The Pauper of Park Lane

by William Le Queux

few evenings before, while they were seated at one of the littletables on the lawn of the Welcome Club at the Earl's Court Exhibition,of which he was a member, he had again referred to Maud, and asked her,in the interests of his inquiry, to give him some idea of what she hadstated on that night when they last met.

  "I really cannot tell you, Max," was her reply, as she lifted her eyesto his in the dim light shed by the coloured lamps with which the placewas illuminated. "Have I not already told you of the promise I gaveher? You surely do not wish me to break it! Would it be fair, or just?I'm sure you, who are always loyal to a woman, would never wish me tomention what she told me."

  "Of course. If it is anything against her reputation--her honour--thenit is certainly best left unsaid," he replied quickly. "Only--well, I--I thought, perhaps, it might give us a clue to the motive of theirunaccountable flight."

  "Perhaps it might," she admitted; "and yet I cannot tell you."

  "Does Charlie know? Would he tell me, do you think?"

  "I don't think Charlie knows. At any rate, she would not tell him. Ifhe does know, it must be through some other source."

  "And you anticipate that what Maud told you had some connection withtheir sudden disappearance?" he asked, looking steadfastly into the faceof the woman he dearly loved.

  "I've already told you so."

  "But when you parted from her that night, did you believe that you wouldnot meet her again?"

  She was silent, looking straight before her at the crowd of idlerscirculating around the illuminated bandstand and enjoying the music andthe cool air after the stifling London day.

  At last she spoke, saying in a low, rather strained voice:

  "I can hardly answer that question. Had I suspected anything unusual Ithink I should have mentioned my apprehension to you."

  "Yes, I feel sure you would have done, dearest," he declared. "I quitesee the difficulty of your present position. And you understand, I'mquite sure, how anxious I feel regarding the safety of the doctor, whowas such a dear friend of mine."

  "But why are you so anxious, Max?" she asked.

  "Because if--well, if there had not been foul play, I should have heardfrom the doctor before this!" he said seriously.

  "Foul play?" she gasped, starting forward. "Do you suspect some--sometragedy, then?"

  "Yes, Marion," was his low, earnest reply. "I do."

  "But why?" she queried. "Remember that the doctor was a diplomat andstatesman. In Servia politics are very complex, as they are, I'm told,in every young nation. Our own English history was a strange andexciting one when we were the present age of Servia. The people killedKing Alexander, it is true; but did we not kill King Charles?"

  "Then you think that some political undercurrent is responsible for thisdisappearance?" he suggested.

  "That has more than once crossed my mind."

  "Yet would he not have sent word to me in secret?"

  "No. He might fear spies. You yourself have told me how secret agentsswarm in the Balkan countries, and that espionage is as bad there as inRussia."

  "But we are in London--not in Servia."

  "There are surely secret agents of the Servian Opposition party here inLondon!" she said. "You were telling me something about them once--somefacts which the doctor had revealed to you."

  "Yes, I remember," he remarked thoughtfully, feeling that in herargument there was much truth. "Yet I have a kind of intuition of theoccurrence of some tragedy, Marion," he added, recollecting how herbrother had stolen in secret from that denuded house.

  "Well, I think, dear, that your fears are quite groundless," shedeclared. "I know how the affair is worrying you, and how much yourespected the dear old doctor. But, if I were you, I would wait inpatience. He will surely send you word some day from some remote cornerof the earth. Suppose he had sailed for India, South America, or SouthAfrica, for instance? There would have been no time for him to write toyou from his hiding-place."

  "Then he is in hiding--eh?" asked Max, eager to seize on any word of,hers that might afford a clue to the strange statement of Maud.

  "He may be."

  "Is that your opinion?"

  "I suspect as much."

  "Then you do not believe there has been a tragedy?"

  "I believe only in what I know," replied the girl with wisdom.

  "And you know there has not been a tragedy?"

  "Ah! no. There you are quite mistaken. I have no knowledgewhatsoever."

  "Only surmise?"

  "Only surmise."

  "Based upon what Maud told you--eh?" he asked at last, bringing theconversation to the point.

  "What Maud told me has nothing whatever to do with my surmise," was herquick reply. "It is a surmise, pure and simple."

  "And you have no foundation of fact for it?"

  "None, dear."

  Max was disappointed. He sat smoking, staring straight before him. Atthe tables around, beneath the trees, well-dressed people were chattingand laughing in the dim light, while the military band opposite playedthe newest waltz. But he heard it not. He was only thinking of how hecould clear up the mystery of the strange disappearance of his dearestfriend. He glanced at the soft face of the sweet girl at his side, thatwas so full of affection and yet so sphinx-like.

  She would tell him nothing. Again and again she had refused to betraythe confidence of her friend.

  For the thousandth time he reflected upon that curious and startlingincident which he had seen with his own eyes in Cromwell Road, and ofthe inexplicable discovery he had made. He had not met Rolfe. That heshould keep away from him was, in itself, suspicious. Without a doubthe knew the truth.

  Max wondered whether Charlie had told his sister anything--whether hehad told her the truth, and the reason of her determination not to speakwas not to incriminate him. He knew in what strong affection she heldher brother--how she always tried to shield his faults and magnify hisvirtues. Yet was it not only what might be very naturally supposed thatshe would do? Charlie was always very good to her. To him, she owedpractically everything.

  And so he pondered, smoking in silence while the band played and theafter-dinner idlers gossiped and flirted on that dimly-lit lawn. Hepondered when later on he took her to Oxford Street by the "tube," andsaw her to the corner of the street in which Cunnington's barracks weresituated, and he pondered as he drove along Piccadilly to theTraveller's to have a final drink before going home.

  Next morning, about eleven, he was in his pleasant bachelor sitting-roomin Dover Street going over some accounts from his factor up in Scotland,when the door opened and Charlie Rolfe entered, exclaiming in his usualhearty way:

  "Hulloa, Max, old chap, how are you?"

  Barclay looked up in utter surprise. The visit was entirely unexpected,and so intimate a friend was Rolfe that he always entered unannounced.

  In a moment, however, he recovered himself.

  "Why, Charlie," he exclaimed, motioning him to a low easy-chair on theother side of the fireplace, "you're quite a stranger. Where have youbeen all this long time?"

  "Oh! I thought you knew through Marion. I've been up in Glasgow. Hada lot of worries at the works--labour trouble and all that sort ofthing," he replied. "Those Scotch workmen are utterly incorrigible, butI must say that it's due to agitators from our side of the border."

  "Yes; I saw something in the papers the other day about an impendingstrike. Have a cigar?" and he pushed the box towards his friend.

  "There would have been a strike if the old man hadn't put his foot down.The men held a meeting and reconsidered their position. It's well forthem they did, otherwise I had orders to close down the whole works forsix months--or for a year, if need be."

  "But you'd have lost very heavily, wouldn't you?"

  "Lost? I should rather think so. We should have had to pay damages forbreach of contract with the Italian railways to the tune of a nice roundsum. But what does it matter to the guv'nor. When he takes a standagainst what
he calls the tyranny of labour he doesn't count the cost."

  "Well," sighed Max, looking across at Marion's brother, "it's rathernice to be in such a position, and yet--"

  "And yet it isn't all honey to be in his shoes--eh? No, Max, it isn't,"he said. "I know more about old Sam than most men, and I tell you I'drather be as I am than stifled by wealth as he is. He's a millionairein gold, but a pauper in happiness."

  "I can't help thinking that his unhappiness must, in a great measure, bedue to himself," Max remarked, wondering why