The Pauper of Park Lane. William Le Queux

      For fully five minutes Samuel Statham stood steadying himself by the back of his chair. His face was white and rigid, his jaw set, his breathing quick and excited, his hands trembling, his face full of a sudden horror.

      He had entirely changed. The sight of that shabby stranger had filled him with fear.

      Once or twice he glanced furtively at the window. Then, straightening himself in a vain endeavour to remain calm, he bent and crept back to the window in order to ascertain whether the man still remained. Bent and out of sight he approached the lace-edged curtain and peered through unseen.

      Yes; the fellow was still there. He had lit his pipe with calm unconcern, and was leaning back against the railings in full view of the house. The man’s attitude was that of complete triumph. Ah! what a fool he had been to have shown himself so openly as he had done! To think that this man of all men was still alive!

      He crept back again, trembling. His face was haggard and bloodless, the countenance of a man whose future was but a blank—the dismal blank of the grave.

      His whole body trembled as he sank into his writing-chair, and, leaning his elbows upon the desk, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Yes; he, the hard-headed financier, whose influence was felt in every corner of the world, the man who controlled millions and who loaned great sums to certain of the rulers of Europe, sobbed aloud.

      “Ah!” he cried to himself, “I was a fool when I disbelieved them. I thought that blackmail was their object in telling me the story of how that man was alive and had been seen. Therefore I only laughed at them and took no precaution. Ah! I was a fool, and my foolishness must end fatally. There is no way out of it for me—only death. I’ve been a fool—a confounded fool. I ought to have made certain; I ought not to have taken any risk. I’m wiser now than I was then. Age has brought me wisdom as well as destroying my belief in the honesty of men and the loyalty of friends”; and as he sighed heavily, his brow still bent upon his hand, he touched the bell, and old Levi appeared.

      “Levi,” he said, in a low unusual voice, “go quietly to that window and, without attracting attention, look outside at a man opposite.”

      The faithful old servant, somewhat surprised at these rather unusual instructions, walked stealthily to the window and peered through the lace insertion of the brisé-brisé.

      Scarcely had he done so than, with a cry, he withdrew, and facing his master, stood staring at him.

      “Did you see anyone, Levi?” asked his master, raising his head suddenly.

      “Yes,” was the hoarse whisper of the man who stood there, white-faced in fear. “It’s him! I—I thought you said he was dead.”

      “No; he isn’t! He’s there in the flesh.”

      “And what are we to do?”

      “What can we do? He recognised me a moment ago, and he’s watching the house.”

      “Which means that you had better leave England for a considerable time.”

      “What!” cried Statham, in quick reproof. “What—run away? Never!”

      “But—well, in the circumstances, don’t you scent danger—a very grave danger?” asked the old servant whose devotion to his master had always been so marked.

      “When I am threatened I always face my accuser. I shall do so now,” was the great man’s calm reply, even though it were in absolute contradiction to his attitude only a few moments before. Perhaps it was that he did not wish old Levi to know his fear.

      “But—but that can only result in disaster,” remarked the old servant, who never addressed his master as “sir”—the pair were on too intimate terms for that. “If I might presume to advise, I think—”

      “No, Levi,” snapped the other; “you haven’t any right to give advice in this affair. I know my own business best, surely?”

      “And that man knows as much as you do—and more.”

      “They told me he was alive, and I—fool that I was—disbelieved them!” the old millionaire cried. “And there he is now, watching outside like a terrier outside a rat-hole. And I’m the rat, Levi—caught in my own trap!”

      “Is there no way out of this?” asked the other. “Surely you can escape if you so desire—get away to America, or to the Continent.”

      “And what’s the use. He’d follow. And even if he didn’t, think of what he can tell if he goes to the police.”

      “Yes; he could tell sufficient to cause Statham Brothers to close their doors—eh?” remarked the old servant very seriously.

      “That’s just it. I’ve been a confounded idiot. Rolfe warned me only the other day that the fellow was in London, but I said I wouldn’t believe him until I saw the man with my own eyes. To-day I have actually seen him, and there can be no mistake. He’s the man that—that I—”

      His sentence remained unfinished, for he sank into his chair and groaned, covered his face again with his hands in an attitude of deep remorse, while Levi stood by watching in silence.

      “Rolfe could help you in this matter,” the man exclaimed at last. “Where is he?”

      “I don’t know. I sent him yesterday to Belgrade, but last night he telephoned that he had lost the train.”

      “Then he may have left at nine o’clock this morning?”

      “Most probably.”

      “Then you must recall him by wire.”

      “No telegram can reach him till he gets to Servia, for I don’t know whether he’s gone from Ostend or Paris.”

      “They’d know in the City. Why not ask them?”

      “No; they wouldn’t know.”

      “Why?”

      “Because Rolfe had with him a big sum in German notes and a quantity of securities belonging to the National Bank of Servia. In that case he would not let anyone know his route, for fear of thieves. It is one of my strictest orders to him. Why he lost the train last night I can’t tell.”

      “Well, it’s a thousand pities we can’t get at him, for he’s the only man to help you out—of this difficulty.”

      “Yes; I quite agree. That shabby, down-at-heel man waiting outside is my master,