The Pauper of Park Lane. William Le Queux

or two. Where did you see Maud last night?”

      “I met her at the door at Queen’s Hall. I was to go to Cromwell Road to call for her, but she telegraphed to me at the last moment. She was with Charlie, she told me.”

      “And where is Charlie?”

      “Gone to Servia. He left Charing Cross by the mail last night.”

      Max reflected that his friend had not left as his sister supposed.

      “And where did you leave Maud?”

      “I walked to the ‘tube’ station at Piccadilly Circus, and left her there. She went to Earl’s Court Station, and I took a bus home. She told me that you’d been to see the Doctor earlier in the evening. But why do you ask all this?”

      “Because—well, because, Marion, something unusual has occurred,” he replied.

      “Unusual!” she echoed. “What do you mean?”

      “Did Maud tell you anything about her future movements last night—or mention her father’s intentions?”

      “Intentions of what?”

      “Of leaving the house in Cromwell Road.”

      “No; she told me nothing. Only—”

      “Only what?”

      “Well, it struck me that she had something on her mind. You know how bright and merry she usually is. Well, last night she seemed very thoughtful, and I wondered whether she had had any little difference with Charlie.”

      “You mean that they may have quarrelled?”

      “I hardly think that likely,” she said, quickly. “Charlie is far too fond of her, as you know.”

      “And her father does not altogether approve of it,” Max remarked. “He has told me so.”

      “Poor Charlie!” the girl said, for she was very fond of her brother. He was always a good friend to her, and gave her money to buy her dresses and purchase the few little luxuries which her modest stipend as a shop-assistant would not allow her to otherwise possess. “I’m sure he’s devoted to Maud. And she’s one of the best girls I know. They’d make a perfect pair. But the Doctor’s a foreigner, and doesn’t really understand Englishmen.”

      “Perhaps that’s it,” Max said, trying to assume a careless air, for he felt that a hundred eyes were upon him.

      Their position was not a very comfortable one, to say the least. He knew that he ought not to have come there during business hours, but the mystery had so puzzled him that he felt he must continue his inquiries. He had fully expected the morning post to bring him a line from the Doctor. But there had been nothing.

      Both he and Maud had disappeared suddenly, leaving no trace behind—no trace except that woman’s coat with the stain of blood upon the breast.

      Was it one of Maud’s dresses, he wondered. In the band he had noticed the name of its maker—Maison Durand, of Conduit Street—one of the best dressmakers in London. True he had found it in the servants’ quarters, but domestics did not have their clothes made by Durand.

      “But tell me, Max,” said the girl, her fine eyes fixed upon her lover, “what makes you suggest that the Doctor is about to leave Cromwell Road.”

      “He has left already,” was Max’s reply. “That’s the curious part of it.”

      “Left! Moved away!”

      “Yes. I came to ask you what you know about it. They’ve gone away without a word!”

      “How? Why, you were there last evening!”

      “I was. But soon after I left, and while Maud was with you at the concert, three vans came from Harmer’s Stores and cleared out the whole of the furniture.”

      “There wasn’t a bill of sale, or something of that sort, I suppose?” she suggested.

      “Certainly not. The Doctor is a wealthy man. The copper mines of Kaopanik bring him in a splendid income in themselves,” Max said. “No; there’s a mystery—a very great mystery about the affair.”

      “A mystery! Tell me all about it!” she cried, anxiously, for Maud was her best friend, while the Doctor had also been extremely kind to her.

      “I don’t know anything,” he responded. “Except that the whole place by half-past ten last night had been cleared out of furniture. Only the grand piano and a few big pieces have been left. Harmer’s have taken the whole of it to their depository at Chiswick.”

      “Well, that’s most extraordinary, certainly,” she said, opening her eyes in blank surprise. “Maud must have known what was taking place. Possibly that is why she was so melancholy and pensive.”

      “Did she say nothing which would throw any light upon their sadden disappearance?”

      Marion reflected for a few moments, her brows slightly knit in thought.

      “Well, she said something about her father being much worried, but she did not tell me why. About a fortnight ago she told me that both she and her father had many enemies, one of whom would not hesitate to kill him if a chance occurred. I tried to get from her the reason, but she would not tell me.”

      “But you don’t think that the Doctor has been the victim of an assassin, do you?” Max asked in apprehension.

      “No; but Maud may have been,” she answered. “Killed?”

      “I hope not, yet—”

      “Why do you hesitate, Marion, to tell me all you know?” he urged. “There is a mystery here which we must fathom.”

      “My brother knows nothing yet, I suppose.”

      Barclay hesitated.

      “I suppose not,” was his reply.

      “Then, before I say anything, I must see him.”

      “But he’s away in Servia, is he not? He won’t be back for six months.”

      “Then I must wait till he returns,” she answered, decisively.

      “Maud has told you something. Come, admit it,” he urged.

      The girl was silent for a full minute.

      “Yes,” she sighed. “She did tell me something.”

      “When?”

      “Last night, as we were walking together to the station—something that I refused to believe. But I believe it now.”

      “Then you know the truth,” he cried. “If there had not been some unfair play, the Doctor would never have disappeared without first telling me. He has many times entrusted me with his secrets.”

      “I quite believe that he would have telegraphed or written,” she said. “He looked upon you as his best friend in London.”

      “And, Marion, this very fact causes me to suspect foul play,” he said, the recollection of that fugitive in the night flashing across his brain. “What do you, in the light of this secret knowledge, suspect?”

      Her lips were closed tightly, and there was a strange look in her eyes.

      “I believe, Max,” she replied, in a low, hard voice, “that something terrible must have happened to Maud!”

      “Did she apprehend something?”

      “I cannot tell. She confessed to me something under a bond of secrecy. Before I tell you I must consult Charlie—the man she loved so dearly.”

      “But are we not lovers, Marion?” he asked, in a low intense voice. “Cannot you tell me what she said, in order that I may institute inquiries