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Title: The rat trap

Author: William Le Queux

Release date: January 19, 2026 [eBook #77737]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Macaulay Company, 1930

Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAT TRAP ***




 THE RAT TRAP

 BY
 WILLIAM LE QUEUX




 THE MACAULAY COMPANY
 NEW YORK




 [COPYRIGHT]

 Published, 1930, by
 The Macaulay Company




 CONTENTS

 Chapter One
 Chapter Two
 Chapter Three
 Chapter Four
 Chapter Five
 Chapter Six
 Chapter Seven
 Chapter Eight
 Chapter Nine
 Chapter Ten
 Chapter Eleven
 Chapter Twelve
 Chapter Thirteen
 Chapter Fourteen
 Chapter Fifteen
 Chapter Sixteen
 Chapter Seventeen
 Chapter Eighteen
 Chapter Nineteen
 Chapter Twenty
 Chapter Twenty-One
 Chapter Twenty-Two
 Chapter Twenty-Three
 Chapter Twenty-Four




 THE RAT TRAP

 CHAPTER ONE

In the marble hall of the gay Hôtel Continental, Ostend, that
reckless center of bathing, gambling and dancing, stood two
Englishmen, chatting together.

The younger of the pair, about twenty-two, and dressed in tennis
flannels, was a young sprig of the Stock Exchange named Claude Peyton;
the elder, a handsome, dark man, about ten years his senior, was Frank
Aylmer.

Aylmer was of somewhat foreign appearance, owing to the fact of his
mixed parentage, his father having been an Englishman, his mother a
Spaniard. He had lived in Spain for the first twelve years of his
life, and was a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan.

After coming down from Oxford, he studied for the Bar, and, in due
course, was called. But his father having died about that period, he
came into possession of a comfortable fortune which rendered it
unnecessary to work for a living. His beautiful Spanish mother had
died before he and his father had come to England.

Passionately fond of travel, he made up his mind to lead a busy,
cosmopolitan life at the various Continental resorts, as the seasons
came and went. Though outwardly gay and irresponsible, at heart he was
a quiet, rather studious man, with drowsy, half-closed eyes, and sleek
black hair. Women were greatly attracted to him by his smartness, his
handsome features, the perfect little dinners he frequently gave, and
perhaps by his innate politeness, and his foreign manner of kissing a
woman’s hand.

He was quite well off enough to make him an eligible _parti_, with the
money he had inherited from his father, a member of an old
North-Country family. But fortune sometimes delights to give with both
hands to her favorites. And she had done so in his case. Two years
before this story opens, a distant cousin of his father’s, Sir Charles
Reeks, had died suddenly at Biarritz, apparently of heart disease.

Sir Charles was a rich man, a bachelor of somewhat eccentric
character. He had not taken any very great notice of either father or
son since they had been in England, and he had a heap of other
relatives, some with very much stronger claims on him. To such, his
will must have been a bitter disappointment; for, with the exception
of a few trifling legacies, he left the whole of his considerable
fortune to Frank Aylmer, the relative of whom he had seen so very
little.

It was the eccentric benefaction of an eccentric man; but, as he was
of perfectly sound mind when he made this disposition of his property,
the disappointed ones had no hope of upsetting the will. In all
probability he had derived great satisfaction in leaving his money to
somebody who never had asked him a favor, and never had harbored the
idea that he would receive anything from him.

As the two men stood chatting in the marble hall, a party of three
passed them on their way out--a charming-looking young woman,
apparently in the early twenties, and two men. Peyton bowed to them,
and they returned his salutation.

Aylmer’s rather sleepy eyes displayed considerable animation as his
gaze followed the young woman whose slender form was enveloped in a
mauve bathing-wrap. He turned to his companion.

“What a lovely creature! You know her, then! Who is she?”

Peyton gave him the desired information. “A very slight acquaintance.
They only arrived yesterday, and I danced with her last night. She’s
as charming as she looks, and was a delightful partner. That tall,
dark fellow is her husband, I should say a good fifteen years older
than herself. I shouldn’t wonder if they were on their honeymoon--he
seems rather attentive. I should say she wasn’t a day older than
twenty-two, or three.”

“Who is the other man with them--the short, fair one?” asked Aylmer.

“A great friend of the husband’s so I learned last night. They came
here together from England.”

“Of course you know her name?”

