“Why not now? Why forbid us also from seeking the Doctor and his daughter?”
“For reasons of my own. I am expecting a visitor.”
Max laughed sarcastically. The reason put forward seemed too absurd.
“Ah! you don’t believe it!” cried the old fellow. “But you will see. Your curiosity has, no doubt, led you to misjudge me. It was only to have been expected. I ought to have guarded my secret better.”
Neither man spoke. Both had their eyes fixed upon the grey face of the old millionaire before them. They recollected his despair before he had retired to rest, and remembered, too, the tender care of his faithful Levi.
The clock chimed the half-hour—half-past three in the morning.
The night had been fraught by so many surprises that neither Charlie nor his friend could believe in the grim reality of it all. They never suspected that that fine mansion was practically unfurnished, or that its millionaire owner practically lived the life of a pauper. Had not Charlie been well aware of his master’s shrewdness in his business and clearness in his financial operations, he would have believed it all due to an unbalanced brain. But there was no madness in Samuel Statham. He was as sane as they were. All his eccentricity was evidently directed towards one purpose.
As he stood there he practically told them so.
“You misjudge me!” said he, his grey face relaxing in a smile. “You think me mad—eh? Well, you are not alone in that. A good many people believe the same of me. I am gratified to think they believe it. It is my intention that they should.”
“But, Mr Statham, we have asked you a question to which you have refused to answer. We wish to know what has become of Marion Rolfe.”