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Ottumwa tri-weekly courier. [volume] (Ottumwa, Iowa) 1903-1916, April 07, 1908, Image 2

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CHAPTER XVI., (continued).
"As far as I'm concerned it does,"
he declared, even though he knew that
his words were not exactly the truth.
"Why have you so suddenly changed
towards me. Marion? You are my
love. I care for no one save your
self. You sv^y know that—have I
not told you so a hundred times? Do
you still doubt me?"
"No, Max. I do not doubt you. It
Is you who doubt me!"
"I do not doubt," he repeated. "I
have merely made inquiry regarding
Maud, and the confession which you
yourself told me she made to you.
Surely, in the circumstances, of her
extraordinary disappearance, together
with her father, it is not strange that
that I should be unduly interested in
her?"
"No, not at all strange?" she admit
ted. "I am quite as surprised and in
terested over Maud's disappearance
as you are."
"Not quite so surprised."
"Because I view the whole affair in
the light of what she told me."
"Did1 what she tell you in any way
concern the doctor?" he asked eager
ly.
"Had you any suspicion that father
and daughter Intended to suddenly
disappear?"
"No but, as I have before told you,
I am not surprised."
"Then they are fugitives, I take it
he remarked, in a changed tone.
"Certainly. They were no doubt
driven to act as they have done. Un
less there—there has been a trag
edy!"
"But the men who removed the fur
niture must be in some way connect
ed with the doctor's secret," he re
marked. "There were several of
them."
"I know. You have already de
scribed to me all that you have dis
covered. It is very remarkable and
very ingenious."
"A momemt ago you were about to
tell me something, Marion," he said,
fixing his gaze upon hers "what is
itr
She tried to laugh, but it was only
very fntlle attempt, and It caused
tacieased suspicion to arise within
bis already overburdened mind. Here
he was, endeavoring to elucidate the
stsry of the disappearance of a
yet .she could not assist him
tenirt- His position was suffl
taateftstog, for he was con
bee secret knowledge
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at the same moment, was convinced
by her attitude that she was holding
back from him some important fact
which it was her duty to explain. She
knew how intimate was her lover's
friendship with the missing man, and
the love borne his daughter by her
own brother. If foul play were sus
pected, was it not her bounden duty
to relate all she knew?
The alleged confession of Maud Pet
rovitch struck him now more than
ever as extarordinary. Why did Mar
ion not openly tell him of her fears or
misgivings? Why did not she give
him at least some idea of the nature
of her companion's admissions? On
the one hand, he admired her for her
loyalty to Maud while on the other,
he was beside himself with chagrin
that she persistently held her secret.
In that half hour during which they
had sat together in the crimson sun
down, her manner seemed to have
changed. She had acknowledged her
love for him, yet in the same breath
she had indicated a gulf between
them. He saw in her demeanor a tim
idity that was quite unusual, and he
put it down to guiltiness of her se
cret.
"Marion." he said at last, taking her
hand firmly in his again, and speak
ing in earnest, "you said just now
that you believed I loved you, but—
something. But what? Tell me.
What is it you wish to say? Come,
do not deny the truth. Remember
what we are both to each other. I
have no secrets from you—and you
have none from me!"
She cast her eyes wildly about her,
and then they rested upon his. A
slight shudder ran through her as he
still held her soft, little hand.
"I know—I know it is very wrong
of me," she faltered, casting her eyes
to the floor, as though in shame. "I
have not right to hold anything back
from you, Max, because—because I
love you—but—ah!—but you don't un
derstand—it is because I love you so
much that I am silent—for fear that
you—"
And she buried her head upon his
shoulders and burst into tears.
CHAPTER XVII.
In Which aScot Becomes Anxious.
That same Sunday evening, at mid
night, in a cane chair in the lounge
of the Central Station hotel, in Glas
gow, Charlie Rolfe sat idly smoking a
cigar.
Sunday In Glasgow is always a dis
mal day. The weather had been grey
and depressing, but he had remained
in the hotel, busy with correspond
ence. He had arrived there on Sat
urday upon some urgent business con
nected with that huge engineering
concern, the Clyde and Motherwell
Locomotive Works, in which old Sam
Statham held a controlling Interest,
but as the manager was away till Mon
day, he had been compelled to wait
until his return.
