shabbily-dressed man called upon him athis flat, and they remained together for ten minutes or so. Athalf-past eight, as Marion was about to enter a 'bus at Oxford Circus totake her up to Hampstead for a blow--a trip she frequently took in theevening when alone--she heard her name uttered, and turning, found Max'spolite French friend behind her, about to mount on the same conveyance.
To avoid him was impossible, therefore they ascended to the toptogether, he declaring that he was on his way to Hampstead.
"I'm going there too," she told him, although he already knew it quitewell. "Have you seen Mr Barclay to-day?"
"Not to-day. I have been busy in the City," Adam explained. He glancedat her, and could not refrain from noting her neat appearance, dressedas she was in a black skirt, white cotton blouse, and a black hat whichsuited her beauty admirably. He knew that she was at Cunnington's, but,of course, appeared in ignorance of the fact. He was most kind andcourteous to her, and so well had he arranged the meeting that shebelieved it to be entirely an accident.
Presently, after they had chatted for some time, he sighed, saying--
"In a few days I suppose I must leave London again."
"Oh! are you going abroad?"
"Yes, to Constantinople. I live there," he said.
"In Constantinople! How very strange it must be to live among theTurks!"
"It is a very charming life, I assure you, Miss Rolfe," he answered."The Turk is always a gentleman, and his country is full of beauty andattraction, even though his capital may be muddy under foot."
"Oh, well," she said laughing, "I don't think I should care to livethere. I should be afraid of them!"
"Your fears would be quite ungrounded," he declared. "A lady can walkunmolested in the streets of Constantinople at any hour of the day ornight, which cannot be said, of your London here."
Then, after a pause, he added--
"I think your friend Mr Barclay is coming with me."
"With you?--to Constantinople?" she exclaimed in dismay. "When?"
"In two or three days," he replied. "But you mustn't tell him I saidso," he went on. "We are going out on business--business that willbring us both a sum of money that will be a fortune to me, if not to MrBarclay. We are in partnership over it."
"What nature is the business?"
"The building of a railroad to the Adriatic. We are obtainingpermission from the Sultan for its construction."
"And Max--I mean Mr Barclay--will make a large sum?" she asked withdeep interest.
"Yes, if he decides to go," replied Adam; "but I fear very much onething," and he fixed his dark eyes upon hers.
"What do you fear?"
"Well--how shall I put it, Miss Rolfe?" he asked. "I--I fear that hewill refuse to go because he does not wish to leave London just now."
"Why not?"
"He has an attraction here," the man laughed--"yourself."
She coloured slightly. Max had probably told this friend that they werelovers.
"Oh! that's quite foolish. He must go, if it is really in hisinterests."
"Exactly," declared Adam. "I have all my life been looking for such achance to make money, and it has at last arrived. He must go."
"Most certainly. I will urge him strongly."
"A word from you, Miss Rolfe, would decide him--but--well, don't youthink it would be best if you did not tell him that we had met. Hemight not like it if he knew we had discussed his business affairs--eh?"
"Very well," she said. "I will say nothing. When he speaks to me aboutthe suggested journey I will strongly advise him to go in his owninterests."
"Yes; do. It will be the means of putting many thousands of pounds intoboth our pockets. The matter is, in fact, entirely in your hands. MayI with safety leave it there?"
"With perfect safety, Mr Adam," was her reply. "It is, perhaps,fortunate that we should have met like this to-night."
"Fortunate!" he echoed. "Most fortunate for all of us. If you arereally Mr Barclay's friend you will see that he goes with me."
"I am his friend, and he shall go if it is to his interest to do go."
"Ask him, and he will tell you," was the reply of the man who hadlounged in Park Lane as a shabby stranger, and of whom old Sam Stathamwent in such deadly fear.
He went with Marion to the end of her journey, and then left her inpretence of walking to his destination.
But after he had raised his hat to her so politely, and bent over herhand, he turned on his heel muttering to himself--
"You think you are his friend, my poor, silly little girl! No. Youwill compel him to go with me to the East, and thus become my catspaw--the tool of Jean Adam."
And giving vent to a short, dry laugh of triumph, he went on his way.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
SHOWS MR STATHAM AT HOME.
Many a man and many a woman, as they passed up Park Lane onmotor-'buses, in cabs, or on foot, glanced at the white house of SamuelStatham, and wondered.
The mystery concerning it and its owner always attracted them. Manywere the weird stories afloat concerning it, stories greatly akin tothose already told in a previous chapter. Men had watched, it was said,and had seen queer goings and comings. But as the matter concernednobody in particular it merely excited public curiosity.
That Sam Statham was eccentric all the world knew. Society gossips inthe papers were fond of referring to the millionaire as "the recluse ofPark Lane" when recording some handsome donation to a charitableinstitution, or expressing a surprise that he was never seen at publicfunctions such as the opening of hospitals or children's homes which hehad himself endowed.
But the word "eccentric" explained it all. As regards the mansion inPark Lane they were always silent, for the elastic law of libel is everbefore the eyes of the journalist who deals in tittle-tattle.
