His countenance was haggard and drawn, and in his eyes was a look of unspeakable terror, as though he were looking into his own grave, as indeed at that moment he was.
The sombre melancholy-looking Levi stood watching for a moment, and then, creeping to the window, looked out into the sunshine of Park Lane.
The ragged tramp was still there, idling against the railings, and smoking a short, dirty pipe quite unconcernedly. He was watching for the re-appearance of that white, startled face at the window—the face of the great Samuel Statham. “He’s still outside, I suppose?” queried the man at the other end of the room.
Levi replied in the affirmative, whereat old Samuel clenched his teeth and muttered something which sounded like an oration. He was condemning himself for his disbelief in his secretary’s warnings.
“Had I listened to him I could easily have saved myself—I could have prevented him from coming here,” he said in a meaning voice.
“Yes; it would not have been difficult to have prevented this. After what has occurred that blackguard has no right to live.”
“Aha! then you believe me, Levi?” cried the wretched man. “You do not blame me?” he asked, anxiously.
“He was to blame—not you.”
“Then I was right in acting as I did, you think—right to protect my interests.”
“You were right in your self-defence,” the man answered, somewhat grey, sphinx-like, for Levi was a man whose thoughts one could never read from his thin, grey, expressionless face. “But you were injudicious when you disregarded Rolfe’s warning.”
“I thought he had his own interests to serve,” was Statham’s reply.
“Frankly, you believed it to be an attempt at blackmail. I quite follow you. But do you think Rolfe would be guilty of such a thing?”
“My dear Levi, when a poor man is in love, as Rolfe is, it is a sore temptation to obtain by any means, fair or foul, sufficient to marry and support a wife. You and I were both young once—eh? And we thought that our love would last always. Where is yours to-day, and”—he sighed—“where is mine?”
“You are right,” replied the old servant slowly, with a slight sigh. “You refer to little Marie. Ah! I can see her now, as plainly as she was then, forty years ago. How beautiful she was, how dainty, how perfect, and—ah!—how well you loved her. And what a tragedy—the tragedy of your life—the tragedy that has ever been hidden from the world—the—”
“No! Enough, Levi!” cried his master hoarsely, staring straight before him. “Do not recall that to me, especially at this moment. It was the great tragedy of my life, until—until this present one which—which threatens to end it.”
“But you are going to face the music. You have said!”
“I may—and I may not.”
Levi was silent again. Only the low ticking of the dock broke the quiet, and was followed by the rumble of a motor-’bus and the consequent tremor in the room.
“At any rate, Samuel Statham will never act the coward,” the millionaire remarked at last, in a soft but distinct voice.
“Rolfe can help you. Where is he—away just at the moment that he’s wanted,” Levi said.
“My fault! My fault, Levi!” his master declared. “I disbelieved him, and sent him out to Servia to show him that I did not credit what he told me.”
“You were a fool!” said Levi, bluntly. He never minced words when his master spoke confidentially.
“I know I was. I have already admitted it,” exclaimed the financier. “But what puzzles me is that that man outside is really alive and in the flesh. I never dreamed that he would return to face me. He was dead—I could have sworn it.”
“So you saw him dead—eh?”
Old Statham drew a quick breath, and his face went ashen, for he saw how he had betrayed himself. Next instant he had recovered from his embarrassment and, bracing himself with an effort, said:
“No—no, of course not. I—I only know what—well, what I’ve been told. I was misled wilfully by my enemies.”
Levi looked straight into his face with a queer expression of disbelief. Statham noticed it, and it unnerved him.
He had inadvertently made confession, and Levi did not credit his denial.
The peril of the situation was complete!
Chapter Ten.
Shows a Woman’s Peril.
Several hours had gone by, hours which Samuel Statham spent, seated in a deep easy-chair near the empty fire grate, reviewing his long and eventful life.
With his head buried in his hands, he reflected upon all the past—its tragedy and its prosperity. True, he had grown rich, wealthier than he had ever dreamed, but, ah! at what a cost! The world knew nothing. The world of finance, known in the City, looked upon him as a power to be reckoned with. By a stroke of that stubby, ink-stained pen which lay upon the writing-table he could influence the markets in Paris or Berlin. His aid and advice were sought by men who were foremost in the country’s commerce and politics, and he granted loans to princes and to kingdoms. And yet the tragedy of his own heart was a bitter one, and his secret one that none dreamed.
He, like many another world-famous man, had a skeleton in his cupboard. And that day it had seen the light, and the sight of it had caused him to begin the slow and painful process of putting his house in order, prior to quitting it for ever—prior to seeking death by his own hand.
For nearly an hour he had been huddled up in the big leather armchair almost immovable. He had scrawled two or three letters, and written the superscription upon their envelopes, and from his writing-table he had taken a bundle of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon. One by one he had read them through, and then, placing them in the grate, he had applied a match and burnt them all. Some other business documents followed, as well as an old parchment deed, which he first tried to tear, but at last burned until it was merely twisted tinder.
It was now afternoon, and the silence of that house of mystery, wherein no one save Charles Rolfe ever penetrated, was unbroken. Across the soft green carpet lay a bar of warm sunlight that seemed strangely out of place in that sombre apartment, with its despairing owner, while outside the shabby stranger was no longer to be seen.
He might be lurking in the vicinity, but Levi had an hour ago entered and informed his master that the patient vigil had been relaxed.
Old Sam had dismissed him with a grunt of dissatisfaction. Those last hours of his life he wished to spend alone.
He had been trying to see some way out of the cul-de-sac in which he found himself, but there was none. That shabby wayfarer—his worst enemy, had found him. Years ago he had sworn a terrible vengeance, but for secret reasons, known only to Statham himself, he had laughed his threats to scorn. Then came his death, and Statham was free, free to prosper, become rich and powerful, and use his great wealth for good or for evil as he felt so inclined.
He had, however, used it for good. His contributions to charities were many and handsome. Among other things, he had built and endowed a wing of the London Hospital, for which his Majesty signified his intention of conferring a baronetcy upon him. But that honour he declined. To his brother in the City he had said, “I don’t wish for any honour, and I’ll remain plain Sam to the end of my days.” There was a reason—a secret reason—why he was unable