police were unaware of the exact address near the BotanicalGardens where the couple stayed. It is only within their province towatch suspected foreigners. Of Servians they take no account.
Therefore, beyond the facts already stated, Rolfe could discovernothing.
Day after day he remained in Belgrade, sometimes spending the afternoonby going for a trip across the Danube to that dull and ratheruninteresting frontier town of Hungary, Semlin, and always hoping to beable to discover something further--some clue to the strangedisappearance of the Doctor, or the real reason why his Maud was sodetermined to hold aloof from him.
Thrice he received wild telegrams from Max Barclay, asking forinformation as to where he might best seek news of Marion. News of her?Her brother was just as staggered by her disappearance as was herlover.
He telegraphed that she might perhaps be at the house of an old servantof their fathers at Boston, in Lincolnshire. But next day came a reportdespatched from Boston that the good man and his wife had heard nothingof their late master's daughter.
Again to Bridlington he sent Max, to some friends there; but from thatplace came a similar response. Marion was, like Maud, in hiding! Butwhy?
In the bright morning sunshine he strolled the streets, which were sofull of quaint and interesting types. There in Belgrade, the gateway ofthe East, one saw the Servian peasant in his high boots, his white shirtworn outside his trousers, and his round, high cap of astrakhan. Thebetter-class peasant wore his brown homespun, while the women with thegay coloured kerchiefs on their heads wore their heavy silver girdlesand their ornaments reminiscent of the Turkish occupation. Big, burlymen in scarlet waistbands and fur caps, women in pretty peasant costumesfrom the distant provinces, officers gay with ribbons and crosses, andladies in gowns and hats that spoke mutely of Bond Street and the Rue dela Paix; all were seen in the ever moving panorama of that cosmopolitanlittle capital where East meets West.
The financial business which Charlie had come there to transact hadalready been concluded, to the mutual satisfaction of his Excellency thePrime Minister and of the grey-faced old misanthrope seated in thesilent room in Park Lane. Many cables in cipher had been exchanged, andCharlie had placed his signature to half a dozen documents, which in duecourse would be countersigned with old Sam's scrawly calligraphy. Thestake of Statham Brothers in Servia represented considerably over onemillion sterling, and nobody had been more conscious of old Sam'sreadiness to assist in the development of the country's rich resourcesthan his Majesty the King.
Upon a side table in Statham's study in Park Lane was a big autographedportrait in a silver frame, which King Peter had given him at his lastaudience. Therefore it was with feelings of gratification that Charlieheard from the Minister-President's lips the verbal message which theKing had sent--a message of thanks to Mr Rolfe for doing all that hehad done to arrive at a satisfactory arrangement whereby with Englishcapital Servia's wealth was to be exploited and work provided for herindustrial population.
Though he knew that Maud Petrovitch was no longer in Belgrade, yet hestill lingered on at the Grand Hotel amid all its clatter, its hustle,and its music. Truth to tell, he earnestly desired to obtain the truthfrom Sir Charles Harrison. For that dastardly attempt at Topschieder afriend of his was responsible!
It was the identity of the friend in question that he was deeply anxiousto establish, so that in future he would know whom to doubt and whom totrust.
Was Max Barclay really his friend?
Hour upon hour he reflected upon that problem. He recollected incidentswhich, in his present state of mind, filled him with misgivings. Whyhad he openly charged him with having been present at the house inCromwell Road after the disappearance of the Doctor and his daughter?Indeed, had he not practically charged him with opening the Doctor'ssafe and abstracting its contents? He had not made the charge directly,it was true, but his remarks had certainly been made in a spirit ofantagonistic suspicion.
A long letter from Max explained the sudden disappearance of Marion fromCunnington's, and begged him to give all information regarding anylikely quarter where the girl had sought refuge. It was now plainenough to Charlie that his sister had been discharged from theestablishment in Oxford Street--and in disgrace! In what disgrace?
When he read the letter in his room at the hotel, he crushed it in hishand with an imprecation upon his lips. Cunnington should answer to himfor this indignity. He would compel the fellow to tell him the truth.His sister's honour was at stake.