Though the stories concerning the millionaire's residence were curiousand sometimes sensational--many of them of course invented--yet colourwas certainly lent to them by the fact that the old man saw nobodyexcept Levi and his secretary, and nobody had ever been known to passthat closed door at the head of the staircase.
Anyone, however, catching a glimpse of the interior of the hall whenpassing, saw old Levi in black, with his strip of spotless shirt-front,and behind, a wide hall with thick Turkey carpet, huge blue antiquevases, carved furniture, and several fine pictures, the whole possessingan air of solidity and wealth. Beyond, however, was the Unknown and theMysterious.
In the clubs and over dinner-tables the mystery of that Park Lane housewas often spoken of. Men usually shook their heads and said little, butwomen expressed their opinion freely, and formed all sorts of wildtheories.
Among the men who had always been attracted by the stories afloat wereCharlie Rolfe, because of his close association with the old man, andMax Barclay, because of his intimate friendship with Rolfe. The latterhad always been full of suspicion. Sam and Levi, master and man, werethe only two who knew the truth of what lay behind that locked door.And the servant guarded his master's secret well. He was janitor there,and no one passed the threshold into old Sam's library without a verygood cause, and without the permission of the master himself.
A thousand times, as Rolfe had gone in and out of the place, he hadglanced up the broad, well-carpeted stairs, at the foot of which stoodthe fine marble Aphrodite, holding the great electrolier, and at thehead, to the corner out of sight, was the locked door upon which halfLondon had commented.
Had Samuel Statham thrown open his house only once, and given areception, all gossip would be allayed. Indeed, as Rolfe sat with hismaster in the library the morning following Adam's meeting with Marion,he, without telling Sam the reason, suggested an entertainment inNovember. He said that Society were wondering he did not seek to maketheir acquaintance. There were hundreds of people dying to know him.
"Yes," snapped the old man, glancing around the darkened room, for themorning sun was full upon the house. "I know them. They'd come here,crush and guzz
le, eat my dinners, drink my wine, and go away withouteven remembering my name. Oh! I know what the so-called aristocracy welike, never fear. Most of them live upon people like myself who arevain-glorious enough to be pleased to number the Earl of So-and-So andthe Countess of Slush among their personal friends.
"Men with wives can't help being drawn into it. The womenfolk like tospeak of `dear Lady Longneck,' slobber over some old titled hag atparting, or find their names in the `Court and Society' column of the_Daily Snivel_. It's their nature to be ambitious; but when a man'ssingle, like myself, Rolfe, he can please himself. That's why I shut mydoor in their faces."
"Of course, you can afford to," the secretary replied, leaning both hiselbows on the table and looking straight into his master's face. "Fewmen could do as you do. It would be against their interests."
"It may be even against my interests," the old man said thoughtfully,leaning back in his chair, "for I might get a good deal of fun out ofwatching them trying to squeeze a little money out of me, or worm fromme what men call `tips' regarding investments. Why, my dear Rolfe, oncemy door is opened to them, my life would no longer be worth living.Instead of one secretary I'd want a dozen, and Levi would be at the doorall day long answering callers. Other men who live in this street oneither side of me have done it to their cost."
"I've heard it said in the clubs that you, with your vast means and hugeinterests, owe a duty to Society," Rolfe remarked.
"I owe no duty to Society," the old fellow declared angrily. "Societyowes nothing to me, and I owe nothing to it. You know, Rolfe, how--well--how I hate women--and I won't have a pack of chatterboxes about myplace. If I was a man with five hundred a year they wouldn't want toknow me."
"That's very true," Rolfe remarked with a slight sigh. "Nowadays, whena man has money he is at once called a gentleman. A lady is the wife ofa man with money, whatever may have been her past--or her present."
The old man laughed.
"And there is the `perfect lady,'" he said. "A genus usually associatedwith the police-court. But you are quite right, Rolfe, nowadays,according to our modern code, a poor man cannot be a gentleman. No, aslong as I live, the needy aristocracy which calls itself Society shallnever my threshold. I will remain independent of them, for I have nowomankind, and no fish to fry. I don't want a baronetcy, or a peerage.I don't want shooting, or deer-stalking, or yachting, or hunting, or anyof those pastimes. I merely want to be left alone here in peace--if itis possible." And he drew a long breath as the ugly recollection of theshabby stranger crossed his mind.
Rolfe knew well that the old man's objections were because he dare notthrow open the mansion. Some secret was hidden there which he could notreveal. What was it? Why were those brilliant lights sometimes atnight in the upper windows? He had seen them himself sometimes as hepassed along near midnight on his way to his chambers in Jermyn Street,and had been sorely puzzled. More than once he had been convinced thatsomebody lived in the upper floors--somebody who was never seen. Yet ifthat were so, why should there be such secrecy regarding it. Theoccupant, whoever it was, could easily vacate the place while areception was held.
As he sat there listening to the old man's tirade against the West-Endand its ways he felt that there must be some far greater mystery than anunseen tenant.
That old Sam knew quite well the rumour concerning the house, wasevident. Keeping secret agents in every capital as he was forced todo--agents, male and female, who knew everything and reported exactlywhat he wished to know--it was certain that public opinion concerninghim was well-known to him. Yet, as in a scandal, the man most concernedis always the last to get wind of it. Perhaps after all he might be inignorance of what people were saying, although it was hardly crediblethat Ben, his brother, would not tell him.
