The Pauper of Park Lane

For a full hour he wandered the half-deserted streets of central Glasgow, till he found himself down by the Clyde bank, and then re-traced his steps to the hotel, hardly knowing whither he went, so full was he of the terror which daily, nay, hourly, obsessed him. Whether Max Barclay had actually discovered him or not meant to him his whole future – nay his very life.

“I wonder if I could possibly get at the truth through Marion?” he thought to himself. “If he really suspects me he might possibly question her with a view of discovering my actual movements on that night. Would it be safe to approach her? Or would it be safer to boldly face Max, and if he makes any remark, to deny it?”

Usually he was no coward. He believed in facing the music when there was any to face. One of the greatest misfortunes of honest folks is that 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 their pains, they differ from each other only more or less, I’m a fool – a silly, cowardly ass, scenting danger where there is none. What could Max 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. Of excuses I’m never at a loss. It’s an awkward position, I admit, but I must wriggle out of it, as I’ve wriggled before. Statham’s peril seems to me even greater than my own, and, moreover, he asks me to do something that is impossible. He doesn’t know – he never dreams the truth; and, what’s more, he must never know. Otherwise, I – I must – ”

And instinctively his hand passed over his hip-pocket, where reposed the handy 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 turning in. If any had seen him in the silence of that hotel room they would have 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 he looked at the mirror; but when, at eleven o’clock, he took his seat in the directors’ office at the neat Clyde and Motherwell Locomotive Works his face had undergone an entire change. He was the calm, keen business man who, as secretary and agent of the great Samuel Statham, had power to deal with the huge financial interests involved.

The firm had a large contract for building express locomotives for the Italian railways, lately taken over by the State, and the first business was to interview the manager and sub-manager, together with the two engineers sent from Italy, regarding some details of extra cost of construction.

The work of the Clyde and Motherwell Company was always excellent. They turned out locomotives which could well bear comparison with any of the North-Western, Great Northern, or Nord of France, both as to finish, power, speed, and smoothness of running. Indeed, to railways in every part of the world, from Narvik, within the Arctic circle, to New Zealand, Clyde and Motherwell engines were running with satisfaction, thanks to the splendid designs of the chief engineer, Duncan Macgregor, the white-bearded old Scot, who at that moment was seated with Statham’s representative.

The conference between the engineers of the Italian ferrovia and the managers was over, and old Macgregor, who had been engineer for years to Cowan and Drummond, who owned the works before Statham had extended them and turned them into the huge Clyde and Motherwell works, still remained.

He was a broad-speaking Highlander, a native of Killin, on Loch Tay, whose services had long ago been coveted by the London and North-Western Railway Company, on account of his constant improvements in express engines, but who always refused, even though offered a larger salary to go across the border and forsake the firm to whom, forty years ago, he had been apprenticed by his father, a small farmer.

As a Scotsman, he believed in Glasgow. It was, in his opinion, the only place where could be built locomotives that would stand the wear and tear of a foreign or colonial line. An engine that was cleaned and looked after like a watch, as they were on the English or Scotch main lines, was easily turned out, he was fond of saying; but when it became a question of hauling power, combined with speed and strength to withstand hard wear and neglect, it was a very different matter.

Managers and sub-managers, secretaries and accountants there might be, gentlemen who wore black coats and went out to dine in evening clothes, but the actual man at the head of affairs at those great works was Duncan Macgregor – the short, thick-set man, in a shabby suit of grey tweed, who sat there closeted with Rolfe.

“You wrote to London asking to see me, Macgregor,” exclaimed the young man. “We’re always pleased to hear any suggestions you’ve got to make, I assure you,” said Charlie, pleasantly. “Have a cigarette?” and he pushed the big box over to the man who sat on the other side of the table.

“Thank ye, no, Mr Rolfe, sir. I’m better wanting it,” replied Macgregor, in his broad tongue. And then, with a preliminary cough, he said “I – I want very badly to speak with Mr Statham.”

“Whatever you say to me, Macgregor, I will tell him.”

“I want to speak to him ma’sel’.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. He sees nobody – except once a week in the city, and then only for two hours.”

“’E would’na see me – eh?” asked the man, whose designs had brought the firm to the forefront in the trade.