“She is a Mrs. Quentin. They live at Hampstead. I didn’t find out what
the man is. He looks rather like the Foreign Office type, don’t you
think?”

“Perhaps,” assented Aylmer. “Do you know anything of the husband’s
friend?”

“Only that his name is Martyn. You see, old man, I had not too much
time with her. But, by Jove, she is a ripping partner; she dances the
tango to perfection. She’s as light as a fairy.”

“There is certainly something very uncommon about her, she carries
herself so splendidly,” remarked the elder of the young men after a
pause. “That mauve bathing-dress suits her down to the ground. I like
women better in that sort of gear, don’t you? There are no trimmings
when they bathe. If I were the husband of a beautiful woman like that
I think I should be disposed to keep her more to myself. I shouldn’t
care to have a fellow like this Martyn hanging about. He seems as
attentive as her lawful owner.”

“Quite _as_ attentive, if not more so,” laughed young Peyton. “He may
be Quentin’s friend, but I think he is very much interested in the
delightful young wife. When I was dancing with her last night, I could
see his eyes were on her all the time. A bit jealous, perhaps; he
can’t dance a little bit, she told me. As soon as I get an opportunity
to-night I will introduce you. She’s mad on dancing, and as you are a
very fine performer, you’ll just suit her. I can just keep my end up,
but I’m not in it with you.”

There was nothing mean or paltry about this bright, open-hearted
specimen of the best English youth. He was always ready to yield the
palm to those superior to himself in any particular accomplishment,
and he had a very humble idea of his own merits. Just a plain, breezy,
straightforward Englishman, reflecting credit upon his public-school
training. All his friends agreed that he was a thorough “sportsman” in
every sense of the word.

“Quentin doesn’t seem a bad sort of chap,” he remarked presently. “A
little bit grave and reserved, perhaps, but possessing excellent
manners, and, I should say, decidedly well-informed. I don’t take much
to the Martyn chap; a bit of a bounder, I fancy. But that may be just
prejudice, because I resented his watching us so closely last night.
He gave me the impression that he rather begrudged Mrs. Quentin
enjoying herself. But, of course, I may be wrong, not by any means for
the first time.” He ended with his boyish laugh.

That evening, young Peyton fulfilled his promise and introduced his
friend to the charming Mrs. Quentin, and she and Aylmer danced
together.

In appearance the young woman was a typical blond--blue eyes, fair
hair, shingled in the latest fashion, a complexion of cream and roses.
She wore a wonderful hyacinth dance-frock which suited her delicate
beauty to perfection. Young Peyton had not exaggerated her
proficiency. She danced like a fairy, or a professional. As Aylmer, no
mean performer himself, guided her slender form through the crowded
room, he thought she embodied the very poetry of motion.

They were much too good performers not to take their dancing
seriously, more especially as they could not fail to perceive the
admiration that their graceful partnership was exciting both amongst
their fellow dancers and those who, like Mr. Quentin and his friend
Martyn, contented themselves with looking on at the gay scene. During
the dance they did not say much to each other. But, after it was over
he found that this very beautiful young woman was a most bright and
entertaining companion as well as an exquisite dancer. He paid her
some compliments on her skill and expressed his pleasure at having
found such a partner.

She smiled very sweetly at his sincere praise.

“But, I can return the compliment, Mr. Aylmer,” she said in her
pretty, well-bred voice. “It would be affectation to pretend that I am
not generally the best dancer amongst the women in most places where I
find myself, for dancing is in my blood. But you are quite as good.
Except amongst professionals, I have never met anybody your equal. I
danced last night with your friend, that nice boy, Mr. Peyton. He is a
most delightful young fellow, so fresh and ingenuous; but, of course,
his notions of the art are of the most elementary kind, and he has no
false pride about it. He admitted it frankly.”

Frank Aylmer smiled. It amused him to hear this young woman, a girl in
spite of her wedding-ring, talking so condescendingly of a man of her
own age, as if he were a child.

“There can’t be many months between you and Peyton, either way,” he
said good-humoredly; “but you speak of him as some elderly woman might
speak of a little boy. He is as modest a chap as ever breathed. But I
am sure he thinks himself quite a man.”

Mrs. Quentin smiled in her turn. “I dare say you are right, and there
is not much difference in our ages. But you will surely admit, Mr.
Aylmer, that women are always much older than men. I have just turned
twenty-two, but I always feel quite the equal of a man of thirty. The
young men in the twenties always seem to me more or less, boys. I
cannot take them seriously.”

