the heavy piece offurniture and found the safe.
He examined the door, and from its blackened condition, the twistediron, and the broken lock, no second glance was needed to ascertain thatit had been blown open by explosives.
Whatever valuables Dr Petrovitch had kept there had disappeared.
The theory of theft was certainly substantiated by these discoveries.Max stood by the empty safe silent and wondering.
"I noticed downstairs in the study that a board had been prised up, asthough somebody has been searching for something," the man from Harmer'sremarked. "Probably the Doctor had something in his possession of whichthe thieves desired to get possession."
"Well," said Max, "I must say that this safe being open looks as thoughthe affair has actually been the work of thieves. If so, then where isthe Doctor, where is his daughter Maud, and where are the servants?"
"Yes. I agree. The whole affair is a complete mystery, sir," the otherreplied. "There have been thieves here without a doubt. Perhaps theDoctor knows all about it, but for some reason dare not utter a word ofcomplaint. Indeed, that's my theory. He may be in fear of them, youknow. It's a gang that have done it, without a doubt."
"And a pretty ingenious gang, too," declared Max, with knit brows.
"They evidently made short work of all the furniture. I wonder why theytook it, and where it is at present."
"If it has gone to a sale room the police could trace it," Maxsuggested.
"Certainly. But suppose it was transferred from the vans it was takenaway in to the vans of some depository, and removed, say, to Portsmouthor Plymouth, and there stored? It could be done quite easily, and wouldnever be traced."
"Yes. But it's a big job to have made a whole houseful of furnituredisappear in a couple of hours."
"It is not so big as it first seems, sir. I'd guarantee to clear ahouse of this size in one hour, if necessary. And the way they turnedout the things didn't take them very long. They were in a desperatehurry, evidently."
"Do you think that thieves did the work?"
"I'm very strongly of that opinion. Everything points to it. If I wereyou I'd go back to the police and tell them about the safe, about thatchest of drawers, and the flooring in the study. Somebody's been pryingabout here, depend upon it."
Max stood, still undecided. Did it not seem very much as though thethieves had visited there after Charles Rolfe had fled so hurriedly?
CHAPTER EIGHT.
THE PAUPER OF PARK LANE.
About half-way up Park Lane--the one-sided row of millionaires'residences that face Hyde Park--not far from the corner of that narrowlittle turning, Deanery Street, stood a great white house, one of ashort row. The windows were protected from the sun by outside blinds ofred and buff-striped holland, and the first floor sills were gay with,geraniums.
The house was one of imposing importance, and dwarfed its neighbours,being both higher, larger, and more artistic. On the right side dweltone of Manchester's cotton kings, and on the other a duke whoserent-roll was one of the biggest in the United Kingdoms. The centrehouse, however, was far more prosperous-looking than the others, and wasoften remarked upon by country cousins as they passed up and down uponomnibuses. It was certainly one of the finest in the whole of thatselect thoroughfare where rents alone were ruinous, and where thepossession of a house meant that one's annual income must run into sixfigures. The mere nobility of England cannot afford to live in ParkLane nowadays. It is reserved for the kings of Britain's commerce, theStock Exchange speculator, or the get-rich-quick financier.
Those who read these lines know well the exterior of many of the housesof notable people who live there. Some are in excellent taste, whileothers betray the blatant arrogance of the man who, risen from penury,has suddenly found himself a controller of England's destinies, aBirthday Knight, and the husband of a woman whom the papers havesuddenly commenced to dub "the beautiful Lady So-and-So." Other housesare quiet and sober in their exterior, small, modest, and unobstructive,the town residences of men of great wealth, who, posing as gentlemen,are hoping for a peerage.
The hopes in Park Lane are many. Almost every household possesses asecret ambition, some to shine in Society, other in politics, and someeven in literature. The really wealthy man sneers at a baronetcy, anhonour which his tea-merchant received last year, and as for aknighthood, well, he can plank down his money this afternoon and buy onejust as he bought a cigar half an hour ago in Bond Street. He must havea title, for his wife wants to be known by the name of his countryplace, and he has secret ambitions for a seat in the Lords. And so inevery house in that long, one-sided row are hopes eternal which riseregularly every year towards the end of June.
