The Pauper of Park Lane. Le Queux William
Rolfe was silent. Why had his employer altered his declaration so as to suit the exigencies of the moment?
He raised his eyes to old Sam’s countenance, and saw that it was the face of a man upon whom the shadow of a crime had fallen.
Chapter Twelve.
In which a Woman’s Honour is at Stake
“John Adams has seen you!” exclaimed Rolfe, slowly. “Therefore the situation is, I understand, one of extreme peril. Is that so?”
“Exactly,” responded the millionaire, in a thin, weak voice. “But by your aid I may yet extricate myself.”
The younger man saw that the other was full of fear. Never had he seen his employer so nervous and utterly unstrung. The mystery of it all fascinated him. Statham had unwittingly acknowledged having been present at the presumed death of John Adams, and that in itself was a very suspicious circumstance.
“Whatever assistance I can give I am quite ready to render it,” he said, little dreaming what dire result would attend that offer.
“Ah, yes!” cried the old man, thankfully, grasping his secretary’s hand. “I knew you would not refuse, Rolfe. If you succeed I shall owe my life to you; you understand – my life!” And he looked straight into the young man’s face, adding, “And Samuel Statham never forgets to repay a service rendered.”
“I look for no repayment,” he said. “You have been so very good to my sister and myself that I owe you a deep debt of gratitude.”
“Ah! your sister. Where is she now?”
“At Cunnington’s, in Oxford Street.”
“Oh, yes! I forgot. I wrote to Cunnington myself regarding her, didn’t I? I hope she’s comfortable. If not, tell me. I’m the largest shareholder in that business.”
“You are very kind,” replied the young man. “But she always says she is most comfortable, and all the principals are very kind to her. Of course, it was hard for her at first when she commenced to earn her own living. The hours, the confinement, and the rigorous rules were irksome to a girl of her character, always been used as she had to freedom and a country life.”
“Yes,” replied the old man rather thoughtfully. “I suppose so. But if she’s getting on well, I am quite satisfied. Should she have any complaint to make, don’t fail to let me know.”
Rolfe thanked him. The old fellow, notwithstanding his eccentricities, was always a generous master.
There was a pause, during which the millionaire walked to the window, peered out to see if the shabby watcher had returned, and then came back again to his table.
“Rolfe,” he commenced, as he seated himself, with surprising calmness, “I have spoken more openly to you this afternoon than I have spoken to anyone for many years. First, you must remain in London. Just ring them up in the City, and tell them to send Sheldon here, and say that he must leave for Belgrade to-night. I will see him at seven o’clock.”
The secretary took up the transmitter of the private telephone line to the offices of Statham Brothers in Old Broad Street, and in a few moments was delivering the principal’s message to the manager.
“Sheldon will be here at seven for instructions,” he said, as he replaced the transmitter.
“Then sit down, Rolfe – and listen,” the old man commanded, indicating a chair at the side of the table.
The younger man obeyed, and the great financier commenced.
“You have promised your help, and also complete secrecy, have you not?”
“I shall say nothing,” answered the other, at the same time eager to hear some closed page in the old man’s history. “Rely upon my discretion.”
He was wondering whether the grey-faced old fellow was aware of the startling events of the previous evening in Cromwell Road. His spies had told him of Maud. They perhaps had discovered that amazing truth of what had occurred in that house, now deserted and empty.
Was it possible that old Statham, being in possession of his secret, did not now fear to repose confidence in him, for he knew that if he were betrayed he could on his part make an exposure that must prove both ruinous and fatal. The crafty old financier was not the person to place himself unreservedly in the hands of any man who could possibly turn his enemy. He had an ulterior motive, without a doubt. But what it was Charles Rolfe was unable to discover.
“The mouth of that man Adams must be closed,” said the old man, in a slow, deliberate voice, “and you alone are able to accomplish it. Do this for me, and I can afford to pay well,” and he regarded the young man with a meaning look.
Was it possible that he suggested foul play. Rolfe wondered. Was he suggesting that he should lurk in some dark corner and take the life of the shabby wayfarer, who had recently returned to England after a long absence?
“It is not a question of payment,” Rolfe replied. “It is whether any effort of mine can be successful.”
“Yes; I know. I admit, Rolfe, that I was a fool. I ought to have listened to you when you first told me of his re-appearance, and I ought to have approached him and purchased his silence. I thought myself shrewd, and my cautiousness has been my undoing.”
“From the little I know, I fear that the purchase of the fellow’s silence is now out of the question. A week ago it could have been effected, but now he has cast all thought of himself to the winds, and his only object is revenge.”
“Revenge upon myself,” sighed the old man, his face growing a trifle paler as he foresaw what a terrible vengeance was within the power of that shabby stranger. “Ah! I know. He will be relentless. He has every reason to be if what has been told him had been true. A man lied – the man who is dead. Therefore the truth – the truth that would save my honour and my life – can never be told,” he added, with a desperate look upon his countenance.
“Then you have been the victim of a liar?” Rolfe said. “Yes – of a man who, jealous of my prosperity, endeavoured to ruin me by making a false statement. But his reward came quickly. I retaliated with my financial strength, and in a year he was ruined. To recoup himself he committed forgery, was arrested, and six months later died in prison – but without confessing that what he had said concerning me was a foul invention. John Adams believed it – and because of that, among other things, is my bitterest enemy.”
“But is there no way of proving the truth?” asked Rolfe, surprised at this story.
“None. The fellow put forward in support of his story proofs which he had forged. Adams naturally believed they were genuine.”
“And where are those proofs now?”
“Probably in Adams’ possession. He has no doubt hoarded them for use at the moment of his triumph.”
Rolfe did not speak for several moments.
“A week ago those proofs might, I believe, have been purchased for a round sum.”
“Could they not be purchased now? From the man’s appearance he is penniless.”
“Not so poor as you think. If what I’ve heard is true, he is in possession of funds. His shabbiness is only assumed. Have you any knowledge of a certain man named Lyle – a short man slightly deformed.”
“Lyle!” gasped his employer. “Do you mean Leonard Lyle? What do you know of him?”
“I saw him in the company of Adams. It is he who supplies the latter with money.”
“Lyle!” cried Statham, his eyes glaring in amazement. “Lyle here – in London?”
“He was here a week ago. You know him?”
“Know him – yes!” answered the old millionaire, hoarsely. “Are you certain that he has become Adams’ friend?”
“I saw them together with my own eyes. They were sitting in the Café Royal, in Regent Street. Adams