequent adviser to one of the wealthiest men in England.Times without number, old Sam, sitting in his padded writing-chair inPark Lane, had commended him for his business acumen and foresight.Once, by a simple suggestion, daring though it was, Statham had, in afew hours, made ten thousand pounds, and, with many words of praise thedry, old fellow took out his chequebook and drew a cheque as a littlepresent to his clever young secretary. Charlie Rolfe was however,unscrupulous, as a good many clever men of business are. In the worldof commerce the dividing-line between unscrupulousness and what the Cityknows as smartness is invisible. So Marion's brother was dubbed a smartman at Statham Brothers' and in those big, old-fashioned, and rathergloomy offices he was envied as being "the governor's favourite."
Charlie intended to get on. He saw other men make money in the City bythe exercise of shrewdness and commonsense, and he meant to do the same.The business secrets of old Sam Statham were all known to him, and hehad more than once been half tempted to take into partnership somefinancier who, armed with the information he could give, could make manya brilliant coup, forestalling even old Statham himself. Up to thepresent, however, he had never found anybody he could implicitly trust.Of sharks he knew dozens, clever, energetic men, he admitted, but therewas not one of these who would not give away their own mother when itcame to making a thousand profit. So he was waiting--waiting until hefound the man who could "go in" with him and make a fortune.
Again, he was reflecting upon old Sam's appeal to him to save him.
"Suppose he knew," he murmured again. "Suppose--" and his eyes werefixed upon the painted ceiling of the lounge.
A moment later he sighed impatiently, saying, "Phew! how stifling it ishere!" and, rising, took up his hat and went down the stairs and outinto the broad street to cool his fevered brain. He was haunted by arecollection--the tragic recollection of that night when the Doctor andhis daughter had so mysteriously disappeared.
"I wonder," he said aloud, at last, "I wonder if Max ever dreams theextraordinary truth? Yet how can he?--what impressions can he have? Hemust be puzzled--terribly puzzled, but he can have no clue to what hasactually happened!" and then he was again silent, still walkingmechanically along the dark half-deserted business street. "But supposethe truth was really known!--suppose it were discovered? What then?Ah!" he gasped, staring straight before him, "what then?"
For a full hour he wandered the half-deserted streets of centralGlasgow, till he found himself down by the Clyde bank, and thenre-traced his steps to the hotel, hardly knowing whither he went, sofull was he of the terror which daily, nay, hourly, obsessed him.Whether Max Barclay had actually discovered him or not meant to him hiswhole future--nay his very life.
"I wonder if I could possibly get at the truth through Marion?" hethought to himself. "If he really suspects me he might possiblyquestion her with a view of discovering my actual movements on thatnight. Would it be safe to approach her? Or would it be safer toboldly face Max, and if he makes any remark, to deny it?"
Usually he was no coward. He believed in facing the music when therewas any to face. One of the greatest misfortunes of honest folks isthat they are cowards.
As he walked on he still muttered to himself--
"Hasn't Boileau said that all men are fools, and, spite of all theirpains, they differ from each other only more or less, I'm a fool--asilly, cowardly ass, scenting danger where there is none. What couldMax prove after all? No! When I return to London I'll go and face him.The reason I didn't go to Servia is proved by Statham himself. Ofexcuses I'm never at a loss. It's an awkward position, I admit, but Imust wriggle out of it, as I've wriggled before. Statham's peril seemsto me even greater than my own, and, moreover, he asks me to dosomething that is impossible. He doesn't know--he never dreams thetruth; and, what's more, he must never know. Otherwise, I--I must--"
And instinctively his hand passed ove
r his hip-pocket, where reposed thehandy plated revolver which he always carried.
Presently he found himself again in front of the Central Station Hotel,and, entering, spent an hour full of anxious reflection prior to turningin. If any had seen him in the silence of that hotel room they wouldhave at once declared him to be a man with a secret, as indeed he was.
Next morning he rose pale and haggard, surprised at himself when helooked at the mirror; but when, at eleven o'clock, he took his seat inthe directors' office at the neat Clyde and Motherwell Locomotive Workshis face had undergone an entire change. He was the calm, keen businessman who, as secretary and agent of the great Samuel Statham, had powerto deal with the huge financial interests involved.
The firm had a large contract for building express locomotives for theItalian