The Pauper of Park Lane

clerks. Levi always smartened his masterup on the day he went into the City, compelling him to wear a frockcoat, a light waistcoat, a decent pair of trousers, and a proper cravat,instead of the bit of greasy black ribbon which he habitually wore.

  "And how much have we gained over the Pekin business, Ben?" Mr Samuelwas asking of the man who, though slightly younger, was an almost exactreplica of himself, slightly thinner and taller. Benjamin Statham,Sam's brother, was the working manager of the concern, and one of thesmartest financiers in the whole City of London. He was standing withhis back to the fireplace, with his hands thrust deep in histrousers-pockets.

  "Ah!" he laughed. "When I first suggested it you wouldn't touch it.Didn't owe for Chinese business, and all that! You'd actually see theFrench people go and take the plums right from beneath our noses--and--"

  "Enough, Ben. I own I was a little short-sighted in that matter.Perhaps the details you sent me were not quite clear. At any rate," hesaid, "I was mistaken, for you say we've made a profit. How much?"

  "Twelve thousand; and not a cent of hazardous risk."

  "How did we first hear of the business?"

  "Through the secret channel in Paris."

  "The woman?"

  "Yes."

  "Better send her something."

  "How much? She's rather hard-up, I hear."

  "Women like her are always hard-up," growled old Sam. "Leave it to me.I'll get Rolfe to send her something to-morrow."

  "I promised her a couple of hundred. You mustn't send her less, or weshall queer business for the future."

  "I shall send her five hundred," responded the head of the firm. "She'sa very useful woman--and pretty, too, Ben--by Jove! she is! She calledon me in her automobile at the Elysee Palace about eighteen months ago,and I was much struck by her. She knows almost everybody in Paris, andcan get any information she wants from her numerous male admirers."

  "She's well paid--gets a thousand a year from us," Ben remarked.

  "And we sometimes make twenty out of the secret information she obtainsfor us," laughed old Sam. "Remember the Morocco business, and how shegave us the complete French programme which she got from young Delorme,at the Quai d'Orsay. We were as much in the dark as the newspapers tillthen, and if we hadn't have got at the French intentions, we should havemade a terribly heavy loss. As it was, we left it to others--who wentunder."

  "She got an extra five hundred as a present for that," Ben pointed out.

  "And it was worth it."

  "Delorme doesn't know who gave the game away to us. If he did, it wouldbe the worse for Her Daintiness."

  "No doubt it would. But she's a fly bird, and as only you and I andRolfe know the truth, she's pretty confident that she'll never be givenaway."

  "She's in town--at Claridge's--just now, so you need not write her toParis. She asked me to call the night before last, and I went," saidBen. "She wanted to get further instructions regarding a matter aboutwhich I wrote her. I dined with her."

  Sam grunted as he turned slightly in his chair.

  "Rather undesirable company--eh--Ben?" he exclaimed, with some surprise."Suppose you were seen by anyone who knows her? And recollect that allParis knows her. It is scarcely compatible with our standing in theCity for you to be seen in her company."

  "My dear Sam, I took very good care not to be seen in her company. I'mnot quite a fool. I accepted her invitation with a distinct purpose. Iwanted to question her about one of her friends--a man who may in futureprove of considerable use to us. He's, as usual, in love with her, andshe can twist him inside out."

  "Ah! any man's a fool who allows himself to fall under the fascinationof a woman's smiles," remarked the dry-as-dust old millionaire. "We'vebeen wise, Ben, to remain bachelors. It's the unmarried who taste thegood things of this world."

  Benjamin sighed, but said nothing. He, like Sam himself, had had hislove-romance years ago, and it still lingered within him, lingered as itdoes within the heart of every man who has loved a woman that has turnedout false and broken her pledge of affection. Ben Statham's was a sorrystory. Before his eyes, even now that thirty years had gone, thereoften arose the vision of a sweet, pale-faced, slim figure in whitemuslin, girdled with blue; of green meadows, where the cattle stoodknee-deep in the rich grass, and of a cool Scotch glen where the treesoverhung the rippling burn and where the trout darted in the pools.

