The Pauper of Park Lane

by William Le Queux

of secret agents to stir upstrife and to organise demonstrations against the reigning dynasty.Germany is there seeking influence and making promises, while Bulgariais ever watchful; Turkey is silent and spectral, and Great Britain lookson neutral, but noting every move of the deep diplomatic juggling of thePowers.

  At night amid the clatter, the laughter, and the gipsy music of theGrand Cafe, with its billiard tables in the centre and its restaurantadjoining, the stranger would never dream of its close proximity to thetragedy of a throne. Just as the bright lights and calm, moonlit seathrow a glamour over that plague spot Monte Carlo, until the visitorbelieves that no evil can lurk in that terrestrial paradise, so inBelgrade is everything so pleasant, so happy, so careless that thestranger would never dream that the whole city sits ever upon the edgeof a volcano, and that the red flag of revolt is ready at any, moment tobe hoisted.

  Charlie Rolfe knew Belgrade, and knew the tragedy that underlay itsbrightness. What greater tragedy could there be than the death of theinnocent child blown to atoms by the bomb?

  Who could be the culprit whom Sir Charles had told him was his "friend."He had known the Doctor well, but not intimately as Max Barclay haddone. Curious that Max had told him nothing concerning that tragicincident which had caused the Servian statesman and patriot to turn hisback upon his beloved country and live in studious seclusion in England.Max had told him many things, but had never mentioned that subject.

  Was Max Barclay the "friend" to whom Sir Charles had referred. Was itreally possible? He held his breath, contemplating the end of hishalf-smoked cigar and wondering.

  It was a strange suspicion. Of late, ever since Max had charged himwith having been present at Cromwell Road on the night of thedisappearance, he had somehow held aloof from the man to whom Marion wasso devoted.

  And now? Even she had disappeared! What could it mean?

  Did Max Barclay really know how and why Marion had disappeared, and formotives of his own was making a mystery?

  The message from Barclay worried him. Marion was missing. Why had sheleft Cunnington's? She must have left of her own accord, he feltconfident. She would never be discharged. Sam Statham would never, fora moment, allow that.

  A tall man with a fair, pointed beard approached him, raised his hat,and gripped his hand. It was Drukovitch, the director of the NationalTheatre, and a friend of his. The new-comer seated himself at thetable, and the waiter brought a tiny glass of "slivovitza," or plum gin,that liqueur so dear to the Servian palate. Drukovitch was one of thebest-known and most popular men in Belgrade; a thorough-goingcosmopolitan, and a man of the world. Sometimes he went to London, andwhenever there Charlie entertained him at his club, or they went to thetheatre and supped at the Savoy.

  As they chatted, Rolfe explaining that he was in Servia upon financialmatters as usual, Drukovitch nodded to the officers and civilians whomhe knew, many of them famous for the part they had played in the recent_coup d'etat_. Some of them, indeed, wore the white-enamelled cross,which decoration marked them as partisans of the dynasty of theKarageorge. And meanwhile the orchestra were playing the popular waltzfrom "The Merry Widow," the air haunting everybody and everyone.

  That night there was a court hall at the Palace, and the forthcomingevent was upon everyone's lips. There was seldom any entertainment atthe New Konak, for his Majesty led a very quiet life, the almost asceticlife of a soldier--riding out at dawn, attending to duties of stateduring the day, and retiring early.

  Perhaps the most maligned man in all Europe, King Peter of Servia was,nevertheless, known to those intimate around the throne to be a mostconscientious ruler, fully aware of all his responsibilities, andstriving ever to pacify the various political factions, sustaining theprestige of Servia abroad, and ameliorating the condition of his peopleat home.

  The truth regarding King Peter had never been written. Of libels andvile calumnies there had been volumes, but no journalist had ever daredto put into print the real facts of King Peter's innocence of anyconnivance at the dastardly murder of Alexander and Draga.

  Those who knew the real facts admired King Peter as a man and fearlesspatriot, but those who gathered their information from sensationalnewspapers and scurrilous books emanating from Austria believed everylie that the back-stairs scribes chose to write.

