The Pauper of Park Lane

He threw down his cigar, for it had gone out a long time ago. Sam Statham’s life had been made up of many crises, and one of these he was passing through on that hot, breathless night after the motor-’buses had ceased their roar in Park Lane and tinkling cab-bells were few and far between.

One o’clock, the sound of the gong arousing him. He switched off the light, and, walking to the window, raised one of the slats of the Venetian blinds and peered out upon the pavement where so recently he had first recognised that man from the grave – the man Jean Adam.

He stood behind the blue brocade curtains, watching eagerly. The passers-by were few – very few. Lower-class London was mostly at Margate and Ramsgate, while “the West-End” was totally absent, in Scotland or at the sea.

He was wondering if Levi had really gone to bed. Or was he lurking there to ascertain who might be the visitor expected? Old Sam crept noiselessly to the door, and, opening it, peered out. The wide hall was now in darkness. Levi had, apparently, obeyed his orders and gone below to bed. And yet, so faithful was he to his trust that nobody could ever enter that house without him being aware of the identity of the visitor.

Sometimes old Sam would regret the brusque manner in which he treated the man who was so entirely devoted to him and who shared so many of his secrets.

But the secret of that night he did not intend Levi to share. It was his – and should be his alone. And for that person he was waiting to himself open the door to his midnight caller.

He was about to close the study door again when he fancied he heard a slight movement in the darkness of the hall. “Levi!” he exclaimed angrily. “What are you doing here when I ordered you to retire?”

“I’m doing my duty,” responded the old servant, advancing out of the shadow. “I do not wish you to go to the door alone, and at night. You do not take sufficient care of your personal safety.”

“Rubbish! I have no fear,” he answered as both stood there in the darkness.

“Yes, but, you are injudicious,” declared the old servant. “If not, you would have heeded young Rolfe’s warning, and your present dangerous position might have been avoided. Adams means mischief. You surely can’t close your eyes to that!”

“I know he does,” answered the millionaire in a voice that seemed harsh and hollow. “I know I was a fool.”

“You took a false step, and can’t retrace it. If you had consulted me I would have given you my views upon the situation.”

“Yes, Levi. You’re far too fond of expounding your view on subjects of which you have no knowledge. Your incessant chatter often annoys me,” was his master’s response. “If I have committed an error, it is my affair – not yours. So go to bed, and leave me alone.”

“I shall not,” was Levi’s open reply.

“I’m master here. I order you to go!” cried Sam Statham in an angry, commanding tone.

“And I refuse. I will not allow you to run any further risk.”

“What do you anticipate?” his master asked with sarcasm. “Are you expecting that my enemies intend to kill me in secret. If so, I can quickly disabuse your mind. It would not be to their interests if I were dead, for they could not then bleed me, as is, no doubt, their intention. I know Adams and his friends.”

“So do I,” declared Levi. “Whatever plot they have formed against you is no doubt clever and ingenious. They are not men to act until every preparation is complete.”

“Then why fear for my personal safety?” asked the millionaire. “I always have this – and I can use it,” and he drew from his pocket something which glistened in the darkness – a neat plated revolver.

“I fear, because of late you’ve acted so injudiciously.”

“Through ignorance. I believed myself to be more shrewd than I really am. You see I admit my failing to you, Levi. But only to you – to nobody else. The City believes Sam Statham to possess the keenest mind and sharpest wits of any man between Temple Bar and Aldgate. Strange, isn’t it, that each one of us earns a reputation for something in which really does not excel?”

“You excel in disbelieving everybody,” remarked Levi outspokenly. “If you believed that there was some little honesty in human nature you might have been spared the present danger.”

“You mean I’m too suspicious – eh? My experience of life has made me so,” he growled. “Of the thousand employees I possess, is there a man among them honest? And as for my friends, is there one I can trust – except Ben and yourself, of course?”

“What about Rolfe?”

