yourself that you've never been in more than oneroom in the mansion," she said, looking him straight in the face.
"That's true. But it doesn't prove anything, does it?" he asked. AndMarion saw that he was nervous and agitated, quite unlike his usualself. Perhaps, however, it was on account of her apprehensions, shethought.
She had only seen Samuel Statham, the well-known millionaire, on oneoccasion. She had called at the offices in Old Broad Street oneafternoon to see her brother, who was his confidential secretary, whenthe old fellow had entered, a short, round-shouldered, grey-bearded oldman, rather shabbily-dressed, who, looking at her, bluntly asked who shewas and what she wanted there.
One of his eccentricities was that he hated women, and Marion knew that.
In a faltering tone she replied that she was sister of his secretary,whereupon his manner instantly changed. He became the acme ofpoliteness, asked her into his private room, offered her a glass ofport--which, of course, she refused--and chatted to her most affablytill her brother's return.
Why she had taken such a violent dislike to the old man she herselfcould not tell. Possibly it was his sudden change of manner, and thathis pleasant suavity was feigned. And this, combined with theextraordinary rumours regarding his past, and the mystery of his greatmansion in Park Lane, had caused her to view him with bitter prejudice.
Several customers were waiting to be served, and Marion saw Mr Warner'seye upon her.
"Well, Charlie," she said, "perhaps I'll get down to Charing Cross tosee you off. You go to Paris first, I suppose?"
"Yes. I take the Orient Express from there, by way of Vienna andBudapest to Belgrade. But," he added, "don't come and see me off,there's a good girl."
"Why? I've been before, when you've gone to the Continent."
"Yes, I know," he answered impatiently; "but--well, it makes me feel asif I shan't come back. Don't come, will you?"
Marion smiled. His anxiety that she should not come struck her asdistinctly curious.
He was not himself. Of that she was convinced. To her, ever since herfather's death, he had been a good friend, and for a year prior to herengagement at Cunnington's he had divided his salary with her. No girlever had a better brother than he had been, yet of late she had noticeda complete change in his manner. He was no longer frank with her, as heused to be, and he seemed often to hide from her facts which, with herwoman's keen intelligence, she afterwards discovered.
"Miss Rolfe!" exclaimed Mr Warner, emerging from his office."Disengaged?" And he pointed to a pair of somewhat obese ladies whowere examining a costume displayed on a stand.
"Well, good-bye, Charlie," she said, shaking his hand. "I must go.We're very busy this afternoon. Perhaps I shall see you at CharingCross. If not--then take care of yourself, dear. Good-bye."
And she turned and left him to attend to the two ladies, while he, witha nod across to Mr Warner, strode out of the shop.
"I hope to goodness Marion doesn't come," he muttered to himself."Women are so infernally inquisitive. And if she does go to CharingCross she's sure to suspect something!"
CHAPTER TWO.
CONCERNS A SILENT SECRET.
That same afternoon, while Charlie Rolfe was bidding farewell to hissister Marion, Max Barclay was sitting in the cosy study of one of thesmaller houses in Cromwell Road, smoking cigarettes with a thin-faced,grey-haired, grey-bearded man whose cast of features at once betrayedhim to be a foreigner.
The well-furnished room was the typical den of a studious man, as itsowner really was, for about it was an air of solid comfort, while uponthe floor near where the elder man was lying back in his leathereasy-chair were scattered some newspapers with headings in unfamiliartype--the Greek alphabet.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke, giving forth an aroma unusual toEnglish nostrils--that pleasant aroma peculiar to Servian tobacco.
The younger man, dressed in well-fitting, dark grey flannels, his longlegs sprawled out as he lay back in his chair taking his ease andgossiping with his friend, was, without doubt, a handsome fellow. Tallbeyond the average run of men, with lithe, clean-cut limbs, smart andwell-groomed, with closely-cropped dark hair, a pair of merry dark eyes,and a small dark moustache which had an upward trend, his air wasdistinctly military. Indeed, until a few months before he had held acommission, in a cavalry regiment, but had resigned on account of thedeath of his father and his consequent succession to the wide andunencumbered Barclay estates in Lincolnshire and up in the Highlands.
