The Pauper of Park Lane

“But why are you so inquisitive – eh?” snapped the old man. “Surely the lady will tell you the reason of her dismissal!”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“A fact which is – well – rather curious – shall we designate it?” the old man remarked meaningly.

“You mean to imply that her instant dismissal has cast a slur upon her character, and that she fears to meet me lest she be compelled to tell me the truth?” he said slowly as the suggestion dawned upon him. “Ah! I see. You refuse to help me, Mr Statham, because – because I love her.”

And his face became pale, hard-set, and determined.

Chapter Thirty Eight.

Friend or Foe?

The two men were silent for some moments. Statham was watching his visitor’s face. To him it was, at least, satisfactory to know that Marion had disappeared, fearing to let her lover know the reason of her sudden dismissal lest he should misjudge her.

Truth to tell, he had anticipated that she would have gone straight to Barclay and told him the truth. Within himself he acknowledged that he had played the poor girl a scoundrelly trick, but consoled himself with the thought that when a man’s life was at stake, as his was, any mode of escape became justifiable.

At last the old man stirred in his chair, and, turning to Max, said:

“Please understand plainly it is not because I refuse to help you, but because it is not within my province to dictate to Cunnington replies regarding his assistants.”

“But you hold a controlling interest in the firm,” declared the other.

“That may be so, but I have nothing to do with the details of organisation,” he replied. “No, Mr Barclay, let us end this matter with an expression of my regret at being unable to assist you. Perhaps, however, I may be able to do so in another direction.”

“In another direction!” he echoed. “How?”

“In a small matter of business.”

Max Barclay was both surprised and interested. He knew quite well that Statham could if he wished, give him previous knowledge that would enable him to make a considerable coup. Ignorance of Marion’s visit to the old man or the cause of her dismissal allowed him to regard the millionaire with feelings of friendliness, and to reflect that, after all, he had no power to dictate to Cunnington.

“You know, Mr Barclay,” he said, “I frequently obtain confidential knowledge of what is transpiring in the world of finance. The other day it came to my ears, through a source it is unnecessary to mention, that the Adriatic railway concession has been placed before you.”

Max opened his eyes. He believed that not a soul except the man who had joined him in partnership was aware of this. The information must have come from Constantinople, he thought.

“That is true,” he admitted.

“A big thing!” remarked the old man in his croaking voice. “A very big thing indeed – means prosperity to the Balkan countries. But pardon me if I ask one or two questions. Do not think I have any intention of going behind your back, or attempting to upset your plans. I merely ask for information, because, as perhaps you know, there is but one man in London who could float such a thing, and it is myself.”

“I know, Mr Statham, that we shall be compelled to come to you when we have the concession all in order.”

“You will,” he said with a smile. “But can you, without injury to yourself, tell me who is your associate in this business?”

“A Frenchman – Mr Jean Adam, of Constantinople.” Statham’s face never moved a muscle. Of this he was already quite well aware.

“An old friend of yours, I suppose?”

“Not – not exactly an old friend. I met him for the first time about a month or so ago,” responded Max.

“And what do you know of him?”

“Nothing much except that I believe him to be a man of the highest integrity and the possessor of many friends interested in high finance.”

“Oh! and what causes you to believe that?”

“Well, we first met in Paris, where, having mooted the idea of a partnership, he introduced me to several well-known people, among them Baron Tellier, who arranged the match monopoly of Turkey, and Herr Hengelmann, of Frankfort, whom, no doubt, you know as the concessionaire of the German railway from the Bosphorus to Bagdad.”

The old man gave vent to a dissatisfied grant.

“Both men stand very high in the financial world, do they not?” Max asked.

“Well – they did,” replied old Sam, smiling.

“Did? What, have they gone under?”

“No. Only Hengelmann has been in his coffin fully two years, and the Baron died at Nice last winter.”

“What?” cried Max, starting forward.

“I repeat what I say, Mr Barclay. Your friend Adam has been indulging in a pretty fiction.”

“Are you sure? Are you quite sure they are dead?”

“Most certainly. I was staying in the same hotel at Nice when the Baron died, and I followed him to the grave. He was a great friend of mine.”

Max Barclay sat stunned. Until that moment he had believed in Jean Adam and his plausible tales, but he now saw how very cleverly he had been deceived and imposed upon.

“You’re surprised,” he laughed. “But you must remember that you can get a decent suit of gentlemanly clothes for five pounds, and visiting-cards are only two shillings a hundred. People so often overlook those two important facts in life. Thousands of men can put off their identity with their clothes.”

“But Adam – do you happen to know him?” Max asked. “If you do, it will surely be a very friendly act to tell me the truth.”

“Well,” replied the elder man with some hesitancy, “I may as well tell you at once that the Sultan has never given any concession for the railway from Nisch to San Giovanni di Medua to cross Turkish territory – and will never give it. He fears Bulgaria and Servia too much, for he never knows what Power may be behind them. And, after all, who can blame him? Why should he open his gates to an enemy? Albania is always in unrest, for in the north the Christians predominate, and there is bound to be trouble ere long.”

“Then you believe that the whole thing is a fiction?”

“Most certainly it is. If there was any idea of the Sultan giving an iradé, I should most certainly know of it. I have good agents in Constantinople. No. Take it from me that the concession will never be given. It is not to Turkey’s interest to allow the development of Servia and Bulgaria, therefore your friend’s pretty tale is all a fairy story.”

“Then why is he pressing me to go out to Constantinople?” Max asked.

Statham shrugged his shoulders, indicative of ignorance.

“Perhaps he thinks you will plank down money?” he suggested.

“He wants nothing until I myself am satisfied with the bonâ fides of the business.”

“Stuff on his part, most likely. He’s a past-master of the art.”

“How well do you know him?”