Evidently Mrs. Quentin had no great _penchant_ for quite young men,
except as occasional cavaliers or dancing partners. The fact that she
had married a man so much her senior, no doubt, was due to this
particular characteristic. Aylmer was not sorry to hear her voice this
sentiment. He often told himself that he was beginning to get on to
the borderland: he was going on thirty-three. It was refreshing to
find one very beautiful young woman who did not admit the supremacy of
masculine youth.

At this point in their conversation they had come to the spot where
Mr. Quentin was watching the dancers, in the company of his
inseparable friend, Mr. Martyn. The tall, dark man greeted them with a
smile.

“You have been the admired of all beholders,” he said, speaking in
suave, refined tones. “Some of the couples have stopped in order that
they might watch you; it seemed to give them more pleasure than
dancing themselves. And all round us I have heard most enthusiastic
remarks on your performance. I am sure it must have been a treat for
my wife to come across such a partner as you, Mr. Aylmer. Perhaps I
ought not to say it, but she seldom meets anybody who is in the same
class with her.”

Mr. Quentin by no means gave the impression of being a gushing person,
but it was evident he appreciated his beautiful young wife. Mr. Martyn
stood by, and did not attempt to join in his friend’s compliments. His
face wore an expression of indifference.

Aylmer stole a quick glance at the silent man, who did not mask his
indifference under even a genial smile. He was not a bad-looking
fellow. His stature, a good deal under middle height, militated
somewhat against his appearance, but he was good-looking, with
clean-shaven, clearcut features. In spite of these redeeming points,
Aylmer did not take to him. His eyes were shifty, and he had a way of
averting his gaze from the one seeking his, that produced a rather
uncomfortable impression.

Young Peyton had thought that he was a bit of a bounder. Was the boy
right? In spite of his youth and want of experience, he had an uncanny
knack of getting at the bottom of people on a very cursory
acquaintance. With his natural modesty, he used to allude to it as his
one and only “gift.”

There was a slight pause after this. Aylmer, who in some ways was
quite as modest as his young friend, felt a little embarrassed by
Quentin’s suave compliments. Mrs. Quentin, who did not appear to
suffer from embarrassment, broke the silence.

“Mr. Aylmer dances divinely--about that there can be no question,” she
said emphatically. “I do hope, for purely selfish reasons, he is going
to stay here as long as we do. I shall never find another partner like
him.”

And then Mr. Martyn broke his rather marked silence. “You live only
for pleasure, Eileen. I wonder if it will be always so?” He had the
grace to accompany these peculiar words with a smile, but it was
certainly not a genial one. Anybody could perceive that they were
meant in a depreciatory sense, as a reproach.

A deep flush rose to Mrs. Quentin’s beautiful face, and she seemed on
the point of making an angry retort. But before she could frame it,
her husband’s smooth tones broke in.

“My dear Martyn, you must remember that Eileen is very young, little
more than a girl. It is natural she should love gaiety and pleasure,
at her age. It will be a long time yet before she need adopt more
serious views of life. Personally, I should be content that she never
adopted them. Rather let her teach us to be young, than we constrain
her to be old.”

Aylmer took rather a fancy to the man for saying what he did. However
intimate Martyn might be with the husband, it was a gross presuming on
their friendship to address such remarks to the wife. Quentin had
administered a justifiable, but very dignified, reproof.

At that moment, Claude Peyton danced past them with a very charming
young girl with shingled hair. They were smiling and chatting merrily
to each other like a couple of children; they evidently did not take
their dancing too seriously. Mrs. Quentin turned away from the
undiplomatic and rebuffed Martyn, and watched them with rather a
tender look on her fair young face.

“Now, are not those two perfectly matched?” she said to Aylmer, when
the couple had swum beyond her gaze. “She is a dear little thing,
quite a child--I doubt if she has seen seventeen; but she is as wise
as he with his twenty-two years, just a little bit more sentimental,
perhaps. Men don’t become really sentimental till they have turned
thirty.” She added, with a rather mischievous smile: “And she dances
as badly as he does. Neither can complain on that score.”

Aylmer thought over one of her remarks. They had drawn a little away
from Quentin and his friend, and he said to her in a low voice:

“Is it your real opinion that a man does not develop proper sentiment
till he has turned thirty?”