The matter which he was about to
decide involved the gain or loss of
some £25,000, and a good deal of lat
itude old Staham had allowed him in
his decision. Indeed, it was Rolfe
who practically ran the big business.
Bears the
Signature
He reported periodically to Statham,
and the latter was always satisfied.
During the last couple of years, by
his clever finance, Rolfe had made
much larger profits with smaller ex
penditure, even though his drastic re
forms had very nearly caused a strike
among the four thousand hands em
ployed.
He had spent a most miserable day
—a grey day, full of bitter reflection
and of mourning over the might-have
beens. The morning he had idled
away walking through -Buchanan
street, and the other main thorough
fares,- where all the shops were closed
and where the general aspect was in
expressibly dismal. In the afternoon
he had taken a cab and gone for a
long drive along to while away th-3
hours, and now, after dinner, he was
concluding one of the most melan
choly days of all his life.
There were one or two other men
in the lounge, keen faced men of com
mercial aspect, who were discussing,
over their cigars, prices, freights and
other such matters. In the corner was
a small party of American men and
women, stranded for the day while
on their round tour of Scotland—the
West Highlands, the Trossachs, Loch
Lomond, Stirling Castle, the High
lands, and the rest—anxious for Mon
day to come, so as to be on the mov«
again.
Rolfe stretched his legs, and from
his corner surveyed the scene through
the smoke from his cigar. He tried
to be interested in the people about
him, but it was impossible. Ever and
anon the words of old Statham rang
in his ears. If the house of Statham
—which, after all, seemed to be but.
a house of cards—was to be saved, it
must be saved at the sacrifice of Maud
Petrovitch!
Why? That question he had asked
himself a thousand times that day.
The only reply was that the charming
half foreign girl held old Statham'*
secret. But how could she As far
as he knew, they had only met once,
years ago. when she was but a child.
And Statham, the elderly melan
choly man who controlled so many
interests, whose every action was
noted by the city, and whose firm was
believed to be as safe as the Bank of
England, actually asked him to sacri
fice her honor. What did he mean?
Did he suggest that he was to wilfully
compromise her in the eyes of the
world?
"Ah, if he knew—if he only knew!"
murmured Rolfe to himself, his face
growing pale and hard-set. "Sam
Statham believes himself clever, and
so he is! Yet in this game I think I
am his eqnal." And he smoked on
in silence, his frowning countenance
being an index to his troubled mind.
He was reviewing the whole of the
curious situation. In a few years he
had risen from a harum-scarum youth
to be the private secretary, confidant
and frequent adviser to one of the
wealthiest men in England. Times
without number, old Sam, sitting in
his padded writing chair in Park Lane
had commended him for his business
acumen and foresight. Once, by a
simple suggestion, daring though it
was, Statham had. in a few hours,
made ten thousand pounds, and, with
many wor^s of praise the dry, old fel
low took out his checkbook and drew
a check as a little present to his
clever young secretary. Charlie Rolfe
was however, unscrupulous, as a
good many clever men of business are.
In the wbrld of commerce the divid
ing line between unscrupulousness
and what the city knows as ftnartness
Is invisible. So Marion's brother wis
dubbed a smart man at Statham Broth
ers' and In those big old fashioned,
and rather gloomy offices he was en
vied as being "the governor's favor
ite."
Charlie intended to get on. He saw
other men make money in the city by
the exercise of shrewdness and com
monsense and he meant to do the
same. The business secrets of old
Sam Statham were all known to him,
and he had more than once been half
tempted to take into partnership some
financier, who, armed with the infor
mation he could give, could mak?
many a brilliant coup, forestalling
even old Statham himself. Up to the
present, however, he had never found
anybody he could implicitly trust. Of
sharks he knew dozens, clever, ener
getic men, he admitted, but there was
not one of these who would not give
away their own mother when it came
to making a thousand profit. So ne
was waiting—waiting until he found
the man who could "go in" with him
and make a fortune.
Again he was reflecting upon old
Sam's appeal to him to save him.
"Suppose he knew," he murmured
again. "Suppose and his eyes
were fixed upon the painted ceiling of
the lounge.
A moment later he sighed impatient
ly, saying, "Phew! how stifling it is
here!" and, rising, took up his hat
and went down the stairs and out into
street to cool his fevered brain. He
was haunted by a recollection— the
tragic recollection of that night when
the doctor and his daughter had so
mysteriously disappeared.
