The Pauper of Park Lane

by William Le Queux

andunaccountable occurrence. Doctor Petrovitch disappeared from Londonjust at a moment when his presence here was, in his own interests, aswell as in mine, most required. I need not go into the details," hewent on, fixing her with his sunken eyes. "It is sufficient to explainto you that he and I had certain secret negotiations. He came here onmany occasions, always in secret--at about this hour. He preferred tovisit me in that manner, because of the spies who always haunted him andwho reported all his doings to Belgrade."

  "I was not aware that you were on friendly terms," Marion remarked."Maud never told me that her father visited you."

  "Because she was in ignorance," Statham replied. "The Doctor was adiplomatist, remember, and could keep a secret, even from his owndaughter. From what I've told you, you can surely gather how extremelyanxious I am to know the truth."

  Marion was silent. She realised to the full that financial interests ofthe millionaire were at stake--that her statement might save huge lossesif she betrayed Maud, and told this man the truth. He was her friendand benefactor. To him both she and Charlie owed everything. Withouthim they would be compelled to face the world, she friendless andpractically penniless. The penalty of her silence he had alreadyindicated. By refraining from assisting her, he could to-morrow casther out of her employment, discredited and disgraced!

  What would Max think? What would he believe?

  If she remained silent she would preserve Maud's honour and Charlie'speace of mind. He was devoted to the sweet-faced, half-foreign girlwith the stray little wisp of hair across her brow. Yet if he knew whatshe had told him he would hate her--he must hate her. Ah! the merethought of it drove her to a frenzy of despair.

  She set her teeth, and, with her face pale as death, she rose slowly togo. Her brows were knit, her countenance determined.

  Come what might, she would be loyal to her friend. Charlie should neverknow the truth. Rather than that she would sacrifice herself--sacrificeher love for Max Barclay, which was to her the sweetest and mosttreasured sentiment in all the world.

  "I have asked you to assist me, Miss Rolfe," the old man said, in a low,impressive voice, leaning his arm upon the edge of his writing-table andbending towards her. "Surely when you know all that it means to me, youwill not refuse?"

  "I refuse to betray my friend," was her firm response, her face white tothe lips. "You may act as you think proper, Mr Statham. You may allowmy friends to think ill of me; you may stand aside and see me castto-morrow at a moment's notice out of Cunnington's employ because of myabsence to-night, but my lips are closed regarding the confession madeto me in confidence. In anything else I am ready to serve you. Youhave asked me to go upon a journey in your interests--in a motor carthat is awaiting me. This I am willing and anxious to do. You are mybenefactor, and it is my duty to do what you wish."

  "It is your duty, Miss Rolfe, to tell me what I desire to know."

  "No!" she cried, facing him boldly, her bright eyes flashing defiantlyupon him. "It is not my duty to betray my friend--even to you!"

  "Very well," he answered, with a smile upon his thin lips. "It isgetting late. They may be wondering at Cunnington's. I will see you tothe door."

  And the expression upon his face showed her, alas! too plainly that forher there was no future.

  The present was already dead, the future--?

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

  AGAINST THE RULES.

  "Miss Rolfe, Mr Cunnington wants you in the counting-house," exclaimeda youth approaching Marion just after ten o'clock the following morning.She had been in the department early, and was busy re-arranging anautumn costume upon a stand, with a ticket bearing the words, "Parismodel, 49 shillings, 11 pence."

  The dread words that broke upon her ear caused her young heart to sinkwithin her. As she feared, she was "carpeted."

  To be absent at night without leave was the "sack" at a moment's noticeto any of Cunnington's girls. There was no leniency in that respect asin certain other large stores in London which I could name, where thegirls are so very badly paid that it is a scandal and disgrace to thesmug, church-going shareholders who grow fat upon their dividends. Butwho among those who bold shares in the big drapery concerns of London,or who among the millions of customers on the look-out for bargains atsales, care a jot for the poor girl-assistant, the drudgery she has toundergo, or the evils she suffers by the iniquitous system of"living-in?"

