The Pauper of Park Lane. William Le Queux

you’ve admitted yourself that you’ve never been in more than one room in the mansion,” she said, looking him straight in the face.

      “That’s true. But it doesn’t prove anything, does it?” he asked. And Marion saw that he was nervous and agitated, quite unlike his usual self. Perhaps, however, it was on account of her apprehensions, she thought.

      She had only seen Samuel Statham, the well-known millionaire, on one occasion. She had called at the offices in Old Broad Street one afternoon to see her brother, who was his confidential secretary, when the old fellow had entered, a short, round-shouldered, grey-bearded old man, rather shabbily-dressed, who, looking at her, bluntly asked who she was and what she wanted there.

      One of his eccentricities was that he hated women, and Marion knew that.

      In a faltering tone she replied that she was sister of his secretary, whereupon his manner instantly changed. He became the acme of politeness, asked her into his private room, offered her a glass of port—which, of course, she refused—and chatted to her most affably till her brother’s return.

      Why she had taken such a violent dislike to the old man she herself could not tell. Possibly it was his sudden change of manner, and that his pleasant suavity was feigned. And this, combined with the extraordinary rumours regarding his past, and the mystery of his great mansion in Park Lane, had caused her to view him with bitter prejudice.

      Several customers were waiting to be served, and Marion saw Mr Warner’s eye upon her.

      “Well, Charlie,” she said, “perhaps I’ll get down to Charing Cross to see you off. You go to Paris first, I suppose?”

      “Yes. I take the Orient Express from there, by way of Vienna and Budapest to Belgrade. But,” he added, “don’t come and see me off, there’s a good girl.”

      “Why? I’ve been before, when you’ve gone to the Continent.”

      “Yes, I know,” he answered impatiently; “but—well, it makes me feel as if I shan’t come back. Don’t come, will you?”

      Marion smiled. His anxiety that she should not come struck her as distinctly curious.

      He was not himself. Of that she was convinced. To her, ever since her father’s death, he had been a good friend, and for a year prior to her engagement at Cunnington’s he had divided his salary with her. No girl ever had a better brother than he had been, yet of late she had noticed a complete change in his manner. He was no longer frank with her, as he used to be, and he seemed often to hide from her facts which, with her woman’s keen intelligence, she afterwards discovered.

      “Miss Rolfe!” exclaimed Mr Warner, emerging from his office. “Disengaged?” And he pointed to a pair of somewhat obese ladies who were examining a costume displayed on a stand.

      “Well, good-bye, Charlie,” she said, shaking his hand. “I must go. We’re very busy this afternoon. Perhaps I shall see you at Charing Cross. If not—then take care of yourself, dear. Good-bye.”

      And she turned and left him to attend to the two ladies, while he, with a nod across to Mr Warner, strode out of the shop.

      “I hope to goodness Marion doesn’t come,” he muttered to himself. “Women are so infernally inquisitive. And if she does go to Charing Cross she’s sure to suspect something!”

Chapter Two.

       Table of Contents

      Concerns a Silent Secret.

      That same afternoon, while Charlie Rolfe was bidding farewell to his sister Marion, Max Barclay was sitting in the cosy study of one of the smaller houses in Cromwell Road, smoking cigarettes with a thin-faced, grey-haired, grey-bearded man whose cast of features at once betrayed him to be a foreigner.

      The well-furnished room was the typical den of a studious man, as its owner really was, for about it was an air of solid comfort, while upon the floor near where the elder man was lying back in his leather easy-chair were scattered some newspapers with headings in unfamiliar type—the Greek alphabet.

      The air was thick with cigarette smoke, giving forth an aroma unusual to English nostrils—that pleasant aroma peculiar to Servian tobacco.

      The younger man, dressed in well-fitting, dark grey flannels, his long legs sprawled out as he lay back in his chair taking his ease and gossiping with his friend, was, without doubt, a handsome fellow. Tall beyond the average run of men, with lithe, clean-cut limbs, smart and well-groomed, with closely-cropped dark hair, a pair of merry dark eyes, and a small dark moustache which had an upward trend, his air was distinctly military. Indeed, until a few months before he had held a commission, in a cavalry regiment, but had resigned on account of the death of his father and his consequent succession to the wide and unencumbered Barclay estates in Lincolnshire and up in the Highlands.

      Though now possessor of a fine old English home and a seventeenth-century castle in Scotland, Max Barclay preferred to divide his time between his chambers in Dover Street and wandering about the Continent. There was time enough to “settle down,” he always declared. Besides, both the houses were too big and too gloomy to suit his rather simple bachelor tastes. His Aunt Emily, an old lady of seventy, still continued to live at Water Newton Hall, not far from that quaint, old world and many-spired town, Stamford; but Kilmaronock Castle was unoccupied save for six weeks or so when he went up with friends for the shooting season.

      Agents were frequently making tempting offers to him to let the place to certain wealthy Americans, but he refused all inducements. The fine old place between Crieff and Perth had never been let during his father’s lifetime, and he did not intend that any stranger, except his own friends, should enjoy the splendid shooting now.

      “My dear Petrovitch,” he was saying between whiffs of his cigarette, “It is indeed reassuring what you tell me regarding the settled state of the country. You have surely had sufficient internal troubles of late.”

      “Ah, yes!” sighed the elder man, a deep, thoughtful expression upon his pleasant, if somewhat sallow, countenance. “Servia has passed through her great crisis—the crisis through which every young nation must pass sooner or later; and now, heaven be thanked, a brighter day has dawned for us. Under our new régime prosperity is assured. But”—and pausing, he looked Max straight in the face, and in a changed voice, a voice of increased earnestness and confidence, he added with only a slight accent, for he spoke English very well—“I did not ask you here to discuss politics. We Servians are, I fear, sad gossips upon our own affairs. I wanted to speak to you upon a subject of greatest importance to myself personally, and of someone very dear to me. Now we have been friends, my dear Max, you and I, through some years, and I feel—nay, I know, that you will regard what I say in entire confidence.”

      “Most certainly,” was the young Englishman’s reply, though somewhat surprised at his friend’s sudden change of manner.

      It was true that he had known Dr Michael Petrovitch for quite a number of years.

      Long ago, when he had first visited Belgrade, the Servian capital, the man before him, well-known throughout the Balkans as a patriot, was occupying the position of Minister of Finance under King Milan. Both his Excellency and his wife had been extremely kind to him, had introduced him to the smart social set, had obtained for him the entrée to the Palace festivities, and had presented him to Queen Nathalie. Thus a firm friendship had been established between the two men.

      But affairs in Servia had considerably changed since then. Madame Petrovitch, a charming English lady, had died, and his Excellency, after becoming Minister of Commerce and subsequently Foreign Minister in several succeeding Cabinets, had gone abroad to represent his country at foreign Courts, first St. Petersburg, then Berlin, and then Constantinople, finally returning and coming to live in England.

      Even