"I wonder," he said aloud, at last.
"I wonder if Max ever dreams the ex
traordinary truth? Yet how can he?—
what impressions can he have? He
must be puzzled—terribly puzzled,
but he can have no clue to what has
actually happened!" and then he was
again silent, still walking mechan
ically along the dark half-deserte.f
business street. "But suppose the
truth was really known!—suppose it
were discovered? What then? Ah!"
he gasped, staring straight before
him, "what then?"
For a full hour he wandered the
half deserted streets of central Glas
gow, till he found himself down by
the Clyde bank, and then retraced his
steps to the hotel, hardly knowing
whither he went, so full was he of the
terror which daily, nay, hourly, ob
sessed him. Whether Max Barclay
had actually discovered him or .not
meant to him his whole future—nay
his very life.
"I wonder if I could possibly get :-,t
the truth through Marion?" he
thought to himself. "If he really sus
pects me he might possibly question
her with a view of discovering my ac
tual movements on that night. Would
it be safe to approach her? Or would
it be safer to boldly face Max, and if
he makes any remark, to deny it?"
Usually he was no coward. He be
lieved in facing the music when
there was any to face. One of the
greatest misfortunes of honest folks
is that they are cowards.
As he walked on he still muttered
to himself—
'Hasn't Boileau said that all men
are fools, and, spite of all* their pains,
they differ from each other only more
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or less. I'm a fool—a silly, cowardly
ass, scenting danger where there Is
none. What could Max prove after
all? No! When I return to London
I'll go and face him. The reason I
didn't go to Servla is proved by Stat
ham himself. Of excuses I'm never
at a loss. It's an awkward position,
I admit, but I must wriggle out of It,
as I've wriggled before. Statham's
peril seems to me even greater than
my own, and, moreover, he asks me
to do something that is impossible.
He doesn't know—he never dreams
the truth and. what's more, he must
never know. Otherwise, I—I must—"
And instinctively his hand passed
over his hip pocket, where reposed the
handy plated revolver which he al
ways carricd.
Presently he found himself again in
front of the Central Station hotel, and
entering, spent an hour full of anx
ious reflection prior to turning in. If
any had seen him in the silence of
that hotel room they would have at
once declared him to be a man with
a secret, as Indeed he was.
Next morning he rose pale and
haggard, surprised at himself when
be looked at the mirror but when, at
eleven o'clock, he took his seat In the
directors' office at the great Clyde and
Motherwell Locomotive works his
face had undergone an entire change.
He was the calm, keen business man
who, as secretary and agent of the
a*ftt Samuel Statham, had power to
dfcet with the huge financial interests
InP''6'ved.
t'^he firm had a large contract for
billing express locomotives for tho
Italian railways, lately taken over by
the state, and the first business was
to interview the manager and sub
manager, together with the two en
gineers sent from Italy, regarding
some details of extra cost of construc
tion.
The work of the Clyde and Mother
well company was always excellent.
They turned out locomotives, which
could well bear comparison with any
of the Northwestern, Great Northern,
or Nord of France, both as to finish,
power, speed and smoothless of run
ning. Indeed, to railways in every
part of the world, from Narvik, with
in the Arctic circle, to New Zealand,
Clyde and Motherwell engines were
running with satisfaction, thanks to
the splendid designs of the chief en
gineer, Duncan Macgregor, the white
bearded old Scot, who at that moment
was seated with Statham's represen
tative.
The conference between the engi
neers of the Italian ferrovia, and the
managers was over, and old Macgreg
or, who had been engineer for years
to Cowan and Drummond, who owned
the works before Statham had extend
ed them and turned them Into the
huge Clyde asd Motherwell works,
still remained.
He was a broad-speaking Highland
er, a native of Killin on Loch Tay,
whose services had long ago been cov
eted by the London and Northwestern
Railway company, on account of his
constant improvements in express en
gines, but who always refused, even
though offered a larger salary to go
across the border and forsake the firm
to whom, forty years ago, he had been
apprenticed by his father, a small
farmer.
As a Scotchman, he believed in
Glasgow. It was, in his opinion, the
only place where could be built loco
motives that would stand the wear
and tear of a foreign or colonial line.
An engine that was cleaned and look
ed after like a watch, as they were on
the English or Scotch main lines, was
easily turned out, he was fond of say
ing but when It became a question
of hauling power, combined with
speed and strength to withstand hard
wear and neglect, it was a very dif
ferent matter.
