“Not in your case, Miss Rolfe,” replied the old millionaire. “Remember that it is not Mr Cunnington who controls Cunnington’s, Limited. I have asked you here in order to speak to you in strictest confidence. Indeed, I want to take you into my confidence, if you’ll allow me. Perhaps you will be absent from Oxford Street a week—perhaps a month. But when you return you will not find the vacancy filled.” His cold eyes were fixed upon hers. She found a strange fascination in the old man’s glance, for he seemed to fix her and hold her immovable. Now, for the first time she experienced what Charlie had so often told her, namely, that Samuel Statham could, when he so desired, exercise an extraordinary power over his fellow men.
“Absent a month?” she echoed, staring at him. “What do you mean?”
“What I say. The car is awaiting you at the Marble Arch, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so. The chauffeur put me down there—at your orders, I believe.”
“I told you to put on a thick coat and motor-veil. I see you have done as I wished. I want you to go on a long journey.” She looked at the grey, immovable face before her in sheer astonishment. To this man both her brother Charlie and she herself owed their present happiness. And yet he was a man of millions and of mystery. Charlie had always been reticent regarding the strange tales concerning the house in which she now found herself, a visitor there under compulsion. Max, on the other hand, had often expressed wonder whether or not there was really any substratum of truth.
As she sat there she recollected how, only a fortnight before, Max had told her the latest queer story regarding the mysterious mansion and its eccentric owner. What would he say if he knew that she had dared to go alone there—that she was seated in the old man’s private room?
Dared! If the truth were told, Sam Statham had written to her fully half-a-dozen times, asking her to call upon him in secret in the evening when her brother would have left, as he wished to speak with her. Each time she had replied making excuses, for within herself she could not imagine upon what business he wished to see her. She had only met him once, on the day her brother took her to the City and asked his master to secure her a berth at Cunnington’s. The interview only lasted five minutes, and the impression he left upon her was that of a peevish, snappy old man who held all women in abhorrence.
“Very well, very well, Rolfe,” he had replied impatiently, “I’ll write to Cunnington’s about your sister. Remind me to-morrow.” Then, turning to her, he had wished her a hasty good-bye, and resumed his writing. He had hardly taken the trouble to look at her.
Now, for the first time, he was gazing straight into her face, and she thought she detected in his eyes an expression of sadness, combined with kindliness. An expert in the reading of character, however, would have noticed beneath that assumed kindliness was an expression of triumph. He had brought her there against her will. She was there at his bidding, merely because she dare not offend the man to whom both Charlie and herself owed their daily bread.
For a long time she had held out against all his strongly-expressed desires to see her. His letters had been placed in her hand by a special messenger, and Mr Warner, “the buyer,” had on two occasions witnessed their delivery, and wondered who might be his assistant’s correspondent. He never dreamed that it was Samuel Statham, the man who held the controlling interest in the huge concern.