  But it had all ended, as many another love-romance has, alas! ended, inthe woman forsaking the man who loved her, and in marrying another forhis money.

  Three years later her husband--the man whom she had wedded because ofhis position--was in the bankruptcy court, and six months afterwards hehad followed her to her grave. But the sweet recollection of her stillremained with Ben, and beneath that hard and wizened countenance beat aheart foil of tender memories of a day long since dead.

  His brother Samuel's romance was even more tragic. Nobody knew thestory save himself, and it had never passed his lips. The societygossips who so often wrote their tittle-tattle about him never dreamedthe strange story of the life of the great financier, nor theextraordinary romance that underlay his marvellous success. What asensation would be produced if they ever learnt the truth! In thosedays long ago both of them had been poor, and had suffered inconsequence. Now that they were both wealthy, the bitterness of thepast still remained with them.

  They were discussing another matter, concerning a project for anelectric tramway in a Spanish city, the concession for which had beenbrought to them. They both agreed that the thing would not pay,therefore it was dismissed.

  During their discussion Rolfe entered, and, taking his seat at the smalltable near his master, busied himself with some letters.

  Suddenly Benjamin Statham exclaimed--

  "Oh! by the way, there's a queer-looking Scot from the Clyde andMotherwell works who's been hanging about for a couple of days to seeyou, Sam. Says he must see you at all coats."

  "I don't want to see anybody from Glasgow," snapped Statham. "Tell himI'm not here, whoever he is."

  "He's the old engineer, Macgregor," Rolfe said. "He mentioned to mewhen I was in Glasgow the other day that he particularly wished to seeyou, and that he was coming up on purpose. I told him it was awild-goose chase."

  "Engineer? What does he do? Mind the engine--one of the men whothreaten to go on strike, I suppose," remarked old Sam.

  "No," laughed Rolfe. "He's a little more than engineer. It is he whohas designed nearly every locomotive we've turned out."

  "Oh! valuable man--eh? Then raise his salary, Rolfe, and send him backto Glasgow to make a few more engines."

  "He's waiting outside at the counter now, and won't go away," exclaimedthe secretary.

  "Then go to him and say he shall have fifty pounds more a year. I can'tbe bothered to see the fellow."

  Rolfe rose and went to the outer office, where Macgregor stoodpatiently. He had waited there for best part of two days and, with aScot's tenacity, refused to be put off by any of the clerks. He wantedto see Mr Samuel Statham, "an' I mean to see 'im, mon," he toldeverybody, his grey beard bristling fiercely as he spoke.

  He was evidently a man with a grievance. Such men came to Old BroadStreet sometimes, and on rare occasions Mr Benjamin saw them. Therewere hard cases of men ignorant of the ways of business as the Cityto-day knows it, having been deliberately swindled out of their rightsby sharks, concessions filched from their rightful owners, and patentsartfully stolen and registered. But old Duncan Macgregor, with hiswhite beard, was of a different type--the type of honest, hard-workingplodder, out of whose brains the great Clyde and Motherwell works werepractically coining money daily.

  As Rolfe advanced to him he said:--

  "I'm sorry, Macgregor, that Mr Statham is quite unable to see youto-day. He's engaged three deep. I've told him you wished to see him,and he says that he much appreciates the great services you've renderedto the firm, and that you are to receive a rise of salary of fiftypounds a ye
ar, beginning the first of last January."

  "What!" cried the old man. "What--'e offers me another fifty pounds!'E's guid an' generous; but I have na' come here for that. I've come toLondon to see him--ye hear!--to see him--d'ye hear, Mr Rolfe, an' Imust."

  "But, my dear sir, you can't!"

  "Tell him I don't want his fifty pound," cried the old man so derisivelythat the clerks looked up from their ledgers. "I must speak to him, an'him alone."