Managers and sub-managers, secre
taries and accountants there might be
gentlemen who wore black coats and
went out to dine in evening clothes,
but the actual man at the head of
affairs at those great works was Dun
can Macgregor—the short, thick-set
man, In a shabby suit of grey tweed,
who sat there closeted with Rolfe.
"You wrote to London asking to
see me, Macgregor," exclaimed the
young man. "We're always pleased to
hear any suggestions you've got to
make, I assure you," said Charlie,
pleasantly. "Have a oigarette?" and
he pushed the big box over to the man
who sat on the other side of the
table.
"Thank ye, no, Mr. Rolfe, sir. I'm
better wanting it," replied Macgregor,
in his broad tongue. And then, with
a preliminary cough, he said "I—I
want very badly to speak with Mr.
Statham."
"Whatever you say to me, Macgreg
or, I will tell him."
"I want to speak to him ma'sel*.
"I'm afraid that's impossible. He
sees nobody—except once a week in
the city, and then only for two hours."
'E wouldn'a see me—er?" asked
the man, whose designs had brought
the firm to the forefront in the trade.
"I fear it would be Impossible. You
would go to London for nothing. I'm
his private secretary, you know and
anything that you tell me I shall be
pleased to convey to him."
"But, mon, I want to see 'im
ma'sel'!"
"That can't be managed," declarsd
Rolfe. "This business is left to Mr.
Smale and myself. Mr. Staham con
trols the financial position, but de
tails are left to me, in conjunction
with Smale and Hamilton. Is it con
cerning the development of the busi
ness that you wish to see Mr. Stat
ham?"
"No, it ain't. It concerns Mr. Stat
ham himself, privately."
Rolfe pricked up his ears.
"Then it's a matter which you do
not wish to discuss with me be
said. "Remember that Mr. Statham
has no business secrets from me. All
his private correspondence passes
through my hands."
"I know all that, Mr. Rolfe," Mac
gregor answered, with impatience,
"but I must, an' I will, see Mr. Stat
ham! I'm coming to London tomor
row to see him."
"My dear sir," laughed Rolfe, "it's
utterly useless! Why, Mr. Statham
has peers of the realm to see him. ana
he sends out word that he's not at
home."
"Er! 'E's a big mon, I ken but
when 'e knows ma' bizness 'e'll verm
soon see me," replied the bearded old
fellow, in confidence.
"But is your business of such a
It makes you
long for
dinnertime
Everything:
Call or address.
very private character?" asked
Rolfe.
"Aye, it is."
"About the projected strike—er?
Well, I can tell you at once what his
attitude is towards the men, without
you going up to London. He told me
a few days ago to say that if there
was any trouble, he'd close down the
works entirely for six months, or a
year, if need be. He won't stand any
nonsense."
"An' starve the poor bairns—eh?'
mentioned the old engineer, who had
grown white in the service of the
firm. "Aye, when It was Cowan and
Drummond they wouldna' ha' done
that! I remember the strike in '82,
an' how they conciliated the men. But
it was na' aboot himself."
"Himself! What does he concern
you? You've never met him. He's
never been In Glasgow In his life."
"Whether I've met 'im or no is my
own affair, Mr. Rolfe," replied the
old fellow, sticking his hairy list into
hiB
jacket pocket. "I want to see 'im
now, an' at once. I shall go to the
London office an' wait till 'e comes."
"And when he comes he'll be far
too busy to see you," the secretary
declared. "Soi my dear man, don't
spend money unnecessarily in going
up to London, I beg of you."
By the old man's attitude Rolfe
scented that something was amiss,
and set himself to discover what it
was and report to his master.
"Is there any real dissatisfaction in
the works?" he asked Macgregor, aft
er a brief pause.
"There was a wee bittie, but it's i'
passed away."
"Then It is not concerning the
works that you want to see Mr. Stat
ham?"
"Nay, mon, not at all."
"Nor about any new patent?"
"Nay."
Rolfe was filled with wonder. The
attitude of the pld fellow was sphinx
like and yet he seemed confident that
the millionaire would see him when he
applied for an Interview. For a full
half-hour they chatted, but canny Mac
gregor told his questioner nothing—
nothing more than that he was about
to go to London to have a talk with
the great financier upon some Import
ant matter which closely concerned
him.
