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 was in evening-dress, and wore an opera-hat. They’d been to the Empire together.”
“Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” asked Statham, in a tone of blank despair. “I—I see now all the difficulties that have arisen. The pair have united to wreak their vengeance upon me, and I am powerless and unprotected.”
“But who is this man Leonard Lyle?” inquired the secretary.
“A man without a conscience. He was a mining engineer, and is now, I suppose—a short, white-moustached man, with a slightly humped back and a squeaky voice.”
“The same.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before? If Lyle knows Adams, the position is doubly dangerous,” he exclaimed, in abject dismay. “No,” he added, bitterly; “there can be no way out.”
“I said nothing because you had refused to believe.”
“You saw them together after you had told me of Adams’ return, or before?”
“After,” he replied. “Even though you refused to believe me, I continued to remain watchful in your interests and those of the firm. I spent several evenings in watching their movements.”
“Ah! you are loyal to me, I know, Rolfe. You shall not regret this. Hitherto I have not treated you well, but I will now try and atone for the manner in which I misjudged you. I ask your pardon.”
“For what?” inquired Rolfe, in surprise.
“For believing ill of you,” was all the old man vouchsafed.
“I tried to do my duty as your secretary,” was all he said.
“Your duty. You have done more. You have watched my enemies even though I sneered at your well-meant warning,” he said. “But if you have watched, you perhaps know where the pair are in hiding.”
“Lyle lives at the First Avenue Hotel, in Holborn. Adams lives in a small furnished flat in Addison Mansions, close to Addison Road railway station.”
“Lives there in preference to an hotel because he can go in and out shabby and down-at-heel without attracting comment—eh?”
“I suppose so. I had great difficulty in following him to his hiding-place without arousing his suspicions.”
“Does he really mean mischief?” asked the principal of Statham Brothers, bending slightly towards his secretary.
“Yes; undoubtedly he does. The pair are here with the intention of bringing