The Pauper of Park Lane

“I ought never to have come here,” she declared uneasily. “I will have to go before Mr Cunnington to-morrow for being absent all night, and shall certainly be discharged. He will never hear excuse in any case. Instant dismissal is the hard and fast rule.”

“Not in your case, Miss Rolfe,” replied the old millionaire. “Remember that it is not Mr Cunnington who controls Cunnington’s, Limited. I have asked you here in order to speak to you in strictest confidence. Indeed, I want to take you into my confidence, if you’ll allow me. Perhaps you will be absent from Oxford Street a week – perhaps a month. But when you return you will not find the vacancy filled.” His cold eyes were fixed upon hers. She found a strange fascination in the old man’s glance, for he seemed to fix her and hold her immovable. Now, for the first time she experienced what Charlie had so often told her, namely, that Samuel Statham could, when he so desired, exercise an extraordinary power over his fellow men.

“Absent a month?” she echoed, staring at him. “What do you mean?”

“What I say. The car is awaiting you at the Marble Arch, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. The chauffeur put me down there – at your orders, I believe.”

“I told you to put on a thick coat and motor-veil. I see you have done as I wished. I want you to go on a long journey.” She looked at the grey, immovable face before her in sheer astonishment. To this man both her brother Charlie and she herself owed their present happiness. And yet he was a man of millions and of mystery. Charlie had always been reticent regarding the strange tales concerning the house in which she now found herself, a visitor there under compulsion. Max, on the other hand, had often expressed wonder whether or not there was really any substratum of truth.

As she sat there she recollected how, only a fortnight before, Max had told her the latest queer story regarding the mysterious mansion and its eccentric owner. What would he say if he knew that she had dared to go alone there – that she was seated in the old man’s private room?

Dared! If the truth were told, Sam Statham had written to her fully half-a-dozen times, asking her to call upon him in secret in the evening when her brother would have left, as he wished to speak with her. Each time she had replied making excuses, for within herself she could not imagine upon what business he wished to see her. She had only met him once, on the day her brother took her to the City and asked his master to secure her a berth at Cunnington’s. The interview only lasted five minutes, and the impression he left upon her was that of a peevish, snappy old man who held all women in abhorrence.

“Very well, very well, Rolfe,” he had replied impatiently, “I’ll write to Cunnington’s about your sister. Remind me to-morrow.” Then, turning to her, he had wished her a hasty good-bye, and resumed his writing. He had hardly taken the trouble to look at her.

Now, for the first time, he was gazing straight into her face, and she thought she detected in his eyes an expression of sadness, combined with kindliness. An expert in the reading of character, however, would have noticed beneath that assumed kindliness was an expression of triumph. He had brought her there against her will. She was there at his bidding, merely because she dare not offend the man to whom both Charlie and herself owed their daily bread.

For a long time she had held out against all his strongly-expressed desires to see her. His letters had been placed in her hand by a special messenger, and Mr Warner, “the buyer,” had on two occasions witnessed their delivery, and wondered who might be his assistant’s correspondent. He never dreamed that it was Samuel Statham, the man who held the controlling interest in the huge concern.

The writer of those letters particularly requested her not to mention the matter to her brother, therefore she more than once thought of consulting Max. But Statham’s instructions was that she should regard the matter as confidential so she had refrained, and at the same time had met all his invitations with steady excuses.

At last on the previous day came a tersely worded note, which made it plain that the millionaire would brook no refusal. She was to purchase a motor-cap and veil, and, wearing them, was, at an hour he appointed, to meet a dark red motor car that would be awaiting her at Addison Road station. In it she was to drive back to the Marble Arch, where he was to alight and walk along Park Lane direct to the house, where he himself would admit her in secret. The writer added that she was to ask no questions, and that no reply was needed. He would be expecting her.

And so she had come there in utter ignorance of his motive for inviting her, and as she sat before him she became filled with apprehension. Hers was, she knew, an adventure of which neither Charlie nor Max would approve.

The clever old man read the girl’s mind like an open book, and at once sought to allay her misgivings.

“I see,” he said, smiling, “that you are not altogether at your ease. You’re afraid of what people might say – eh? Your fellow-assistants wouldn’t approve of you coming to see me at this hour, I suppose. Yes,” he laughed. “What is considered discreditable among the middle classes is deemed quite admissible in society. But who need know unless you yourself tell them?”

“It will be known to-morrow morning that I was absent,” she said.

“Leave that to me. Only one person will know – Cunnington himself. So make your mind quite easy upon that point, my dear young lady. I can quite understand your hesitation in coming here. It is, of course, only natural. But you must remember in what high esteem I held your father, and how for the sake of his memory I have taken your brother into my service.”

“Before we go further, Mr Statham,” exclaimed the girl, “I would like to take this opportunity of thanking you for all you’ve done for both of us. Had it not been for your generosity I’m sure Charlie would never have been in such a position.”

“Ah! you’re very fond of your brother, eh?” he asked in his quick, brusque way, leaning back in his armchair and placing his hands together.