Though now possessor of a fine old English home and aseventeenth-century castle in Scotland, Max Barclay preferred to dividehis time between his chambers in Dover Street and wandering about theContinent. There was time enough to "settle down," he always declared.Besides, both the houses were too big and too gloomy to suit his rathersimple bachelor tastes. His Aunt Emily, an old lady of seventy, stillcontinued to live at Water Newton Hall, not far from that quaint, oldworld and many-spired town, Stamford; but Kilmaronock Castle wasunoccupied save for six weeks or so when he went up with friends for theshooting season.
Agents were frequently making tempting offers to him to let the place tocertain wealthy Americans, but he refused all inducements. The fine oldplace between Crieff and Perth had never been let during his father'slifetime, and he did not intend that any stranger, except his ownfriends, should enjoy the splendid shooting now.
"My dear Petrovitch," he was saying between whiffs of his cigarette, "Itis indeed reassuring what you tell me regarding the settled state of thecountry. You have surely had sufficient internal troubles of late."
"Ah, yes!" sighed the elder man, a deep, thoughtful expression upon hispleasant, if somewhat sallow, countenance. "Servia has passed throughher great crisis--the crisis through which every young nation must passsooner or later; and now, heaven be thanked, a brighter day has dawnedfor us. Under our new _regime_ prosperity is assured. But"--andpausing, he looked Max straight in the face, and in a changed voice, avoice of increased earnestness and confidence, he added with only aslight accent, for he spoke English very well--"I did not ask you hereto discuss politics. We Servians are, I fear, sad gossips upon our ownaffairs. I wanted to speak to you upon a subject of greatest importanceto myself personally, and of someone very dear to me. Now we have beenfriends, my dear Max, you and I, through some years, and I feel--nay, Iknow, that you will regard what I say in entire confidence."
"Most certainly," was the young Englishman's reply, though somewhatsurprised at his friend's sudden change of manner.
It was true that he had known Dr Michael Petrovitch for quite a numberof years.
Long ago, when he had first visited Belgrade, the Servian capital, theman before him, well-known throughout the Balkans as a patriot, wasoccupying the position of Minister of Finance under King Milan. Bothhis Excellency and his wife had been extremely kind to him, hadintroduced him to the smart social set, had obtained for him the_entree_ to the Palace festivities, and had presented him to QueenNathalie. Thus a firm friendship had been established between the twomen.
But affairs in Servia had considerably changed since then. MadamePetrovitch, a charming English lady, had died, and his Excellency, afterbecoming Minister of Commerce and subsequently Foreign Minister inseveral succeeding Cabinets, had gone abroad to represent his country atforeign Courts, first St Petersburg, then Berlin, and thenConstantinople, finally returning and coming to live in England.
Even now he was not more than fifty, and it had long ago been whisperedthat his Majesty was constantly urging him to return and accept theportfolio of Finance or of Commerce. But he steadily declined. As astatesman, his abilities had long ago been recognised by Europe, andnone knew his value or appreciated him more than his own sovereign; yetfor private reasons he preferred to live quietly in the Cromwell Road toreturning to all the worries of State and those eternal bickerings inthe Servian Skuptchina.
He was a man of even temper, of charming manner, and of scrupuloushonesty. Had he been dishonest in his
dealings he might have amassed agreat fortune while occupying those posts in the various ministries.But he had preferred to remain as he was, upright, even thoughcomparatively poor.
"Well?" asked Max, after a long silence. "I am waiting."
"It is a matter to which I refer not without some hesitation," declaredhis friend. "I want to speak to you about Maud."
"About Maud. Well?"
"I am worried about the child--a good deal."
"For what reason?" asked Max, considerably surprised.
Maud was Petrovitch's only daughter, a very beautiful girl, now nineteenyears of age, who had been brought up in England and to whom he wasentirely devoted.
"Well, she has fallen in love."
"All