  Drukovitch was one of the men who knew the truth, and many a time he hadexplained them to his friend, who, in turn, had told old Sam Statham,the hard-headed misanthrope whose prejudices were so strong, and yet thechords of whose heart-strings were so readily touched.

  Sam had lent money to Servia--huge sums. And why? Because he knew hisMajesty personally, and had heard from his own lips the story of histragic difficulties and his high aspirations.

  Once, indeed, in that silent study in Park Lane he had been reading aconfidential report from Belgrade, predicting a black outlook, when heturned to his secretary and said:

  "Rolfe. There will be trouble in Servia. But even though I may losethe million sterling I have loaned it will not trouble me. I have triedto assist an honest man who is at the same time a philanthropist and aking."

  Charlie Rolfe recollected these words at that moment as he sat amid thenoise and chatter of the cafe, where, above every other sound, rose thesweet, tuneful strains of the waltz that had within the past few weeksgripped all Europe.

  There was something bizarre, something incongruous with it all.

  He was thinking of his lost love--his sweet-faced Maud with the unrulywisp of hair straying across her white brow.

  Where was she? Ay, where was she?

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

  ADVANCES A THEORY.

  Next day, and the next, Charlie called upon the British Minister, butcould obtain no further information.

  Sir Charles had failed to establish his suspicion, and thereforedeclined to say anything further.

  Rolfe, on his part, had learned from Drukovitch the full details of thedastardly attempt upon the Doctor's life at Topschieder, and how thelittle child had been blown to atoms. The escape of Petrovitch had beenlittle short of miraculous, and it was now whispered that the conspiracyhad no political significance, but was an act of private vengeance.

  Whatever its motive might have been, it had had the desired effect ofpreventing the Doctor from returning to Servia.

  In various quarters Rolfe made diligent inquiry, and established withouta doubt that Maud Petrovitch had within the past ten days or so been inBelgrade.

  A young officer of the King's guard, a Lieutenant Yankovitch, had seenher in the Zar Duschanowa Uliza. He described her as wearing a whiteserge gown and a big black hat. She was walking with a short, elderly,grey-haired woman, undoubtedly a foreigner--English or American. He wasmarching with his company, or would have stopped and spoken to her.

  Another person discovered by Drukovitch was a domestic who had once beenin the Doctor's service. She declared that early one morning when goingfrom her home to the house in the Krunska where she was now employed,she met her young mistress Maud with the same elderly woman--a womanrather shabbily-dressed. The pair were passing the Russian Legation,and she stopped and spoke.

  The young lady had told her that she was only on a flying visit toBelgrade, and that she was leaving again on the morrow. To theservant's inquiries regarding the Doctor his daughter was silent, asthough she did not wish to mention her father.

  According to the servant's description. Mademoiselle Maud looked verywan and pale, as though she had passed many sleepless nights full ofanxiety and dread.

  The Prime Minister's wife had no recollection of telling her husbandabout meeting the Doctor's daughter. Somebody else must have mentionedit to the grey-bearded statesman, who, full of the cares of office, hadforgotten who it had been.

  A third person who had seen Maud, however, was one of the agents ofsecret police on duty at the railway station. It was this man's work towatch arriving passengers, and detail agents to watch any suspected tobe foreign spies. According to his re
port, made to the chief of police,Mademoiselle Petrovitch arrived in Belgrade late one night with anelderly Englishwoman and a tall, thin man, probably a German. Theyhired a cab and drove out to an address near the Botanical Gardens, onthe opposite side of the city. Recognising who she was, he did notinstruct an agent to follow her. The two ladies returned to the railwaystation four days later and left again by the Orient express forBudapest.

  The officials of the international express, in passing through Servia,are compelled to furnish to the secret police the names andnationalities of all passengers travelling. When the train arrives inBelgrade the commissario is always handed the list, which is filed forreference. Upon the list on that particular day was shown the names ofMademoiselle Maud Pavlovitch, of Belgrade, and Mrs Wood, of London.

  The girl had only slightly disguised her name.

  These results of Charlie's inquiry showed quite plainly that hiswell-beloved was alive, and that she had been in Servia with some secretobject. The