She nodded her pretty shingled head, and spoke in as low a voice as
his own.

“I am sure of it.”

His next question was delivered in a whisper.

“What age is Mr. Martyn?”

She had a sense of humor, and grasping the drift of the query, she
whispered back:

“Come a little farther away, he can hear through a brick wall.
According to reliable evidence, he is thirty-five, and therefore ought
to be overflowing with romance. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t an
ounce of sentiment in his nature. He is hard, sour, and joyless.”

“I thought he was decidedly rude to you,” Aylmer ventured to remark.

She shrugged her shoulders, and her usually charming mouth took on a
disdainful expression as she answered in the same low tone:

“When we happen to be alone, he is often much ruder than that. I don’t
know whether he likes me or not. He worships my husband like a dog,
and he may think I have come between them. And yet, in his own way, he
appears quite fond of me. He would do anything I asked him. But he
would like me to lead the life he thinks proper for a young married
woman. He looks upon me as light and frivolous.”

“I thought Mr. Quentin dealt very well with him.”

“Oh yes, Richard knows how to set him down when he goes too far. He is
a kind old thing. I don’t suppose I am all that he would like me to
be, but he will always take up the cudgels on my behalf.”

When he thought over the happenings of that evening, Frank Aylmer
found much food for reflection. Eileen Quentin was a dangerously
fascinating girl; he could not quite think of her as a woman in spite
of her married state. She had told him in an indirect way that she was
not attracted by very young men. Was she really in love with this
rather serious husband of hers, whom he guessed to be nearer twenty
than fifteen years older than his young wife? Or, had it been only a
marriage of convenience, and was she pretending in order to save her
face?

And where did the unsmiling Martyn come in, in this apparently
inseparable trio? What were his real sentiments towards his friend’s
wife? He had been guilty of rudeness to her in Aylmer’s presence; and,
according to her account, he was often rude to her. If Quentin was in
love with his wife, why did he not get rid of this churl.

But then did Martyn really dislike her? Peyton was by no means clever
or profound, but he was sharp in some things. He observed a good deal
that escaped Aylmer, in spite of the latter’s experience and deeper
knowledge of the world. He said that Martyn showed her as much, if not
more, attention than her own husband. Clearly, then, he had seen
something that Aylmer had missed. Was the man’s rudeness and fault
finding a sort of revenge for his baffled hopes, for his chagrin in
knowing that she belonged to another?

It was a puzzle! Aylmer was terribly fascinated with this beautiful
young married woman; he was half in love with her after the briefest
of acquaintances. Was it wise to stay and lose his heart irretrievably
to her? He was an upright and honorable young man. Would it spell
disaster, to both, if he remained? He was singularly free from vanity.
But he could not help seeing that Eileen--he already called her that
to himself--had taken a great interest in him. She seemed to hold
Martyn in contempt; Peyton she regarded as a callow youth; but he was
sure her feeling for him was altogether different.

If he stayed, would he not be playing with fire?




 CHAPTER TWO

When Aylmer came down to breakfast, the next morning, later than his
usual custom, he found that his friend Peyton already had breakfasted
and had gone out, leaving word with the waiter that he would be back
in about an hour.

The table where the trio had sat at dinner, the previous night, was
occupied only by Quentin, who beckoned to Aylmer to join him.

“Eileen danced too much last night; she is not very strong and has to
pay the penalty by having her breakfast in bed,” Quentin explained,
“My friend Martyn is always an early bird; comes down before us and
gets out for the morning air as soon as he can. I see you are alone;
Mr. Peyton left when I came in, a few minutes ago. We might as well
join forces, if it is agreeable to you.”

Aylmer, who had taken rather a liking to the man for his dignified
defense of Eileen, against Martyn’s sneering attack, the previous
evening, declared he would be delighted, and took his seat at
Quentin’s table. He said something suitable about Mrs. Quentin’s
fatigue, and expressed the hope that she was not seriously indisposed.

The grave-faced man, whose hair was thinning rapidly at the top,
smiled reassuringly. “Oh, dear no, nothing of that sort--just a little
bit overdoing it the last two nights. One could not call her exactly
robust, but as a rule she has excellent health. The only thing wrong
with her is her heart. That is a trifle weak and pays her out if she
over-exerts herself. She will just have to take things quietly for a
day or two, and she’ll be all right again.”