Therefore by the West Coast errvtf
ing express, Rolfe left Glasgow for
the south, full of wonder as to what
the whitebearded old fellow meant by
his covert Insinuations and his proud
confidence in the millionaire's good
offices. There was something there
which merited Investigation—of that
he was convinced.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Outsider.
On the left hand side of Old Broad
street, city, passing from the Royal
Exchange to Liverpool street station,
stands a dark and dingy building,
with a row of four windows looking
upon the street. On a dull day. when
the green shaded lamps are lit with
in, the passer-by catches glimpses of
rows of clerks, seated at desks pour
ing over ledgers. At the counter is
a continual coming and going of clerks
and messengers, and notes and gold
are received in and paid out constant
ly until the clock strikes four. Then
the big, old doors are closed, and up
on them is seen a brass plate, with
the lettering almost worn off by con
tinual polishing, bearing the words
"Statham Brothers."
Beyond the counter, through a
small wicket, is the manager's room—
large, but gloomy, screened from the
public office, and lit summer and win
ter by artificial light. In a corner is
a safe for books, and at either end
big writing tables. In that sombre
room "deals" representing thousands
upon thousands were often made, and
through its door, alas! many a man
who, finding himself pressed had gone
to the firm for financial aid and been
refused, had walked out a bankrupt
and ruined.
Beyond the manager's room was a
narrow, dark passage, at the end of
which was a door marked "Private."
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and within that private room, punc
tually at 11 o'clock, three mornings
after Rolfe's conversation with Mac
gregor, old Sam Statham took his seat
in the shabby writing chair, from
which the stuffing protruded.
About the great financier's private
room there was nothing palatial. It
was so dark that artificial light had
to be used always. The desk was an
old-fashioned mahogany one of the
style of half a century ago, a thread
bare carpet, two or three old horse
hair chairs, and upon the green painc
ed wall a big date-calendar such as
bankers usually use, which beneatn
it was a card, printed with old Sam'a
motto:
"TIME FLIES DEATH URGES."
That sajne motto was over every
clerk's desk, and because of it, soma
wag had dubbed the great financier,
"Death-head Statham."
As he sat beneath the lamp at his
desk, old Sam's appearance was al
most as presentable as that of his
clerks. Levi always smartened his
master up on the day he went into the
city, compelling him to wear a frock
coat, a light vest, a decent pair of
trousers, and a proper cravat, instead
of the bit of greasy black ribbon
which he habitually wore.
"And how much have we gained
over the Pekin business, Ben?" Mr.
Samuel was asking of the man who,
though slightly younger, was an al
most exact replica of himself, slightly
thinner and taller. Benjamin Stat
ham, Sam's brother, was the working
manager of the concern and one of
the smartest financiers in the whole
city of London. He was standing
with his back to the fireplace, .with
his hands thrust deep in his trousers
pockets.
"Ah!" he laughed. "When I first
suggested it you wouldn't touch it.
Didn't care for Chinese business, an-1
all that! You'd actually see the
French people go and take the plums
right from beneath our noses—and—"
"Enough, Ben. I own I was a little
short-sighted In that matter. Perhans
the details you sent me were not
quite clear. At any rate," he said, "I
was mistaken, for you say we've made
a profit. How much?"
"Twelve thousand and not a cent
of hazardous risk."
"How did we first hear of the busi
ness
"Through the secret channel In
Paris."
"The woman?**
"Yes."
"Better send her something."
"How much? She's rather hard-up,
I hear."
"Women like her are always hard
up," growled old Sam. "Leave It to
me. I'll get Rolfe to send her
thing tomorrow."
(To be Continued.)
Morgan Visits Queen and Pope.
Rome,'April 4. J. Pierpont Mor
gan and daughter, Mrs. Herbert L.'
Satterlee were received in private
audience today by Queen Helena, aft
er which they visited the pope.
FOLEY'S
KIDNEY CURE
WILL CURE YOU
of any case of Kidney or
Riadder disease that is nol
beyond the reach of medi
cine. Take i. at once. Do
not risk having Bright's Dis
ease or Diabetes. There is
nothinggained by delay.
50c and Sl.OOBottlsi
REFUSE SUBSTITUTES.
Clark's Drua Atorfi and ftu/anean A

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