The Pauper of Park Lane

by William Le Queux

compelled to toil and drudge in a London draperystore. He wished with his whole heart that he could take her out ofthat soul-killing business life, with all its petty jealousies and itseternal make-believe towards customers, and put her in the companionshipof some elderly gentlewoman in rural peace.

  But he knew her too well. The mere offer she would regard as an insult.A hundred times she had told him that, being compelled to work for herliving, she was proud of being able to do so.

  Charlie, her brother, he could not understand. He had just made aremark to that effect, and she had asked--"Why? He's awfully good tome, you know. Lots of times he sends me unexpectedly five-pound notes,and they come in very useful to a girl like me, you know. I dare say,"she laughed, "you spend as much in a single evening when you go out withfriends to the theatre and supper at the Savoy as I earn in a month."

  "That's just it," he said. "I can't understand why Charlie, in hisposition, secretary to one of the wealthiest men in England, allows youto slave away in a shop."

  "He does so because I refuse to leave," was her prompt answer. "I don'tcare to live on the charity of anybody while I have the capacity towork. My parents were both proud in this respect, and I take afterthem, I suppose."

  "That is all to your credit, dearest," he said; "but I am lookingforward to the future. I love you, as you well know, and I can't bearto think that you are bound to serve at Cunnington's from nine in themorning till seven at night--waiting on a set of old hags who try tochoose dresses to make them appear young girls."

  She laughed, her beautiful face turned towards him. "Aren't you ratherhard on my sex, Max?" she asked. "We all of us try to present ourselvesto advantage in order to attract and please."

  "All except yourself, darling," he said courteously. "You look just asbeautiful in your plain black business gown as you do now."

  "That's really very sweet of you," she said, smiling. Then a momentlater a serious look overspread her countenance, and she added: "Whyworry yourself over me, Max, dear. I am very happy. I have your love.What more can I want?"

  "Ah! my darling!" he cried, rising and bending till his lips touchedhers, "those words of yours fill me with contentment. You are happybecause I love you! And I am happy because I have secured youraffection! You can never know how deeply I love you--or how completelyI am yours. My only thought is of you, my well-beloved; of your presentlife, and of your future. I have friends--men of the world, who spendtheir time at clubs, at sport, or at theatres--who scoff at love. Iscoff with them sometimes, because there is but one love in all theworld for me--yours!"

  "Yes," she said, slowly fixing her eyes upon his, and tenderly strokinghis hair. "But sometimes--sometimes I am afraid, Max--I--"

  "Afraid!" he echoed. "Afraid of what?"

  "That you cannot trust me."

  He started. Was it not the unconscious truth that she spoke? He hadbeen doubting her all that afternoon.

  "Cannot trust you!" he cried. "What do you mean? How very foolish!"

  But she shook her head, and a slight sigh escaped her. She seemed topossess some vague intuition that he did not entirely accept herstatement regarding Maud. Yet was it, after all, very surprising,having in view the fact that she had admitted that Maud had madeconfession. It was the truth regarding that admission on the part ofthe Doctor's daughter that he was hoping to elicit.

  "Marion," he said presently, in a low, intense voice, "Marion, I loveyou. If I did not trust you, do you think my affection would be sostrong for you as it is?"

  She paused for a moment before replying.

  "That all depends," she said. "You might suspect me of double-dealing,and yet love me at the same time."

  "But I do not doubt you, darling," he assured her, at the same timeplacing his arm around her slim waist and kissing her upon the lips. "Ilove you; surely you believe that?"

  "Yes, Max, I do," she murmured. "I do--but I--"

  "But what?" he asked, looking straight into her fine eyes and waitingfor her to continue.

  She averted his gaze, and slowly but firmly disengaged herself from hisembrace, while he, on his part, wondered.

  She was silent, her face pale, and in her eyes a look of sudden fear.

  "Tell me, darling," he whispered. "You have something to say to me--isnot that so?"

  He loved her, he told himself, as truly as any man had ever loved awoman. It was only that one little suspicion that had arisen--thesuspicion that she had not been to Queen's Hall with his friend'sdaughter.

  He took her hand lightly in his and raised it courteously to his lips,but she drew it away, crying, "No! No, Max! No."

  "No?" he gasped, staring at her. "What do you mean, Marion. Tell mewhat you mean."

  "I--I mean that--that though we may love each other, perfect trust doesnot exist between us."

  "As far as I'm concerned it does," he declared, even though he knew thathis words were not exactly the truth. "Why have you so suddenly changedtowards me, Marion? You are my love. I care for no one save yourself.You surely know that--have I not told you so a hundred times? Do youstill doubt me?"

  "No, Max. I do not doubt you. It is you who doubt me!"

  "I do not doubt," he repeated. "I have merely made inquiry regardingMaud, and the confession which you yourself told me she made to you.Surely, in the circumstances, of her extraordinary disappearance,together with her father, it is not strange that I should be undulyinterested in her?"

  "No, not at all strange," she admitted. "I am quite as surprised andinterested over Maud's disappearance as you are."

  "Not quite so surprised."

  "Because I view the whole affair in the light of what she told me."

  "Did what she tell you in any way concern the Doctor?" he asked eagerly.

  "Indirectly it did--not directly."

  "Had you any suspicion that father and daughter intended to suddenlydisappear?"

  "No; but, as I have before told you, I am not surprised."

  "Then they are fugitives, I take it?" he remarked, in a changed tone.

  "Certainly. They were no doubt driven to act as they have done. Unlessthere--there has been a tragedy!"

  "But the men who removed the furniture must be in some way connectedwith the Doctor's secret," he remarked. "There were several of them."

  "I know. You have already described to me all that you have discovered.It is very remarkable and very ingenious."

  "A moment ago you were about to tell me something, Marion," he said,fixing his gaze upon hers; "what is it?"

  "Oh!" she answered uneasily. "Nothing--nothing, I assure you!"

  "Now, don't prevaricate!" he exclaimed, raising his forefinger in mockreproof. "You wanted to explain something to me. What was it?"

  She tried to laugh, but it was only a very futile attempt, and it causedincreased suspicion to arise within his already overburdened mind. Herehe was, endeavouring to elucidate the mystery of the disappearance of afriend, yet she could not assist him in the least. His position wassufficiently tantalising, for he was convinced that by her secretknowledge she held the key to the whole situation.

  Usually, women are not so loyal to friends of their own sex as are men.A woman will often "give away" another woman without the leastcompunction, where a man will be staunch, even though the other may behis enemy. This is a fact well-known to all, yet the reason we mayleave aside as immaterial to this curious and complex narrative which Iam endeavouring to set down in intelligible form.

  Marion, the woman he loved better than his own life, was assuring himthat she had nothing to tell, while he, at the same moment, wasconvinced by her attitude that she was holding back from him someimportant fact which it was her duty to explain. She knew how intimatewas her lover's friendship with the missing man, and the love borne hisdaughter by her own brother. If foul play were suspected, was it nother bounden duty to relate all she knew?

  The alleged confession of Maud Petrovitch struck him now more than everas extraordinary.
Why did Marion not openly tell him of her fears ormisgivings? Why did not she give him at least some idea of the natureof her companion's admissions? On the one hand, he admired her for herloyalty to Maud; while, on the other, he was beside himself with chagrinthat she persistently held her secret.

  In that half-hour during which they had sat together in the crimsonsundown, her manner seemed to have changed. She had acknowledged herlove for him, yet in the same breath she had indicated a gulf betweenthem. He saw in her demeanour a timidity that was quite