Part 6 (1/2)

”Did you see any servant when you were there this evening?”

”Yes; the man-servant Costa.”

”Ah, a foreigner! Old or young?”

”Middle-aged.”

”A devoted retainer of his master, of course.”

”I believe so.”

”Then he may have been in his master's secret--most probably was. When a master suddenly flies he generally confides in his man. I've known that in many instances. What nationality was this Petrovitch?”

”Servian.”

”Oh, we don't get many of those people in London. They come from the East somewhere, don't they--a half-civilised lot?”

”Doctor Petrovitch is perfectly civilised, and a highly-cultured man,”

Max responded. ”He is a statesman and diplomat.”

”What! Is he the Minister of Servia?”

”He was--in Berlin, Constantinople, and other places.”

”Then there may be something political behind it,” the officer suggested, beaming as though some great flash of wisdom had come to him.

”If so, it don't concern us. England's a free country to all the sc.u.m of Europe. This doctor may be flying from some enemy. Russian refugees often do. I've heard some queer tales about them, more strange than what them writers put in sixpenny books.”

”Yes,” remarked Barclay, ”I expect you've had a pretty big experience of foreigners down in Whitechapel.”

”And at Vine Street, too, sir,” was the man's reply, as he leaned against the edge of his high desk, over which the flaring gas jets hissed. ”Nineteen years in the London police gives one an intimate acquaintance with the undesirable alien. Your story to-night is a queer one. Would you like me to send a man round to the house with you in order to give it a look over?”

Max reflected in an instant that if that were done the woman's dress would be discovered.

”Well--no,” he replied. ”At present I think it would be scarcely worth while. I think I know where I shall find the Doctor in the morning.

Besides, a friend of mine is engaged to his daughter, so he'll be certain to know their whereabouts.”

”Very well--as you wish. But,” he said, ”if you can't find where they're all disappeared to, give us a call again, and we'll try to a.s.sist you to the best of our ability.”

Max thanked him. A ragged pickpocket, held by two constables, was at that moment brought in and placed in the railed dock, making loud protests of ”I'm quite innocent, guv'nor. It warn't me at all. I was only a-lookin' on!”

So Barclay, seeing that the inspector would be occupied in taking the charge, thanked him and left.

Outside, he reflected whether he should go direct to Charlie's chambers in Jermyn Street. His first impulse was to do so, but somehow he viewed Rolfe with suspicion. If his friend had not seen him--and he believed he had not--then for the present it was best that he should hold his secret.

Perhaps the Doctor had sent a telegram to his own chambers. He would surely never leave London without sending him word. Therefore Max hailed a pa.s.sing cab and drove to Dover Street.

His chambers, on the first floor, were cosy and well-furnished, betraying a taste in antique of the Louis XIV period. Odd articles of furniture he had picked up in out-of-the-way places, while several of the pictures were family portraits brought from Kilmaronock Castle.

The red-carpeted sitting-room, with its big inlaid writing-table, bought from an old chateau on the Loire, its old French chairs and modern book-case, was lit only by the green-shaded reading lamp, beneath which were some letters where his man had placed them.