Quentin was a very slow eater, and Aylmer out of courtesy accommodated
his pace to his. In consequence, they sat a long time at the breakfast
table, and during this period the elder man never allowed the
conversation to flag. When he recalled that conversation, Aylmer came
to the conclusion his new acquaintance had a strong streak of
curiosity in his composition. For during the time he had adroitly
succeeded in inducing the young man to tell him a good deal about
himself and young Peyton, and, in return for these disclosures, had
revealed some portion of his own history, and a little of Martyn’s.

He had begun with a very direct question. “Very nice chap, that young
friend of yours. Looks to me as if he had got the public-school stamp
about him.”

Aylmer explained that his surmise was correct. Peyton had been at
Rugby, and from there had gone straight into his father’s office. A
year ago he had been given a junior partnership, and was now quite
proud of the fact that he was a full-fledged stockbroker.

Mr. Quentin pursued his inquiries. “I know his firm very well by
repute, although I have not had the pleasure of knowing any of the
partners personally. A fine business, I understand, and an
old-established one. I should say you hailed from a public school,
too.”

Aylmer, who was a little amused at the man’s determination to ferret
out everything, modestly stated his credentials--Harrow and Magdalen,
Oxford.

Mr. Quentin nodded his head approvingly on receipt of this
information. “I was right, then. I have rather a knack of classifying
my fellow-creatures. And have you got a snug business, like your
friend? Or, are you a gentleman at large?”

“Very much at large,” laughed Aylmer. “Circumstances have made it
unnecessary for me to work, and I am afraid at heart I am an idle
fellow. I love this roaming about from one place to another, following
just the whim of the moment.”

The elder man’s tones were thoughtful when he spoke again.

“Yes, such a life has many advantages; but, on the whole, I have come
to the conclusion that work is the best thing for a man--a busy life
full of duties to be done, of ambitions to be achieved. I know, I feel
it to be so in my own case.”

Aylmer began to evince a little curiosity on his side. His interest in
the wife had led him to take an interest in the husband.

“Like you, Mr. Aylmer, I am lord of myself--that heritage of woe, as
some poet has put it. My father died before I was of age. I was the
only child, and I came into a quite comfortable income. Like you, I
was of an idle, unambitious temperament, and I thought I could manage
to lounge through life very comfortably. Well, I have had a good many
years of it--I am close upon forty-five, though some people are kind
enough to say I don’t look it--and I have begun to think I should have
been happier on the whole if I had gone into some business or
profession. It is too late now, of course; my habits are too set. But,
there are moments when I find time hangs very heavily on my hands.”

So, he was more than twenty years older than his young wife. Peyton,
that masterful observer, had guessed fifteen. But it was a pardonable
error, for even with the telltale thinness of the hair he did not look
forty-five.

“The worst of it is, I have no hobbies,” remarked Mr. Quentin,
presently. “I have read a good deal, but I find I don’t take the
interest in books I used to do. Theaters bore me; this hotel life is
the same day after day, week after week. I have seen everything worth
seeing in the shape of scenery. I suppose it is inevitable that one
should become a bit blasé when life is a perpetual holiday. By the
way, have you any hobbies?”

“Like you, I read a good deal, and I haven’t yet got to that stage
when the theater bores me. Yes, I have, I think, one especial hobby,
rather a peculiar one. I am a keen student of criminology.”

Mr. Quentin lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Yes, it seems to me
quite a peculiar one; it would make no appeal to me. Personally, I
think all crime is sordid, and I would prefer to shut it out of my
thoughts. I suppose it appeals to you on the scientific side?”

Conversation languished for a little while. During the pause Aylmer
indulged in a few reflections. From what he had said, Quentin did not
seem to be a happy man in spite of his fortunate circumstances.
Surely, the possession of such a beautiful wife ought to have brought
him serene contentment. He wished that he could induce the man to talk
about Eileen, to give him some details of their wooing, of how they
had become acquainted. But, good taste forbade him to steer the
conversation into such delicate channels.

However, he had no hesitation in imitating his companion’s frankness
in the direction of the man whom Peyton had thought was a bit of a
bounder.

So, he put a direct question. “And what about your friend Mr.
Martyn--has he any occupation?”