Diamond, copper, soap, pork, and railway "kings" who dwell there are acurious assortment, yet the combined wealth of that street alone wouldbe sufficient to pay off our National Debt and also run arespectable-sized kingdom for a year or two.
Almost every man could realise a million sterling, and certainly one ofthe very wealthiest among them was old Samuel Statham, the man who ownedand lived in that house with the red-striped sun-blinds.
While Max Barclay was engaged in his investigations at the desertedhouse in Cromwell Road, old Sam was standing at the window of his study,a large front room on the ground floor overlooking the Park. It was aquiet, soberly-furnished apartment, the carpet of which was so soft thatone's feet fell noiselessly, while over the mantelshelf was a largelife-sized Venus by a modern French artist, the most notable picture inthe Salon five years ago.
The leather-covered chairs were all heavy and old-fashioned, the booksin uniform bindings of calf and gold, and the big writing-table of theearly Victorian period. Upon the table stood a great silver candelabrafitted with electric lamps, while littered about the floor werequantities of folded papers and business documents of various kinds.
There was but little comfort about the room. Artistic taste and luxuryare commonly associated with Park Lane, therefore the stranger wouldhave been greatly surprised if he had been allowed a peep within. Butthere was a curious bet about the house.
No stranger had ever been known to pass beyond the big swing-glass doorshalf-way down the hall. No outsider had ever set foot within.
Levi, the hook-nosed old butler, in his well-cut clothes and spotlesslinen, was a zealous janitor. No one, upon any pretext whatsoever, wasallowed to pass beyond the glass doors. His master was a littleeccentric, it was said, and greatly disliked intruders. He hated theinquisitiveness of the modern Press, and always feared lest his houseshould be described and photographed as those of his neighboursconstantly were. Therefore all strangers were rigorously excluded.
Some gossip had got about concerning this. A year ago the wealthy oldfinancier had been taken suddenly ill, and his doctor was sent for fromCavendish Square. But even he was not allowed to pass therigidly-guarded frontier. His patient saw him in the hall, and there hediagnosed the ailment and prescribed. The doctor in question, awell-known physician, remarked upon old Sam's eccentricity over adinner-table in Mayfair, and very soon half smart London were talkingand wondering why nobody was ever invited to the table of SamuelStatham.
In the City, as head of Statham Brothers, foreign bankers, whose officesin Old Broad Street are known to every City man, he was always affable,yet very shrewd. He and his brother could drive hard bargains, but theywere always charitable, and the name of the firm constantly figured fora substantial amount in the lists in response to any charitable appeal.
From small beginnings--the early days of both brothers being shrouded inmystery--they had risen to become what they now were, a house secondonly to the Rothschilds in financial power, a house whose assistance wassought by kings and emperors, and whose interests were world-wide.
That morning old Sam Statham appeared unusually agitated. Rising atfive o'clock, as was his habit summer and winter, he had been hard atwork for hours when Levi brought him his tiny cup of black Turkishcoffee. Then, glancing at the clock
upon his desk, he had risen, goneto the window, and gazed out eagerly, as though in search of someone.
It was eight o'clock, and there were plenty of people about. But,though he looked up and down the thoroughfare, he was disappointed. Sohe snapped his thin fingers impatiently and returned to his writing.
His personal appearance was truly insignificant. When, in the street,he was pointed out to people as the great Samuel Statham, theyinvariably expressed astonishment. There was nothing of the blatantmillionaire about him. On the contrary, he was a thin, grey,sad-looking man, rather short of stature, with a face very broad in thebrow and very narrow at the chin, ending with a small, scraggy whitebeard clipped to a point. His cheeks were hollow, his dark eyes sunken,the skin upon his brow tightly stretched, his lips pale and thin, andabout his clean-shaven upper lip a hardness that was in
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