“What!” cried Statham, starting up. “Are you quite certain of this?”
“Yes; why?” she asked, surprised at the sudden effect her words had produced upon him.
“Well—well, because this is a surprise to me, Miss Rolfe,” he said. “Tell me the details, as far as you know them. Has he spoken to you about it?”
“Yes. He is hesitating to go, not wishing to leave me.”
“Of course. Did I not tell you so a moment ago?” he remarked with a smile. “But are you aware that this concession, if the Sultan really gives it, is of the greatest importance to the commercial development of the Near East? There are big interests involved, and correspondingly big profits. Curious that I have not heard anything of the scheme lately! It’s a dream that every Balkan statesman has had for the past fifteen years—the creating of an outlet for trade to the Adriatic; but the Sultan could never be induced to allow the line to run through his dominion. He is not too friendly with either Bulgaria or Servia. I thought I was being kept well informed of all the openings in Constantinople where British capital can be employed. Yet I haven’t heard anything of this long discussed scheme for quite a year.”
“Your informants believe, perhaps, that it would not interest you?”
“Interest me!” he echoed. “Why, they could not successfully carry it through in London without my aid—or, at least, without my consent. Whoever is getting the concession—if it is being obtained at all, which I very much doubt—knows full well that in the long run he must come to Sam Statham. Do you happen to know who, besides Barclay, is interested in the scheme?”
“There is a French gentleman—a friend of Max’s—who wants him to go to Constantinople with him.”
“What is his name? I may probably know him?”
“Adam—Jean Adam.”