  "Impossible," exclaimed Rolfe, impatiently.

  "Why impossible?" asked the old fellow. "When Mr Statham knows thebusiness I've come upon he won't thank ye for keepin' us apart. D'yeken that, mon?" and his beard wagged as he spoke.

  "I know nothing, Macgregor, because you've told me nothing," was theother's reply.

  "Well, I tell ye I mean to see him, an' that's sufficient for DuncanMacgregor."

  "Mr Duncan Macgregor will, if he continues to create a scene here, findhimself discharged from the employ of the Clyde and Motherwell works,"remarked Rolfe, drily.

  "An' Duncan Macgregor can go to the North-Western to-morrow at a biggerrise than the fifty pounds a year. D'ye ken that?" replied the man fromGlasgow.

  "Then you refuse to accept Mr Statham's offer to you?"

  "Of course, mon. Ye don't think that I come to London a cringin' formore pay, do ye? If I wanted it I could ha' got it from another companyyears ago," replied the independent old fellow. "No, I must see MrStatham. Go back an' tell him so. I'm here to see him on a veryimportant matter," and, dropping his voice, he added, "a matter whichclosely concerns himself."

  "Then tell me its nature."

  "It's private, sir. Until Mr Statham gives me leave to tell you, Ican't."

  "But he wants to know the nature of the business," answered thesecretary, again struck by the old fellow's pertinacity. It was notevery man who would decline a rise of a pound a week in his salary.Rolfe was puzzled, but he knew old Sam well enough to be aware that evenif a duke called he would refuse to see him. He only came to the Cityonce a week to discuss matters with his brother Ben, and saw nooutsider.

  "I can't tell ye why I want to see Mr Statham; that's only his businessand mine," replied the bearded Scot. The clerks were now smiling atRolfe's vain attempts to get rid of him.

  "Will you write it? Here--write on this slip of paper," the secretarysuggested.

  The old fellow hesitated.

  "Yes--if you'll let me seal it up in an envelope."

  Rolfe at once assented, and, with considerable care, the old fellowwrote some pencilled lines, folded the paper, sealed it in the envelope,and wrote the superscription.

  A few moments later, when Rolfe handed it to the old millionaire, whowas still at his table chatting with his brother, he asked, in thesnappish way habitual to him:--"Who's this from--eh? Why am Ibothered?"

  "From the man Macgregor, from Glasgow. He won't go away."

  "Then discharge the brute," he replied, and with the note in his hand hefinished a remark he had addressed to his brother.

  At last, mechanically, he opened it, and his eyes fell upon thescribbled words.

  His jaw dropped. The colour left his cheeks, and, sitting back, heglared straight at Rolfe as though he had seen an apparition.

  For a few moments he seemed too confused to speak. Then, when herecovered himself, he said, half apologetically:--"Ben, I must see thisman alone--a--a private matter. I--I had no idea--I--"

  "Of course, Sam," exclaimed his brother, leaving the room. "Let me knowwhen he's gone."

  "Rolfe, show him in," the millionaire ordered. The instant hissecretary had gone he sprang to his feet, examined his face in the smallmirror over the mantelshelf for a moment, and then stood bracing himselfup for the interview.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN.

  THE MAN WHO LOVED.

  A few nights later Max Barclay was seated in the stalls of the EmpireTheatre with Marion.

  They never went to the legitimate theatre because she had noevening-dress. Even to be seen in one would have caused comment amongher fellow employes at Cunnington's. The girls were never verycharitable to each other, for in the pernicious system of "living-in"there is no privacy or home life, no sense of responsibility or offreedom.

  The average London shop girl has but little leisure and little rest.Chronically over-tired, she cares little to go out of an evening afterthe long shop hours, and looks forward to Sunday as the day when she canread in bed till noon if she chooses, snooze again in the afternoon, andperhaps go to a cafe in the evening. It was so with Marion. The saleswere on, and there were "spiffs," or premiums, placed by Mr Warner uponsome out-of-date goods which it was every girl's object to sell and thusearn the commission. So she was working very hard, and already heldquite a respectable number of tickets representing "spiffs."