“Yes. He is so very good to me.”

“And you probably know something of his affairs?”

“Very little. He doesn’t tell me much.”

“He talks of me sometimes, I suppose?” remarked the old man with a good-humoured smile.

“With the greatest admiration always, Mr Statham. He is devoted to you,” she declared.

The old man moved uneasily, and gave a sniff of suspicion combined with a low grunt of satisfaction.

“He’s engaged to some foreign woman, I hear,” he said. “You know her, of course.”

“You mean Maud Petrovitch. Yes, she is my friend.”

“Petrovitch – Petrovitch,” he repeated, as though in ignorance of the fact. “I’ve heard that name before. Sounds like a Russian name.”

“Servian. She is the daughter of Doctor Petrovitch, the well-known Servian statesman.”

“Of course. I recollect now. He’s been in the Ministry once or twice. I recollect having some dealings with him over the Servian Loan. He was Finance Minister then. And so he is in love with her!” he said, reflectively. “If I remember aright, she’s the only daughter. His Excellency invited me to dine at his house in Belgrade one night a few years ago, and I saw her – a very pretty, dark-haired girl; she looked more French than Servian.”

“Her mother was English.”

“Ah!”

And a dead silence fell, broken only by the low tinkle of a cab-bell outside.

“So your brother is in love with the pretty daughter of the ex-Minister! What a happy circumstance is youth!” sighed the old man. “And you yourself?” he went on, staring straight at her. “You have a lover also! How can I ask? Of course, a beautiful girl like you must have a lover.”

Marion blushed deeply – dropping her eyes from his. She was annoyed that he should make such an outspoken comment, and yet she forgave him, knowing full well what an eccentric person he was.

The truth was that the old man now, for the first time, realised how extremely good-looking was the sister of his secretary. He had been told so by Mr Cunnington on one occasion, but he had heard without paying attention. Yet as he now sat with his gaze fastened upon her he saw how uneasy she was, and how anxious to escape from his presence.

This rather piqued him. He had a suspicion that her brother might have said something to prejudice him in her estimation; therefore he exerted all his efforts to place her at her ease – efforts which, alas! had but little avail. The silence of that sombre but gorgeous room, the weird mystery of the house itself, and the thin-faced man of millions himself all combined to fill her with some instinctive dread. Alone there at that hour, she felt herself completely in that man’s power.

Only three days before she had read a paragraph in “M.A.P.” regarding his enormous wealth and his far-reaching power and influence. The writer said that Samuel Statham was a man who seldom smiled, and whose own secretary scarcely knew him, so aloof did he hold himself from the world. And it was added that he, possessor of millions, preferred hot baked potatoes on a winter’s night to the finest dishes which a French chef could contrive.

He was a man of simplest tastes, yet strangely erratic in his movements; a man whose foresight in business matters was little short of miraculous, and whose very touch seemed to turn dross to gold. He had declined half-a-dozen invitations to meet royalty at royalty’s express wish, and when offered a peerage by the Prime Minister before the late Government went out of office he had respectfully declined the preferred honour. Sam Statham sneered at society, and turned a cold shoulder to it – a fact which caused society to be all the more eager to know him.

Marion recollected every word of this as she sat in wonder at the actual motive of her visit. Her eyes wandered around the fine room with its beautiful pictures, its priceless pieces of statuary, and its great Chinese vases that were loot from the Summer Palace at Pekin. The air of wealth and luxury impressed her, while even the arrangement of the electric lights, placed out of sight behind the book-cases and reflected into the centre of the apartment, was so cunningly devised that the illumination was bright without being glaring.

“And so you have a lover in secret – eh?” he laughed, leaning back and regarding her with half-closed eyes. “Like every other girl, you dream of marriage and happiness – a shadowy dream, I can assure you. Happiness is as tangible as the moonbeams, and love as fleeting as the sunset. But you are young, and will disbelieve me. I don’t ask you to heed me, indeed, for I am old and world-weary and soured of life. I only urge upon you to pause, and think deeply, very deeply and earnestly, before you plight your troth to any man. Most men are unworthy, and all men are liars.”

Had he brought her there at that unusual hour to deliver a discourse upon the perils of affection?

She sat listening to him without uttering a word. But she thought of Max – her Max, who loved her so dearly and so well – and she laughed within herself at the old man’s well-meant warnings.

His words were those of a man whose happiness had been wrecked by some woman, vain and worthless.

Why had he insisted that she should visit him in secret? To her, his motive was a complete enigma, rendered the more complicated by his vigorous denunciation of affection, and all that appertained to it.

Chapter Thirty.

The Spider’s Parlour

“What you have told me, Miss Rolfe, concerning your brother’s engagement, interests me greatly,” the old fellow said at last. “He is entirely in my confidence, and a most valuable assistant, therefore I, naturally, am very anxious that he should not make an unhappy marriage.”

“I – I hope that you will not say that I have told you,” exclaimed the girl quickly. “I know I ought not to – ”