For craft and cunning few men in London could compare with Sam Statham,yet at the same time he was just in his judgment and honest in histransactions. The weak and needy he befriended, but woe betide any whoendeavoured to mislead him or impose upon his generosity.
More than one man had, by receiving a word of good advice from SamStatham and the temporary loan of a few thousand as capital, awakened ina week's time to find himself wealthy. One man in particular, now awell-known baronet, had risen in ten years from being a small draper inLaunceston to his present position with an estate in Suffolk and a townhouse in Green Street, merely by taking Sam Statham's advice as tocertain investments.
It was owing to this fact, and others, that old Sam, as he rose from thetable and crossed the room to the window, where he pulled aside theblind to look out upon the sunny roadway, said--
"I myself, Rolfe, have made one or two so-called gentlemen. But," headded, drawing a deep breath, "let's put all that aside and get on withthe letters. I'm expecting that Scotch friend of yours, the locomotivedesigner of Glasgow."
"Oh, Macgregor!" remarked the secretary. "He was most pertinacious theother day."
"All Scots are," replied the old man simply. "Let's get on." Andreturning to the table he took up letter after letter and dictatedreplies in his sharp, snappy way which, to those who did not know him,would have appeared priggish and uncouth.
The reason of Macgregor's visit to Old Broad Street had caused Rolfe agood deal of curiosity. He recollected how, on the instant his masterhad read the old engineer's scribbled lines, his face fell. The visitorwas at all events not a welcome one. Yet, on the other hand, he hadseen him without delay, and they had been closeted together for quite along time.
When the bearded Scot left, and he had re-entered the millionaire'sroom, two facts struck him as peculiar. One was that a strong smell ofburnt paper and a quantity of black tinder in the empty grate showedthat some papers had been burned there, while the other was that old Samwas in the act of lighting a cigar, in itself showing a buoyancy ofmind.
He never smoked when down at the bank, and very seldom when at home.His cigars, too, were of a cheap quality which even his clerks would beashamed to offer their friends. Indeed, while all connected with thehouse in Old Broad Street possessed an air of solid prosperity, the headof the firm was usually of a penurious and hard-up aspect, as though hehad a difficulty in making both ends meet. His smart electric broughamhe used only once a week to take him to the City and back again. Atother times he strolled about the streets so shabby as to pass unnoticedby those desirous of making his acquaintance and worming themselves intohis good graces; or else he would idle in the park where he passed for alounger who, crowded out by reason of his age, was down on his luck.
Samuel Statham loved the Park. Often and often he would get intoconversation with the flotsam and jetsam of London life--the unemployed,and the men who, in these days of hustle, alas! find themselves too oldat forty. The ne'er-do-wells he knew quite well, and they believed himto be one of themselves. But he was ever on the look-out for adeserving case--the starving, despondent man with wife and childrenhungry at home. He would draw the man's story from him, hear hiscomplaint against unfair treatment, listen attentively to his wrongs,and pretending all the time to have suffered in a similar way himself.
Usually the man would, in the end, invite him to the home or thelodging-house where his wife and children were, and then, onascertaining that the case was genuine, he would suddenly reveal himselfas the good Samaritan.
To such men he gave himself out as Mr Jones, agent of a benevolentsociety which was nameless, and which did its work withoutadvertisement, and extracted a pledge of secrecy. By such means many adozen honest, hard-working men, who through no fault of their own hadbeen thrown out of employment, had been "put upon their legs" again andgained work, and yet not one of them ever suspected that the shabby,down-at-heel man Jones was actually the millionaire Samuel Statham, wholived in the white house in fall view of the seat whereon they had firstmet.
Even from Rolfe he sought to conceal this secret philanthropy, yet theyoung man had guessed something of it. He had more than once caught himtalking to strange men wh
ose pinched faces and trim appearance told thetruth.
The man whose vast wealth had brought him nothing but isolation andloneliness, delighted in performing these good works, and in rescuingthe unfortunate wives and families of the deserving ones who wereluckless. He loved to see the brightness overspread those dark,despairing faces, and to hear the heartfelt thanks which he was told toconvey to the mythical "society."
Never but once did he allow a man to suspect that the money he gave camefrom his own pocket. That single occasion was when, after giving a manwhom he believed to be deserving a sovereign, he next evening found himin the park the worse for liquor.
He said nothing that night, but a few days later, when he met him, hegave him a piece of his mind which the plausible good-for-nothing wouldnot quickly forget.
"Such frauds as you," he had said, "prevent people from assisting thedeserving poor. I've made inquiry into your story, and found it falsefrom beginning to end. You have no wife, and the four children starvingand ill that you described to me do not exist. You live for the mostpart in the bar of the `Star,' off the Edgware Road, and on the nightafter I gave you the money you were so drunk that they wouldn't serveyou. Such men like you," he went on with withering sarcasm, his greybeard bristling as he spoke, and his fist clenched fiercely, "are adisgrace to the human race, for you are a liar, a drunkard, and