Quentin laughed pleasantly. “Poor old Martyn, he has had a wonderfully
checkered career. He ran away from home when he was sixteen--a
stepmother made his life unbearable--and, according to his own
account, he has been nearly everything under the sun: bartender,
cattle-puncher, ranch-hand, and all sorts of things. I can’t help
thinking he draws the long bow a bit when he discourses about the
past; but, there is no doubt he has had a tremendously varied
experience. He made good in the gold-fields, got together a nice
little pile, invested it with judgment and a fair slice of good luck,
and from that hour forswore adventure and settled down to a quiet,
uneventful life.”

“Certainly a very romantic history,” was Aylmer’s remark.

Mr. Quentin went on with further details of his friend.

“He comes of a quite respectable family. His father, who died a few
years ago, a merchant of some sort, left a very tidy sum of money
behind him. But, his stepmother, who evidently hated him intensely,
took care that he should have none of it. His name was never mentioned
in the old man’s will. No wonder that he’s hard and cynical, at times.
An experience like his doesn’t tend to soften a man or develop his
finer feelings.”

“Have you known him long?” asked Aylmer.

“The best part of five or six years,” was the answer. “I met him in a
casual sort of way, and somehow took a fancy to him. He is a trifle
rough and unpolished, and although not uneducated--he is a brainy
fellow and has taught himself a lot--not educated in the strict sense
of the term. Only material things interest him; he cares nothing for
art, literature or music. But he is essentially a man, and has lived
in every sense of the term. He has made of his life a very different
thing from my _dolce far niente_ existence.”

Mr. Quentin ended the little history with what seemed like a note of
regret. If he was sincere in what he said, he appeared to brood very
much over what he considered his idle and purposeless existence.
Aylmer found himself wondering if, later on, he would experience the
same sense of disappointment at not having put what talents he
possessed to more strenuous use; if he would grow as weary as this man
seemed to be of a butterfly life.

After breakfast was over they went into the smoking-lounge and chatted
away there on general topics till young Peyton made his appearance,
very fresh and rosy from an invigorating swim. On his appearance
Quentin rose and threw away his half-finished cigarette, saying that
the young men would like to go out together and that it was time he
went to see how his wife was getting on.

As Aylmer and his friend sauntered along, the conversation naturally
turned to the Quentins. Peyton rather sniffed when he was told that
Quentin had revealed himself in the light of a disillusioned and
disappointed character.

“He’s a very agreeable chap,” he said, “but I have a strong notion
that he’s a bit of a _poseur_, and doesn’t mean half he says; just
likes to strike an attitude for the benefit of his audience. A man who
has got plenty of money has no right to get morbid and think he ought
to be leading a different sort of life. I’m not so fond of work and
the Stock Exchange that I wouldn’t change with you or him if I had
half a chance.”

Aylmer smiled indulgently at the younger man, who never had any
hesitation in avowing his real sentiments, and honestly confessed that
he was not greatly in love with work for work’s sake. He looked upon
it as a means to an end, he was always careful to explain. He would
slog away hard while he was young, so that he could make a nice little
pile for his middle age, when he would give up business and enjoy
himself, to make up for his strenuous days of self-denying youth.

Aylmer mentioned to him the fact of Mrs. Quentin’s indisposition. The
young man, who was so observant in small things, looked at his friend
rather intensely.

“I expect it’s quite slight,” he said. “But it strikes me that you
seem a bit worried about it. You won’t mind my saying, old chap, that
I think it would be wise for you to take yourself in hand in that
quarter. She’s a very fascinating young woman, and I can see with half
an eye she has bowled you over.”

“Rubbish,” replied Aylmer a little testily, although he could not
prevent himself from flushing at those direct remarks. Peyton always
went so straight to the point.

When they returned to the hotel, they found Mrs. Quentin sitting alone
in the lounge. She looked a trifle pale, but was in quite good
spirits, and answered their inquiries after her health in her usual
bright manner.

“Oh, there’s really nothing the matter with me. I have just overdone
it a tiny bit these last two evenings, and my tiresome heart has an
unpleasant way of reminding me when I do silly things. I am going to
be very quiet for the rest of the day; I wouldn’t even go out with my
husband and Mr. Martyn. And to-night I shall not have a single dance.
So it’s no use your asking me, Mr. Aylmer, for I shall be adamant.”

Aylmer protested that he would not think of doing anything which might
retard her recovery, and took a seat beside her. He had not quite made
up his mind as to whether he was going to stay or beat a precipitate
retreat. But, so long as he was here he could not deny himself the
happiness of basking in the sunshine of her presence. Peyton, seeing
how matters stood, left them after a few minutes. He was not the sort
of fellow to spoil sport anyway. He had given his friend a warning. If
Aylmer did not choose to take it, that was his own affair.

