“Eh? What?” asked the old fellow sharply, turning again to the other.
“You did very well in Odessa. I was very pleased to receive that last cable from you. Souvaroff grew frightened evidently—afraid I should withdraw and let the whole business go into air.” And he chuckled to himself in delight at how he had worsted a powerful Russian banker who was his enemy.
“It was not of that I wish to speak,” remarked Rolfe quietly. “It was with regard to my sister Marion.”
The old fellow started uneasily at his secretary’s words. “Eh? Your sister?” he said. “What about her?”
“She’s left Cunnington’s,” Charlie said. “According to what I hear, she’s been discharged in some disgrace.”
“Ah! yes,” was the old man’s response, as though recalling the fact. “I’ve heard so. Your friend Barclay came to see me, and told me some long story about her. I wrote to Cunnington, but I haven’t seen any reply from him. It may have gone to the office.”
“My sister has left Oxford Street—and hidden herself, in disgrace. We can’t find her.”
“Then if you can’t find her, Rolfe, I don’t see how I can assist you,” remarked the elder man. “Girls entertain strange fancies, you know—especially the sentimental-minded. Been reading novels, perhaps—eh? Was she given to that?”
“The girls at Cunnington’s have little time for reading,” he said, piqued at Statham’s careless manner. Hitherto he had believed that the old man was genuinely interested in her, but he now saw that her future was to him nothing. He was too much occupied in piling up wealth to trouble his head over a girl’s distress, even though that girl might be the sister of the man who by his acute business foresight often won for him thousands in a single day.
Charlie rose, full of suppressed anger. He did not notice the look of anxiety and shame upon the old man’s face, for his head was bowed beneath the lamplight as he pretended to fumble with his papers.