Sam Statham hesitated. It was a question put too abruptly – a question not easily decided on the spur of the moment. Of course, ever since his failure to go to Belgrade, he had entertained some misgivings regarding his secretary. There was more than one point of fact which did not coincide with Rolfe’s statements. The old man was quickly suspicious, and when he scented mystery, it was always a long time before his doubts were allayed. Like every man of great wealth, he had been surrounded by sycophants, who had endeavoured to get rich at his expense. The very men he had helped to fortune had turned round afterwards and abused and libelled him. It was that which had long ago soured him against his fellow men, and aroused in his heart a disbelief in all protestation of honesty and uprightness.

Levi recognised his master’s lack of confidence in Rolfe, and it caused him to wonder. Hitherto he had been full of praise of the clever and energetic young secretary by whose smart business methods several great concerns in which he had controlling interest had been put into a flourishing condition. But now, quite of a sudden, there was a hesitancy which told too plainly of lack of confidence. Was the star of Rolfe’s prosperity on the wane?

If so, Levi felt sorry, for he was attached to the young man, whom he felt confident had the interests of his master thoroughly at heart. Old Levi was a queer fish. He had seldom taken to anybody as he had done to Mr Rolfe, who happily cracked a joke with him and asked after his rheumatics.

“Levi,” exclaimed Statham after a few moments of silence, “is it not absurd for us to chatter here, in the darkness? It’s past one. I wish you to go downstairs and leave me alone.”

“Why?” demanded the old retainer.

“Because I have a strong reason for opening the door myself. I – well I promised that my visitor should be seen by no one except myself. Now, do you understand?”

Levi did not answer for a few moments.

“Then in that case,” he said with reluctance, “I suppose I must do as you wish, only I’m very much against you opening the door yourself. You know that!”

And grunting, his dark figure moved along the hall, and he disappeared down the stairs, wishing his master “good-night.”

Statham, having listened to his retreating footsteps, re-entered the library, which was still unlit, and, going again to the window, peered forth into Park Lane.

Rain was falling, and the street-lamps cast long lines of light upon the shining pavements. In the faint ray of light that fell across the room from without he bent and looked at his watch. It was half-past one – the hour of the appointment.

The old fellow raised both hands to his head and smoothed back his grey hair. Then he drew a long sigh, and waited in patience, peering forth in eager expectancy.

For another ten minutes he remained almost motionless until at last his ear caught the sound of a footstep coming from the direction of Oxford Street, and a dark figure, passing the window, stopped beneath the porch.

Next second he flew along the hall to the door, opening it noiselessly to admit a woman in a black tailor-made gown and motor-cap, her features but half concealed by a thin veil of grey gauze.

She crossed the threshold without speaking, for he raised his finger as though to command her silence. Then, when he had closed the door behind her and slipped the bolt into its socket, he conducted her along to the dark study, without uttering a word.

Her attitude and gait was that of fear and hesitancy; as though she already regretted having come there, and would fain make her escape – if escape were possible.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

In which Marion is Indiscreet

On entering, old Statham switched on the electric light quietly, the soft glow revealing the pale countenance of his guest.

The blanched face, with its apprehensive, half-frightened expression, was that of Marion Rolfe.

“Well,” he said in his thin, rather squeaky voice, after he had closed the door behind her and drawn forward a chair, “you have at last summoned courage to come – eh?” He smiled at her triumphantly. “Why have you refused my invitation so many times? My house, I know, bears a reputation for mystery, but I am no ogre, I assure you, Miss Rolfe.”

“Whispers have come back to me that I am believed by some to be a modern Blue Beard, or by others a kind of seducer; but I trust you will disbelieve the wild rumours put out by my enemies, and regard me as your friend.”

She had sunk into the soft depths of the green silk upholstered chair, and, with her motor-veil thrown back, was gazing at the old man, half in fear, half in wonder. To his words she made no response.

“I hope the car I sent came for you as arranged?” he said, at once changing the subject.

“Yes. The man arrived punctually,” she answered at last. “But – ”

“But what?”