The Pauper of Park Lane. Le Queux William
that’s it,” Max said, trying to assume a careless air, for he felt that a hundred eyes were upon him.
Their position was not a very comfortable one, to say the least. He knew that he ought not to have come there during business hours, but the mystery had so puzzled him that he felt he must continue his inquiries. He had fully expected the morning post to bring him a line from the Doctor. But there had been nothing.
Both he and Maud had disappeared suddenly, leaving no trace behind – no trace except that woman’s coat with the stain of blood upon the breast.
Was it one of Maud’s dresses, he wondered. In the band he had noticed the name of its maker – Maison Durand, of Conduit Street – one of the best dressmakers in London. True he had found it in the servants’ quarters, but domestics did not have their clothes made by Durand.
“But tell me, Max,” said the girl, her fine eyes fixed upon her lover, “what makes you suggest that the Doctor is about to leave Cromwell Road.”
“He has left already,” was Max’s reply. “That’s the curious part of it.”
“Left! Moved away!”
“Yes. I came to ask you what you know about it. They’ve gone away without a word!”
“How? Why, you were there last evening!”
“I was. But soon after I left, and while Maud was with you at the concert, three vans came from Harmer’s Stores and cleared out the whole of the furniture.”
“There wasn’t a bill of sale, or something of that sort, I suppose?” she suggested.
“Certainly not. The Doctor is a wealthy man. The copper mines of Kaopanik bring him in a splendid income in themselves,” Max said. “No; there’s a mystery – a very great mystery about the affair.”
“A mystery! Tell me all about it!” she cried, anxiously, for Maud was her best friend, while the Doctor had also been extremely kind to her.
“I don’t know anything,” he responded. “Except that the whole place by half-past ten last night had been cleared out of furniture. Only the grand piano and a few big pieces have been left. Harmer’s have taken the whole of it to their depository at Chiswick.”
“Well, that’s most extraordinary, certainly,” she said, opening her eyes in blank surprise. “Maud must have known what was taking place. Possibly that is why she was so melancholy and pensive.”
“Did she say nothing which would throw any light upon their sadden disappearance?”
Marion reflected for a few moments, her brows slightly knit in thought.
“Well, she said something about her father being much worried, but she did not tell me why. About a fortnight ago she told me that both she and her father had many enemies, one of whom would not hesitate to kill him if a chance occurred. I tried to get from her the reason, but she would not tell me.”
“But you don’t think that the Doctor has been the victim of an assassin, do you?” Max asked in apprehension.
“No; but Maud may have been,” she answered. “Killed?”
“I hope not, yet – ”
“Why do you hesitate, Marion, to tell me all you know?” he urged. “There is a mystery here which we must fathom.”
“My brother knows nothing yet, I suppose.”
Barclay hesitated.
“I suppose not,” was his reply.
“Then, before I say anything, I must see him.”
“But he’s away in Servia, is he not? He won’t be back for six months.”
“Then I must wait till he returns,” she answered, decisively.
“Maud has told you something. Come, admit it,” he urged.
The girl was silent for a full minute.
“Yes,” she sighed. “She did tell me something.”
“When?”
“Last night, as we were walking together to the station – something that I refused to believe. But I believe it now.”
“Then you know the truth,” he cried. “If there had not been some unfair play, the Doctor would never have disappeared without first telling me. He has many times entrusted me with his secrets.”
“I quite believe that he would have telegraphed or written,” she said. “He looked upon you as his best friend in London.”
“And, Marion, this very fact causes me to suspect foul play,” he said, the recollection of that fugitive in the night flashing across his brain. “What do you, in the light of this secret knowledge, suspect?”
Her lips were closed tightly, and there was a strange look in her eyes.
“I believe, Max,” she replied, in a low, hard voice, “that something terrible must have happened to Maud!”
“Did she apprehend something?”
“I cannot tell. She confessed to me something under a bond of secrecy. Before I tell you I must consult Charlie – the man she loved so dearly.”
“But are we not lovers, Marion?” he asked, in a low intense voice. “Cannot you tell me what she said, in order that I may institute inquiries at once. Delay may mean the escape of the assassin if there really has been foul play.”
“I cannot betray Maud’s confidence, Max,” was her calm answer.
This response of hers struck him as implying that Maud had confessed something not very creditable to herself, something which she, as a woman, hesitated to tell him. If this were actually true, however, why should she reveal the truth to Maud’s lover? Would she not rather hide it from him?
“But you will not see Charlie for months,” he exclaimed, in dismay. “What are we to do in the meantime?”
“We can only wait,” she answered. “I cannot break my oath to my friend.”
“Then you took an oath not to repeat what she told you?”
“She told me something amazing concerning – ”
And she hesitated.
“Concerning herself,” he added. “Well?”
“It was a confession, Max – a – a terrible confession. I had not a wink of sleep last night for her words rang in my ears, and her face, wild and haggard, haunted me in the darkness. Ah! it is beyond credence – horrible! – but – but, Max – leave me. These people are noticing us. I will see you to-night, where you like. Only go – go! I can’t bear to talk of it! Poor Maud! What that confession must have cost her! And why? Ah, I see it all now! Because – because she knew that her end was near!”
Chapter Seven.
Contains Several Revelations
Max Barclay re-traced his steps along Oxford Street much puzzled. What Marion had told him was both startling and curious in face of the sudden disappearance of the Doctor and his daughter. If the latter had made a confession, as she apparently had, then Marion was, after all, perfectly within her right in not betraying her friend.
Yet what could that confession be? Marion had said it was “a terrible confession,” and as he went along he tried in vain to imagine its nature.
The morning was bright and sunlit, and Oxford Street was already busy. About the Circus the ebb and flow of traffic had already begun, and the windows of the big drapery shops were already attracting the feminine crowds with their announcements of “summer sales” and baits of “great bargains.”
For a moment he paused at the kerb, then, entering a hansom, he drove to Mariner’s Stores, the great emporium in Knightsbridge, which had been entrusted with the removal of the Doctor’s furniture.
Without much difficulty he found the manager, a short, dapper, little