She had only seen Samuel Statham, the well-known millionaire, on one occasion. She had called at the offices in Old Broad Street one afternoon to see her brother, who was his confidential secretary, when the old fellow had entered, a short, round-shouldered, grey-bearded old man, rather shabbily-dressed, who, looking at her, bluntly asked who she was and what she wanted there.
One of his eccentricities was that he hated women, and Marion knew that.
In a faltering tone she replied that she was sister of his secretary, whereupon his manner instantly changed. He became the acme of politeness, asked her into his private room, offered her a glass of port—which, of course, she refused—and chatted to her most affably till her brother’s return.
Why she had taken such a violent dislike to the old man she herself could not tell. Possibly it was his sudden change of manner, and that his pleasant suavity was feigned. And this, combined with the extraordinary rumours regarding his past, and the mystery of his great mansion in Park Lane, had caused her to view him with bitter prejudice.
Several customers were waiting to be served, and Marion saw Mr Warner’s eye upon her.
“Well, Charlie,” she said, “perhaps I’ll get down to Charing Cross to see you off. You go to Paris first, I suppose?”
“Yes. I take the Orient Express from there, by way of Vienna and Budapest to Belgrade. But,” he added, “don’t come and see me off, there’s a good girl.”
“Why? I’ve been before, when you’ve gone to the Continent.”
“Yes, I know,” he answered impatiently; “but—well, it makes me feel as if I shan’t come back. Don’t come, will you?”
Marion smiled. His anxiety that she should not come struck her as distinctly curious.