“Very good of you, I’m sure; but at present I am quite unable to leave London.”
Max was wondering for the first time why this man was so pressing. If the thing was a really good one—as it undoubtedly was, according to the friend he had consulted in the City—then there could not be any lack of persons ready to go into the venture. Was it sheer luck that had led this man Adam to offer to take him into it, or had the man some ulterior motive? Max Barclay was no fool. He had sown his wild oats in London, and knew the ways of men. He had met many a city shark, and had been the poorer in pocket through the meeting. But about this man Adam was something which had always fascinated him. The pair had been drawn together by some indescribable but mutual attraction, and the concession by the Sultan which must result in great profits was now within his reach. Nevertheless, he felt that in the present circumstances it was impossible to leave London. Before doing so he was desirous of solving the problem of the disappearance of Doctor Petrovitch, and clearing up the question of whether or not there had been foul play.
Rolfe’s denial of the previous day had complicated matters even further. He was convinced, now that he had reflected calmly, that his friend was concealing something from him—some fact which had an important bearing upon the astounding affair.
Was Charlie playing a straight game? After long consideration he had come again to the conclusion that he was not!
In his ear was the voice of the tempter Jean Adam. Fortune awaited him in that sunlit city of white domes and minarets beside the Bosphorus—the city of veiled women and of mystery he had always hoped to visit. Would he not spare fourteen days, travel there, and obtain it?
It was a great temptation. The concession for that railway would indeed have been a temptation to any man. Did not the late Baron Hirsch lay the foundation of his huge fortune by a similar iradé of his Majesty the Sultan?
The man seated in the deep armchair with the cigarette between his lips looked at his victim through his half-closed eyes, as a snake watches the bird he fascinates.
Jean Adam was an excellent judge of human nature. He had placed there a bait which could not fail to attract, if not to-day, then to-morrow—or the next day. He had gauged Max Barclay with a precision only given to those who live upon their wits.
To every rule there are, of course, exceptions. Every man who lives upon his wits is not altogether bad. Curious though it may be, there are many adventurers to be met with in every capital in Europe, who, though utterly unscrupulous, have in their nature one point of the most scrupulous honour—one point which redeems them from being classed as utter blackguards.
Many a man, who will stick at nothing where money can be made, is loyal, honest, and upright towards a woman; while another will with one hand swindle the wealthy, and with the other give charity to the poor. Few men, indeed, are altogether bad. Yet when they are, they are, alas! outsiders indeed.