The Pauper of Park Lane

by William Le Queux

heraddress or any further account of herself. She had warned him--thatwas, she said, all-sufficient.

  He blamed himself a thousand times for not having followed her; for nothaving sought some further information concerning the peril of old SamStatham.

  Yet the afternoon following, just as he was about to drive from theGrand Hotel to the Gare du Nord, to return to London, one of the clerksfrom Old Broad Street had arrived, bearing a letter from the head of thefirm, giving him instructions to proceed to Servia at once and transactcertain business with the Government regarding certain copperconcessions in the district of Kaopanik. The deal meant theintroduction of a considerable amount of British capital into Servia,and had support from his Majesty King Peter downwards. Indeed, all werein favour save the Opposition in the Skuptchina, or Parliament, a set ofunruly peasants who opposed every measure the Pashitch Government putforward.

  The business brooked no delay. Therefore Charlie, that same night,entered the Orient express, that train of dusty _wagons-lit_ which runsthree times a week between Paris and Constantinople, and three dayslater arrived in Belgrade, the Servian capital.

  He was no stranger in that rather pleasant town, perched high up at thejunction of the Save with the broad Danube. The passport officer atSemlin station recognised him, and gave him a _visa_ at once, and onalighting at Belgrade the little ferret-eyed man idling outside thestation did not follow him, for he knew him by sight and was well awarethat the Grand Hotel was his destination.

  There are more spies in Belgrade than in any other city in Europe. Somuch foreign intrigue is ever in progress that the Servian authoritiesare compelled to support a whole army of secret agents to watch andreport. Hence it is that the stranger, from the moment he sets foot inBelgrade to the moment he leaves it, is watched, and his every movementnoted and reported. Yet all is so well managed that the foreigner isnever aware of the close surveillance upon him, and Belgrade is as gay atown in the matter of entertaining and general freedom as, well, as anyother you may choose to name.

  During the days when, owing to the unfortunate events which terminatedthe reign of the half-imbecile King Alexander and the designing womanwho became his Queen, when England had suspended diplomaticnegotiations, the great stakes held in the country by Statham Brotherswere in a somewhat precarious condition. For two years Servian financehad been in anything but a flourishing condition, but now, under therule of King Peter, who had done his very utmost to reinstate hiscountry in its former flourishing position, the confidence of Europe hadbeen restored, and Statham Brothers were ready to make furtherinvestments.

  In Charles Rolfe the great millionaire had the most perfect confidence.The letter he had sent him to Paris was clear and explicit in itsinstructions. If the concessions were confirmed by the Prime MinisterPashitch and the Council, a million dinars (or francs) were alreadydeposited in the National Bank of Servia, and could be drawn at anhour's notice upon Charlie's signature.

  So he drove to the Grand, the hotel with its great garish cafe, itsrestaurant where the sterlet is perhaps more delicious than at theHermitage in Moscow, and its excellent Tzigane band. It was evening, sohe ate a light meal, and, fagged out by the journey, retired early.

  He tried to sleep, but could not. The noise and clatter of the cafebelow, the weird strains of the gipsy music, the rattle of the cabs overthe cobbles, all combined to prevent slumber.

  And, over all, was the vivid recollection of that rather handsome girlwho had called herself Lorena, and who had declared that the reason ofStatham's peril lay behind the door which he always kept so carefullysecured.

  The hours passed slowly. He thought far more of Maud Petrovitch, and ofwhat Lorena had told him, than of the business he had to transact on themorrow. He was there, in the city where Doctor Petrovitch had beenworshipped almost as a demi-god, where the people cheered lustily as hedrove out, and where he was called "The Servian Patriot." Where was thestatesman now? What was the actual truth of that sadden disappearance?

  Why had not Maud written? Sorely she might at least have trusted himwith her secret!

  The noise below had died away, and he knew that it must be two o'clockin the morning, the hour when the cafe closed. Presently there came arap at his door, and the night-porter handed him a telegram. He tore itopen mechanically, expecting it to be in cipher from old Sam, butinstead saw the signature "Max."

