Chapter Forty Three.
The Lost Beloved.
Weeks had dragged by. To Max Barclay they had been weeks of keen anxiety and unceasing search to discover traces of his lost beloved.
Once, and only once, had he seen Jean Adam, against whom Sam Statham had warned him. He had met the man of brilliant financial ideas by appointment at lunch at the Savoy, and had told him plainly that he had reconsidered the whole matter of the Turkish concession, and had decided to have nothing to do with it.
His excuse was lack of funds at that moment. To the old millionaire he owed a good deal for giving him the “tip” regarding the plausible Anglo-Frenchman. Adam, alias Adams, received Max’s decision without the alteration of a muscle of his face. He was a perfect actor, and betrayed no sign of surprise or of chagrin.
“Well, my dear fellow,” he remarked, raising his glass of Brauneberger and contemplating it before placing it to his lips; “you’re losing the chance of a lifetime. If Baron Hirsch had been alive he wouldn’t have allowed such a thing to slip. When old Statham knows of it he’ll move heaven and earth to come in.”
Max was silent. He did not allow his companion to know that Statham had been responsible for his refusal to join in the project.
“I’m sorry, too,” he said. “But just now I’m rather pressed. I was hard hit last week over those Siberians.”
“But the money required is a mere bagatelle. I have mine ready.”
“I regret,” answered Max, “but my decision is final.”