“I fear it would be impossible. You would go to London for nothing. I’m his private secretary, you know; and anything that you tell me I shall be pleased to convey to him.”

“But, mon, I want to see ’im ma’sel’!”

“That can’t be managed,” declared Rolfe. “This business is left to Mr Smale and myself. Mr Statham controls the financial position, but details are left to me, in conjunction with Smale and Hamilton. Is it concerning the development of the business that you wish to see Mr Statham?”

“No, it ain’t. It concerns Mr Statham himself, privately.”

Rolfe pricked up his ears.

“Then it’s a matter which you do not wish to discuss with me?” he said. “Remember that Mr Statham has no business secrets from me. All his private correspondence passes through my hands.”

“I know all that, Mr Rolfe,” Macgregor answered, with impatience; “but I must, an’ I will, see Mr Statham! I’m coming to London to-morrow to see him.”

“My dear sir,” laughed Rolfe, “it’s utterly useless! Why, Mr Statham has peers of the realm calling to see him, and he sends out word that he’s not at home.”

“Eh! ’E’s a big mon, I ken; but when ’e knows ma’ bizniss e’ll verra soon see me,” replied the bearded old fellow, in confidence.

“But is your business of such a very private character?” asked Rolfe.

“Aye, it is.”

“About the projected strike – eh? Well, I can tell you at once what his attitude is towards the men, without you going up to London. He told me a few days ago to say that if there was any trouble, he’d close down the works entirely for six months, or a year, if need be. He won’t stand any nonsense.”

“An’ starve the poor bairns – eh?” mentioned the old engineer, who had grown white in the service of the firm. “Ay, when it was Cowan and Drummond they wouldna’ ha’ done that! I remember the strike in ’82, an’ how they conciliated the men. But it was na’ aboot the strike at all I was wanting to see Mr Statham. It was aboot himself.”

“Himself! What does he concern you? You’ve never met him. He’s never been in Glasgow in his life.”

“Whether I’ve met ’im or no is my own affair, Mr Rolfe,” replied the old fellow, sticking his hairy fist into his jacket pocket. “I want to see ’im now, an’ at once. I shall go to the London office an’ wait till ’e comes.”

“And when he comes he’ll be far too busy to see you,” the secretary declared. “So, my dear man, don’t spend money unnecessarily in going up to London, I beg of you.”

By the old man’s attitude Rolfe scented that something was amiss, and set himself to discover what it was and report to his master.

“Is there any real dissatisfaction in the works?” he asked Macgregor, after a brief pause.

“There was a wee bittie, but it’s a’ passed away.”

“Then it is not concerning the works that you want to see Mr Statham?”

“Nay, mon, not at all.”

“Nor about any new patent?”

“Nay.”

Rolfe was filled with wonder. The attitude of the old fellow was sphinx-like and yet he seemed confident that the millionaire would see him when he applied for an interview. For a full half-hour they chatted, but canny Macgregor told his questioner nothing – nothing more than that he was about to go to London to have a talk with the great financier upon some important matter which closely concerned him.

Therefore by the West Coast evening express, Rolfe left Glasgow for the south, full of wonder as to what the white-bearded old fellow meant by his covert insinuations and his proud confidence in the millionaire’s good offices. There was something there which merited investigation – of that he was convinced.

Chapter Eighteen.

The Outsider

On the left-hand side of Old Broad Street, City, passing from the Royal Exchange to Liverpool Street Station, stands a dark and dingy building, with a row of four windows looking upon the street. On a dull day, when the green-shaded lamps are lit within, the passer-by catches glimpses of rows of clerks, seated at desks poring over ledgers. At the counter is a continual coming and going of clerks and messengers, and notes and gold are received in and paid out constantly until the clock strikes four. Then the big, old doors are closed, and upon them is seen a brass plate, with the lettering almost worn off by continual polishing, bearing the words “Statham Brothers.”

Beyond the counter, through a small wicket, is the manager’s room – large, but gloomy, screened from the public view, and lit summer and winter by artificial light. In a corner is a safe for books, and at either end big writing-tables.

In that sombre room “deals” representing thousands upon thousands were often made, and through its door, alas! many a man who, finding himself pressed, had gone to the firm for financial aid and been refused, had walked out a bankrupt and ruined.