  It is a dull, drab life indeed, the life of the London shop, with itsfortnight's holiday each year and its constant strain of the telling ofuntruths in order to sell goods. But the supply of shop labour isalways greater than the demand. Girls and youths are always coming upfrom the country in constant streams, "cribbing," as it is called--or onthe lookout for a berth--and as soon as a girl loses her freshness, or aman's hair begins to show silver threads, he is thrown out in favour ofa youth--from Scotland or Wales by preference.

  London, alas! little dreams of the callous heartlessness of employers inthe drapery trade.

  Marion knew this. Since she had been at Cunnington's her eyes had beenopened to the scant consideration she need expect. Girls who had workedin her department had been discharged merely because, suffering from acold or from the stress of overwork, they had been absent a couple ofdays. And all the information vouchsafed them was that the firm couldnot afford to support invalids. Once, indeed, she had sat beside adying girl in the Brompton Hospital--a girl to whom the close, vitiatedatmosphere of the shop had brought consumption, and she had been sentforth, at a moment's notice, homeless, and to die.

  And so, when the youth made the announcement, she knit her brows,brushed the hair from her brow, placed down the pincushion in her hand,and followed him through the several shops into another building whereMr Cunnington's private room was situated.

  In the outer office of the counting-house several persons, buyers,callers, and others, were waiting audience with the chief.

  One girl, a saucy, dark-haired assistant in the ribbons, exclaimed:

  "Hullo, Rolfe! What are you up for?"

  Marion flushed slightly, and answered:

  "I--I hardly know."

  "Well, I'm going in for a rise, and if the guv'nor don't give it to meI'm going to Westoby's to-morrow. I've got a good crib there. My youngman is shop-walker, so I'll get on like a house on fire."

  "Westoby's is a lot better than here," remarked a pale-faced maleassistant. "I was there for a sale once. I only wish they'd have keptme."

  "I've heard that the food is wretched," remarked Marion, for the sake ofsomething to say.

  "It isn't good," declared the young man, "but the girls get lots morefreedom. They do as they like almost. Old Westoby don't care, as longas the business pays. It's a public company, like this, but they do abit lower-class trade, which means more `spiffs.'"

  "I haven't made a quid this last three months out of `spiffs'," declaredthe ribbon-girl. "That's why I want a rise."

  Marion smiled within herself, for beyond the glass partition were quitea dozen girls, all of them young, several quite good-looking, waiting tosee if any berths were vacant, and ready that very hour to take theribbon-girl's place--and hers.

  Every girl who came up to London went first to Cunnington's, for theassistants there were declared to be of better class than those of theother drapery houses that jostle each other on the north side of OxfordStreet.

  Marion waited, full of deep anxiety. Every detail of that midnightinterview with the man who held controlling interest in the huge concerncame back to her--his clever attempt to ingratiate himself with her inorder to learn Maud's secret, and her curt dismissal when she had methis request with point-blank refusal.

  One by one the applicants for a hearing were received by Mr Cunnington,again emerging from his room, some dark and angry, and others smilingand happy. At last her turn came, and she walked into the small officewith the severe-looking writing-table and the dark blue carpet.

  The dark-bearded man, by whose enterprise tha
t big business had beenbuilt up, turned in his chair and faced her.

  "Miss Rolfe!" he exclaimed. "Ah! yes," and he referred to a memorandumupon his desk. "You were absent without leave last night, thehousekeeper reports. You are aware of rule seventy-three--eh?"

  "Most certainly, sir," was the trembling girl's reply, for this meant toher all her future, and more. It meant Max's love. "But I think Iought to explain that--"

  "I have no time, miss, for explanations. You know the rule. When youwere engaged here you signed it, and therefore I suppose you've read it.It states as follows: `Any assistant absent after eleven