  In a dark blue skirt, white silk blouse and black hat, she lookedextremely pretty and modest as she sat beside her lover in the secondrow of the stalls, watching the ballet with its tuneful music, clevergroupings, and phantasmagoria of colour. She glanced at the watch uponher wrist, and saw that it was nearly ten o'clock. In half an hour shewould have to be "in."

  The bondage of his well-beloved galled Max, yet he could say nothing.Her life was the same as that of a hundred thousand other girls inLondon. Indeed, was she not far better off that those poor girls whocame up from their country homes to serve a year or two's drudgerywithout payment in order to learn the art and mystery of "serving acustomer"--girls who were orphans and without funds, and who very soonfound the actual necessity of having a little pocket-money for dress andfor something with which to relish the stale bread and butter doled outto them.

  The public have never yet adequately realised the hardships and tyrannyof shop-life, where man is but a mere machine, liable to get the "sack"at a moment's notice, and where woman is but an ill-fed, overworkeddrudge, liable at any moment to be thrown out penniless upon the greatworld of London.

  Some day ere long the revelation will come. There are certain bighouses in London with pious shareholders and go-to-meeting directorswhich will earn the opprobrium of the whole British public when thenaked truth regarding their female assistants is exposed. In "thetrade" it is known, and one day there will arise a man bolder and morefearless than the rest, who will speak the truth, and, moreover, proveit.

  If in the meantime you want to know the truth concerning shop-life, askthe director of any of the numerous rescue societies in London. Whatyou will be told will, I assure you, open your eyes.

  The couple of hours Max had spent with Marion proved delightful ones, asthey always were. Promenading in the lounge above were manymen-about-town whom he knew, and who, seeing him with the modest-lookinggirl, smiled knowingly. They never guessed the truth--that he loved herand intended to make her his wife.

  "Charlie is back from Glasgow," she was saying. "He came to the shopthis afternoon to ask if I had seen you, and to explain how the othernight he, by a most fortunate circumstance, missed the Continentaltrain, for next morning Mr Statham wanted him to do some very importantbusiness, and was delighted to find that he had not left. Another manhas gone out to the East."

  "If he wanted to know my movements he might have called at DoverStreet," Max remarked thoughtfully, the recollection of that night inCromwell Road arising within him.

  "He seemed very busy, and said he had not a moment to spare. He wasprobably going north again. They have, he told me, some big order fromItaly at the locomotive works."

  "I thought Statham couldn't do without him," remarked Max. "Nowadays,however, he seems always travelling."

  "He's awfully kind to me--gave me a five-pound note this afternoon."

  "What did he say about me?" inquired Max.

  "Oh! nothing very much. He asked me, among other things, whether I knewwhere you were on the night of the disappearance of the Doctor and hisdaughter."

  Max started.

  "And what did you reply?"

  "That I hadn't the slightest ide
a. I never saw you that evening," wasthe girl's frank response.

  Her lover nodded thoughtfully. It was now plain that Charlie suspectedthat he had detected him leaving the house and was endeavouring toeither confirm his suspicion or dismiss it.

  "Did he tell you to-day where he was going?"

  "Back to Glasgow, I believe--but only for two days."

  Max was seated at the end of the second row of the stalls, and beyondMarion were three or four vacant seats. At this juncture theirconversation was interrupted by a man in well-cut evening-dress, hiscrush hat beneath his arms, advancing down the gangway and putting hishand out heartily to Max, exclaiming--

  "My dear Barclay! Excuse me, but I want very much a few words with youto-night, on a matter of great importance." Then, glancing at Marion,he added: "I trust that Mademoiselle will forgive this intrusion?"

  The girl glanced at the new-comer, while her lover, taking the man'shand, said--

  "My dear Adam, I, too, wanted to see you, and intended to callto-morrow. You are not intruding in the