The Pauper of Park Lane

“Then go and see Cunnington for yourself,” snapped the old man. “I’ve done all I can do. If your sister chooses to go away and hide herself, how can I help it?”

“But she was sent away?” cried Rolfe in anger. “Sent away in disgrace, and I intend to discover what charge there is against her – and the truth concerning it?”

“Dear me, Rolfe!” snapped the old man impatiently. “Do go home, for heaven’s sake. You’re tired and hungry – consequently out of temper.”

“Yes,” he cried, “I am out of temper because you refuse to render my sister justice! But she shall have it – she shall?”

And he stalked out of the room and closed the door noisily behind him.

Then, after the door had closed, old Sam raised his head, and his eyes followed the young man. In them was a look such as was seldom seen there – a look of double cunning which spoke mutely of false and double-dealing.

Chapter Forty Four.

Tells of a Determination

Entering his chambers in Jermyn Street half an hour later, Rolfe was met by the faithful Green, to whom he gave orders to “ring up” Mr Barclay at Dover Street.

Then he went along to his room to wash and dress.

A few moments later Green came in, saying:

“Mr Barclay left town five days ago, sir. He’s up at Kilmaronock.”

His master made no reply for some moments. Then at last he said:

“Pack my suit-case, and ’phone to Euston to reserve me a seat to Perth on the ten-five to-morrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And to everybody except my sister, if she calls, you don’t know where I’ve gone – you understand?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

And the man set about packing up his master’s traps.

“You may as well put in a dinner-coat Max may have friends,” Rolfe said.

“Very well, sir.”

His master dressed quickly and went alone to the club for a late dinner. Most of his friends were away shooting, therefore he idled alone for an hour over the paper and then returned to his chambers.

Next morning he scribbled a hasty note to Mr Statham, making an excuse for his sudden absence, and directly after ten was seated in the Scotch express travelling out of London.

At eight that evening he stepped out upon the big, dark station at Perth, sent a telegram to the Crown Inn at Kilmaronock village for a “machine,” as a fly is called, and then took the slow branch line that runs by Crieff and skirts Loch Earn to the head of Glen Ogle, where lay the old castle and fine shooting of which Max Barclay was possessor.

A drive of three miles on the road beside Loch Voil brought him to the lodge-gates, and then another mile up through the park he came to the great portico of the castle.

It was nearly midnight. Lights were still in the billiard-room of the fine old castellated mansion, which Max’s father had modernised and rendered so comfortable, and when Charlie rang, Burton, the butler, could not suppress an exclamation of surprise.

In a few moments, however, Charlie burst into the room where Max and five other men were playing “snooker” before retiring.

The host’s surprise was great, but the visitor received a hearty welcome, and an hour later, when the guests had gone to their rooms, the two friends stood alone together in the long old-fashioned drawing-room which, without a woman’s artistic hand to keep things in order, was rapidly going to decay.

A big wood fire blazed cheerfully in the wide old-fashioned grate, for October evenings in the Highlands are damp and chill, and as the two men stood before it they looked at one another, both hesitating to speak.

Across Charlie’s mind flashed those suspicions which had oppressed him in Belgrade. Was the man before him his enemy or his friend?

“Well,” he blurted forth, “I’ve come straight up to see you, Max. I only arrived home last night. I want to see you concerning Marion.”

His companion’s lips hardened.

“Marion!” he exclaimed. “I have done all I can. I’ve left no effort untried. I have sought the aid of the best confidential inquiry agency in London, and all to no avail. She’s disappeared – as completely as Maud has done!”

“Yes, I know,” replied her brother, thrusting his hands deep into the trousers-pockets of his blue serge travelling-suit. “I’ve seen Statham.”

“And so have I. He wrote to Cunnington’s, but the latter has not replied. I saw Cunnington myself.”

“And what did he say?”

“The fellow refused to say anything,” he replied in a hard tone.

Silence again fell between the pair.

The long, old-fashioned room, with its blue china, its chintz coverings, its grand piano, and its bowls of autumn roses, though full of quaint charm, was weird and unsuited to the home of a bachelor. Indeed, Kilmaronock was a white elephant to Max. He received a fair rental from the farms on the estate, but he never went near the place except for sport for six weeks or so each autumn. The old place possessed some bitter memories for him, for his mother had died there quite suddenly of heart disease on the night of a large dinner-party. He was only eighteen then, but he remembered it too well. It was that tragic memory which had caused him to abandon the place except when he invited a few of his friends to shoot over the estate.

“Let’s go into my own room to talk,” he suggested. “It’s more cosy there.” As a man hates all drawing-rooms, so did Max Barclay detest his. It was for him full of recollections of his dear dead mother.

And so they passed along the corridor to Max’s own little den in the east wing of the house, a pleasant little room overlooking the deep shady glen from whence rose the constant music of the ever-rippling burn.

As Charlie sank into the big armchair near the fire Max pushed the cigar-box towards him. Then he seated himself, saying:

“Now, old fellow, what are we to do? Marion must be found.”

“She must. But you’ve failed, you say?”

“Utterly,” he sighed. “She was discharged from Cunnington’s – disgraced!”

“Why?”

Max shrugged his shoulders. Both men knew well that the reason of the girl’s disappearance was the shame of her dismissal. Both men knew also that by lifting his finger Sam Statham could have reinstated her – or could at least have had inquiry made as to the truth of what had really occurred.

But he had refused. Therefore both were indignant and angry. During the next half-hour they discussed the matter fully and seriously, and were agreed upon one main point, that Statham had acted against them both in refusing his aid to clear the unfortunate girl.

“Whatever fault she has committed,” declared Max, “the truth should be told. I went to him acknowledging my love for her and beseeching his aid. And yet he has refused.”

“Then let us combine, Max, in trying to discover the truth,” her brother suggested. “Marion shall not be cast aside into oblivion by these drapery capitalists who gain fat profits upon the labour and lives of women.”

“You may imperil your position with Statham if you act without discretion,” remarked Max warningly.