The Pauper of Park Lane. William Le Queux

Maud had confessed something not very creditable to herself, something which she, as a woman, hesitated to tell him. If this were actually true, however, why should she reveal the truth to Maud’s lover? Would she not rather hide it from him?

      “But you will not see Charlie for months,” he exclaimed, in dismay. “What are we to do in the meantime?”

      “We can only wait,” she answered. “I cannot break my oath to my friend.”

      “Then you took an oath not to repeat what she told you?”

      “She told me something amazing concerning—”

      And she hesitated.

      “Concerning herself,” he added. “Well?”

      “It was a confession, Max—a—a terrible confession. I had not a wink of sleep last night for her words rang in my ears, and her face, wild and haggard, haunted me in the darkness. Ah! it is beyond credence—horrible!—but—but, Max—leave me. These people are noticing us. I will see you to-night, where you like. Only go—go! I can’t bear to talk of it! Poor Maud! What that confession must have cost her! And why? Ah, I see it all now! Because—because she knew that her end was near!”

Chapter Seven.

       Table of Contents

      Contains Several Revelations.

      Max Barclay re-traced his steps along Oxford Street much puzzled. What Marion had told him was both startling and curious in face of the sudden disappearance of the Doctor and his daughter. If the latter had made a confession, as she apparently had, then Marion was, after all, perfectly within her right in not betraying her friend.

      Yet what could that confession be? Marion had said it was “a terrible confession,” and as he went along he tried in vain to imagine its nature.

      The morning was bright and sunlit, and Oxford Street was already busy. About the Circus the ebb and flow of traffic had already begun, and the windows of the big drapery shops were already attracting the feminine crowds with their announcements of “summer sales” and baits of “great bargains.”

      For a moment he paused at the kerb, then, entering a hansom, he drove to Mariner’s Stores, the great emporium in Knightsbridge, which had been entrusted with the removal of the Doctor’s furniture.

      Without much difficulty he found the manager, a short, dapper, little frock-coated freckled-faced business man, and explained the nature of his inquiry.

      The man seemed somewhat puzzled, and, going to a desk, opened a big ledger and slowly turned the pages.

      “I think there must be some mistake, sir,” was his reply. “We have had no removal of that name yesterday.”

      “But they were at Cromwell Road late last night,” Max declared. “The police saw them there.”

      “The police could not have seen any of our vans removing furniture from Cromwell Road last night,” protested the manager. “See here for yourself. Yesterday there were four removals only—Croydon to Southsea, Fitzjohn’s Avenue to Lower Norwood, South Audley Street to Ashley Gardens, and Elgin Avenue to Finchley. Here they are,” and he pointed to the page whereon the particulars were inscribed.

      “The goods in question were removed by you from Cromwell Road, and stored in your depository at Chiswick.”

      “I think, sir, you really must be mistaken,” replied the manager, shaking his head. “Did you see our vans there yourself?”

      “No. The police did, and made inquiry.”

      “With the usual result, I suppose, that they bungled, and told you the wrong name.”

      “They’ve got it written down in their books.”

      “Well, all I can say is, that we didn’t remove any furniture from the road you mention.”

      “But it was at night.”

      “We do not undertake a job at night unless we receive a guarantee from the landlord that the rent is duly paid, and ascertain that no money is owing.”

      Max was now puzzled more than ever.

      “The police say that the effects were sent to your depository,” he remarked, dissatisfied with the manager’s assurance.

      “In that case inquiry is very easy,” he said, and walking to the telephone he rang up the depository at Chiswick.

      “Is that you, Merrick?” he asked over the ’phone. “I say! Have you been warehousing any goods either yesterday or to-day, or do you know of a job in Cromwell Road, at the house of a Doctor Petrovitch?”

      For a full minute he waited the reply. At last it came, and he heard it to the end.

      “No,” he said, putting down the receiver and turning to Barclay. “As I expected. They know nothing of the matter at the depository.”

      “But how do you account for your vans—two pantechnicons and a covered van—being there?” he asked.

      The manager shook his head.

      “We have here the times when each job in London was finished, and when the vans returned to the yard. They were all in by 7:30. Therefore, they could not have been ours.”

      “Well, that’s most extraordinary.”

      “Is it somebody who has disappeared?”

      “Yes.”

      “Ah! the vans were, no doubt, painted with our names specially, in order to mislead the police,” he said. “There’s some shady transaction somewhere, sir, depend upon it. Perhaps the gentleman wanted to get his things away, eh?”

      “No. He had no necessity for so doing. He was quite well off—no debts, or anything of that kind.”

      “Well, it’s evident that if our name is registered in the police occurrences the vans were painted with our name for some illegal purpose. The gentleman’s disappeared, you say.”

      “Yes. And—well, to tell you the truth, I suspect foul play.”

      “Have you told the police that?” asked the man, suddenly interested.

      “No; not yet. I’ve come to you first.”

      “Then if I were you I’d tell the police the result of your inquiries,” the manager said. “No doubt there’s a crooked incident somewhere.”

      “That’s just what I fear. Quite a number of men most have been engaged in clearing the place out.”

      “Have you been over it? Is it entirely cleared?”

      “Nearly. The grand piano and a big book-case have been; left.”

      “I wonder if it’s been done by professional removers, or by amateurs?” suggested the manager.

      “Ah! I don’t know. If you saw the state of the place you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

      “Most probably.”

      “Then if you’ll come with me I’ll be delighted to show you, and you can give me your opinion.”

      So the pair entered a cab, and a quarter of an hour later were passing along the hall of the empty house. The manager of Harmer’s removals inspected room after room, noticed how the curtains had been torn down, and noted in the fire grate of the drawing-room a quantity of tinder where a number of papers seemed to have been burned.

      “No,” he said presently. “This removal was carried out by amateurs, who were in a very violent hurry. Those vans were faked—bought, perhaps, and repainted