  Scanning it eagerly, he held his breath. The news it containedstaggered him. It stated that his sister Marion had been dischargedfrom Cunnington's, and her whereabouts were unknown.

  "Have seen Statham, but cannot discover where your sister has gone. Canyou suggest any friend she may have gone to visit? What shall I do? Amdistracted. Wire immediately."

  Marion left Cunnington's! Discharged, the telegram said. Was itpossible, he thought, that old Sam would allow her discharge. He wascertain he would not. He was his sister's friend, as he was his own.

  Max's telegram added further to the burden of mystery upon him. Whatcould it all mean?

  Marion has evidently left Cunnington's and disappeared! He tried tothink to whom she would go in her distress. There was her Aunt Anne atWimborne, her cousin Lucy who had married the bank manager at Hereford,and there was her old schoolfellow Mary Craven who had only recentlymarried Pelham, the manager of an insurance company in Moorgate Street.

  Those three addresses he wrote on a telegraph form, urging Max to makeinquiry and report progress. This he despatched, and again threwhimself down, full of dark forebodings.

  If Marion had really been discharged, she was in some disgrace. Whatcould it possibly be? That it was something which she dared not facewas proved by the fact that she had not confided in Max. She knewMaud's place of concealment, without a doubt; therefore, what morenatural than she should have joined her?

  The whole affair was a complete enigma, rendered the more tantalising bythe distance which now separated him from London.

  Next morning he rose, took his coffee, and went out along the broadcentral boulevard, gay and lively in the sunlight, thronged bywell-dressed ladies and smart officers in uniforms on the Russianmodel--as bright and pleasant a scene as can be witnessed anywhereoutside Paris. Up the hill, past the royal palace, he went. In theroyal garden, separated from the roadway by high iron railings, the bandof the Guards were playing, and over the palace floated the royalstandard, showing that his Majesty was in residence.

  Adjoining the palace was a large square castellated building, paintedwhite, and into this he turned, saluted by the gendarmes on duty.Ascending a broad flight of steps, he passed through the swing doors,presented his card, and was shown into the large antechamber of thePresident of the Council of Ministers, the strongest man in Servia,Monsieur Nicholas Pashitch.

  The long windows commanded a wide view of the tows and of the broadDanube shining in the morning sun, while upon the walls of the sombreapartment with its floor of polished oak and antique furniture coveredwith crimson plush, was a portrait of King Peter and several full lengthpaintings of dead and gone statesmen.

  "His Excellency is engaged for a few moments with the Turkish Minister,"exclaimed a frock-coated secretary in French. "But he will give m'sieuraudience almost immediately. His Excellency was going to Pirot, but hasremained in order to see you. He received your telegram from Budapest."

  And so Charlie Rolfe remained, gazing out of the window upon the quainteastern town, watching the phantasmagoria of life up and down itsprincipal thoroughfare. A company of infantry, headed by their band,marched past, hot and dusty, on their return from the early morningmanoeuvres which the King had attended, as was his daily habit; and asit passed out of his sight the long doors opened, and he was usheredinto the adjoining room, the private cabinet of his Excellency thePremier, an elderly, pleasant-faced old gentleman with a long greybeard, who rose from his big writing-table to greet his visitor. Themeeting was a most cordial one, his Excellency inquiring after thehealth of his old personal friend Mr Statham.


  Then, at the Prime Minister's invitation, Charlie seated himself, andexplained the nature of his mission. Monsieur Pashitch heard him withinterest to the end. Then he said: "Only yesterday his Majestyexpressed to me his desire that we should attract British capital intoServia, therefore all that you tell me is most gratifying to us. MrStatham, on his last visit here, had audience of his Majesty--on theoccasion of the loan--and I think they found themselves perfectly inaccord. The development of the Kaopanik has long been desired, and Iwill this afternoon inform his Majesty of your visit and yourproposals."

  Charlie then produced certain documents, reports of two celebratedmining engineers who had been sent out to Kaopanik by Statham Brothers,and these they discussed for a long time.

  Presently Rolfe said:

  "By the way, your Excellency, have you heard of late anything fromDoctor Petrovitch?"

  "Petrovitch!" exclaimed the old statesman, starting