"Well, I think, dear, that your fears are quite groundless," she declared. "I know how the affair is worrying you, and how much you respected the dear old doctor. But, if I were you, I would wait in patience. He will surely send you word some day from some remote corner of the earth. Suppose he had sailed for India, South America, or South Africa, for instance? There would have been no time for him to write to you from his hiding-place."

"Then he is in hiding--eh?" asked Max, eager to seize on any word of, hers that might afford a clue to the strange statement of Maud.

"He may be."

"Is that your opinion?"

"I suspect as much."

"Then you do not believe there has been a tragedy?"

"I believe only in what I know," replied the girl with wisdom.

"And you know there has not been a tragedy?"

"Ah! no. There you are quite mistaken. I have no knowledge whatsoever."

"Only surmise?"

"Only surmise."

"Based upon what Maud told you--eh?" he asked at last, bringing the conversation to the point.

"What Maud told me has nothing whatever to do with my surmise," was her quick reply. "It is a surmise, pure and simple."

"And you have no foundation of fact for it?"

"None, dear."

Max was disappointed. He sat smoking, staring straight before him. At the tables around, beneath the trees, well-dressed people were chatting and laughing in the dim light, while the military band opposite played the newest waltz. But he heard it not. He was only thinking of how he could clear up the mystery of the strange disappearance of his dearest friend. He glanced at the soft face of the sweet girl at his side, that was so full of affection and yet so sphinx-like.

She would tell him nothing. Again and again she had refused to betray the confidence of her friend.

For the thousandth time he reflected upon that curious and startling incident which he had seen with his own eyes in Cromwell Road, and of the inexplicable discovery he had made. He had not met Rolfe. That he should keep away from him was, in itself, suspicious. Without a doubt he knew the truth.

Max wondered whether Charlie had told his sister anything--whether he had told her the truth, and the reason of her determination not to speak was not to incriminate him. He knew in what strong affection she held her brother--how she always tried to shield his faults and magnify his virtues. Yet was it not only what might be very naturally supposed that she would do? Charlie was always very good to her. To him, she owed practically everything.

And so he pondered, smoking in silence while the band played and the after-dinner idlers gossiped and flirted on that dimly-lit lawn. He pondered when later on he took her to Oxford Street by the "tube," and saw her to the corner of the street in which Cunnington's barracks were situated, and he pondered as he drove along Piccadilly to the Traveller's to have a final drink before going home.

Next morning, about eleven, he was in his pleasant bachelor sitting-room in Dover Street going over some accounts from his factor up in Scotland, when the door opened and Charlie Rolfe entered, exclaiming in his usual hearty way:

"Hulloa, Max, old chap, how are you?"

Barclay looked up in utter surprise. The visit was entirely unexpected, and so intimate a friend was Rolfe that he always entered unannounced.

In a moment, however, he recovered himself.

"Why, Charlie," he exclaimed, motioning him to a low easy-chair on the other side of the fireplace, "you're quite a stranger. Where have you been all this long time?"

"Oh! I thought you knew through Marion. I've been up in Glasgow. Had a lot of worries at the works--labour trouble and all that sort of thing," he replied. "Those Scotch workmen are utterly incorrigible, but I must say that it's due to agitators from our side of the border."

"Yes; I saw something in the papers the other day about an impending strike. Have a cigar?" and he pushed the box towards his friend.

"There would have been a strike if the old man hadn't put his foot down.

The men held a meeting and reconsidered their position. It's well for them they did, otherwise I had orders to close down the whole works for six months--or for a year, if need be."

"But you'd have lost very heavily, wouldn't you?"

"Lost? I should rather think so. We should have had to pay damages for breach of contract with the Italian railways to the tune of a nice round sum. But what does it matter to the guv'nor. When he takes a stand against what he calls the tyranny of labour he doesn't count the cost."

"Well," sighed Max, looking across at Marion's brother, "it's rather nice to be in such a position, and yet--"

"And yet it isn't all honey to be in his shoes--eh? No, Max, it isn't,"

he said. "I know more about old Sam than most men, and I tell you I'd rather be as I am than stifled by wealth as he is. He's a millionaire in gold, but a pauper in happiness."

"I can't help thinking that his unhappiness must, in a great measure, be due to himself," Max remarked, wondering why Charlie had visited him after this length of time. "I think if I had his money I should try and get some little enjoyment out of it. Other wealthy men have yachts, or motor cars, or other hobbies. Why doesn't he?"

"Because he doesn't care for sport. He told me once that in his younger days abroad he was as keen a sportsman as anybody. But now-a-days he's too old for it, and prefers his armchair."

"And yet he isn't a very old man, is he?"

"Sometimes wealth rejuvenates a man, but more often the worry of it ages him prematurely," Rolfe remarked. "I only got back from Glasgow again last night, and I thought I'd look in and see you. Seen Marion lately?"

"I was with her at Earl's Court last night. She's all right."

Then a silence fell between the pair. Rolfe lit the cigar he had been slowly twisting between his fingers. Max looked furtively into his friend's face, trying to read what secret thought lay behind. Charlie, however, preserved his usual easy, nonchalant air as he leaned back in his chair, his weed between his teeth and his hands clasped behind his head.

"Look here, Charlie," Max exclaimed at last, in a tone of confidence.

"I want to ask you something."

The other started visibly, and his cheeks went just a trifle paler.

"Well, go on, old chap." He laughed uneasily. "What is it?" And then he held his breath.

"It's about old Statham."

"About old Statham!" the other echoed, breathing freely again.

"Yes. Do you know that there are going about London a lot of queer stories regarding that house of his in Park Lane--I mean a lot more stories."

"More stories!" laughed the private secretary. "Well, what are people saying now?"

"Oh, all sorts of weird and ridiculous thing."

"What is one of them? I'm interested, for they never tell me anything."

"Because they know you to be connected with the place," Max remarked.

"Well, just now there are about a dozen different tales going the rounds, and all sorts of hints against the old man."