Disgraced by her sudden discharge, she had disappeared. She had, nodoubt, been ashamed to face the man who loved her, ashamed, too, towrite to her brother. Instead, she preferred to go away and effaceherself, as, alas! so many London shop-girls have done before her.
Charlie Rolfe knew the cruelty practised by many a shop-keeper in Londonin discharging their female employees at a moment's notice. For a manit matters little. Perhaps, indeed, it is best for both parties. Butfor a helpless girl without friends, without money, and without home tobe cast suddenly upon the great world of London, filled as it is withlures and temptations, is a grave sin which no tradesman ought tocommit. And yet there are to-day in London and its suburbs hundreds ofsmug, top-hatted, frock-coated tradesmen, who, though pillars of theirchapels and churches and stalking round the aisles with their plushcollecting-bags on Sundays, will on six days in the week cast forth anypoor girl in their employ without a grain of sympathy or compunctionmerely because she may break a rule, or even because she does not lie tocustomers sufficiently well to induce them to make purchases.
The general public are ignorant of the tyranny of shop-life in London.There have been strikes--strikes quickly suppressed because, by liftinghis finger the employer is overwhelmed with assistants glad to live on amere bread and butter wage--and those strikes have been treatedhumorously by the evening papers. Ah! the tragedy of it all.
Charles Rolfe, though secretary and trusted factotum of a millionaire,knew it all. His sister had been in a snug "billet," one from which hehad fondly believed she could never have been dislodged.
But the hard, bitter truth was now apparent. Even his own brotherlyprotection had availed her nothing. She had been consigned to disgrace.
It was with such bitter thoughts he resolved to return to London. Hewent to the telegraph office and sent a long message to Sam Statham,explanatory of what had occurred, and beseeching his intervention withCunnington.
Through the night he waited, but received no response.
Then he went round in the morning to bid Sir Charles adieu.
"Well, Rolfe!" exclaimed the representative of the British Government;"I'm sorry you're off so quickly. My wife was asking you to dineto-morrow night--usual weekly dinner, you know."
"And have you discovered nothing regarding Petrovitch?" asked Charliequickly.
"Well," replied the diplomat, after a moment's hesitation, "to tell thetruth, I have."
"You have!" gasped the young man eagerly. "What?" The other knit hisbrows, and was for a moment silent.
"Something--something!" he said, "that is astounding. I--I cannot giveit credence. It is all too amazing--too tragic--too utterlyincomprehensible."
CHAPTER FORTY THREE.
THE LOST BELOVED.
Weeks had dragged by. To Max Barclay they had been weeks of keenanxiety and unceasing search to discover traces of his lost beloved.
Once, and only once, had he seen Jean Adam, against whom Sam Statham hadwarned him. He had met the man of brilliant financial ideas byappointment at lunch at the Savoy, and had told him plainly that he hadreconsidered the whole matter of the Turkish concession, and had decidedto have nothing to do with it.
His excuse was lack of funds at that moment. To the old millionaire heowed a good deal for giving him the "tip" regarding the plausibleAnglo-Frenchman. Adam, alias Adams, received Max's decision without thealteration of a muscle of his face. He was a perfect actor, andbetrayed no sign of surprise or of chagrin.
"Well,
my dear fellow," he remarked, raising his glass of Braunebergerand contemplating it before placing it to his lips; "you're losing thechance of a lifetime. If Baron Hirsch had been alive he wouldn't haveallowed such a thing to slip. When old Statham knows of it he'll moveheaven and earth to come in."
Max was silent. He did not allow his companion to know that Statham hadbeen responsible for his refusal to join in the project.
"I'm sorry, too," he said. "But just now I'm rather pressed. I washard hit last week over those Siberians."
"But the money required is a mere bagatelle. I have mine ready."
"I regret," answered Max, "but my decision is final."
"Very well, my dear fellow," replied Adam lightly. "I don't want topersuade you. There are a thousand men in the City who'll be ready toput up money to-morrow