“An awfully nice boy that,” remarked Mrs. Quentin when Peyton was out
of earshot. “You seem very great friends. Have you known him long? Or,
is it just a casual acquaintance?”

The young man enlightened her as to the relations between them. Yes,
they were very good pals in spite of the ten years’ difference in
their ages. He had known Claude since he and his father came to
England, Aylmer senior and Peyton’s father being distantly connected
by marriage. Claude frequently had spent a part of his holidays with
the Aylmers when a boy, and the friendship between them had continued
until the present time.

“In spite of his youth Claude has got a fair share of brains, and he
takes a very common sense view of life. I don’t suppose he is
particularly fond of work; but, his father is very satisfied with the
way he is shaping, he tells me, and is sure he will turn into a
first-class man of business when he has had a bit more experience,”
said Aylmer in conclusion.

A little while later he told Mrs. Quentin how he had enjoyed a long
talk with her husband that morning, and of his apparent regret that he
led such an idle life.

She indulged in a faint smile. “Oh, that is rather a pose of his. My
husband could never have been a worker in the real sense of the term,”
she said. “Not for such as he laborious days and the strenuous life of
a business man. If fate had destined him to such a career, he would
have abhorred drudgery and wanted to get rich quickly, with the result
that he would have plunged into all sorts of doubtful and risky
schemes.

“He hasn’t the dogged temperament necessary for commercial success.
And, between you and me, he would much rather live on what he has than
make five times as much by steady application and industry. But I know
he cheats himself into the belief that he was born to be one of the
workers of the world, and he tries to impress everybody with the
fact.” She added, with what seemed a touch of bitterness: “If he were
sincere in what he says, it would have been easy enough for him to
take on a more strenuous life at any time within the last twenty
years. A man who has got any capital can soon find an opening. That he
has not done so is sufficient proof that he is contented as he is.”

“And I suppose you are equally contented?” He put the question
carelessly, but he was very curious to know what were her real
sentiments on the subject.

She shrugged her shapely shoulders slightly. “Oh yes, I think I am
quite happy as I am. When I was a girl, I fancy I had different
ideals, that inclined to a husband who was ambitious in the best sense
of the term, who would carve out a career for himself. But those were
idle dreams, and fate willed it otherwise.”

“And was the hero of those youthful dreams always a man older than
yourself?” asked Aylmer.

“Always,” she answered, “though perhaps not quite old enough to be my
father as Mr. Quentin really is, although he does not look his full
age.”

He would have liked to question her further, but she saved him the
trouble by volunteering a rather frank explanation of her marriage.

“Mine has been a rather strange life. My father died a couple of years
after my birth, leaving very little money behind him. It had been a
love-match, against the wishes of my mother’s family, and they
disowned her in consequence. Poor and friendless, as she was, she was
too proud to beg for assistance from them, she preferred to fight for
herself and her helpless child. She had made the acquaintance of Mr.
Quentin during her short married life, and there is no doubt he had
formed a strong attachment for her. When she was left a widow, she
turned to him as practically the only friend she had in the world. He
was ready to make her his wife, but she had no love to give him, it
was all buried in her husband’s grave. He turned out a true and
faithful friend, in spite of the fact that she would not reward his
devotion in the way he wished. She had always been very fond of the
stage, and she had one accomplishment; she was a splendid dancer.”

“When you spoke of dancing being in your blood, you were thinking of
her. You inherited her gift.”

Mrs. Quentin nodded her graceful head. “Yes, it was her wish that I
should follow in her footsteps. But, alas! I had no confidence in
myself, nothing would have induced me to face the footlights; if I had
found myself before an audience I should have been paralyzed. My dear
mother, fortunately for us, had not my nervous temperament. Mr.
Quentin worked very hard on her behalf, and at length he succeeded in
getting her into musical comedy. She was nothing of an actress; but
she could dance exquisitely, and she earned enough by that one gift to
keep the wolf from the door. Then, when I was fifteen, she died. She
had managed to save a little, but it was very little, for she never
earned a big salary. The interest on what she left brought in about
fifty pounds a year; so, for the second time I was thrown practically
upon the world.”

Aylmer looked his sympathy. In spite of her brightness and vivacity,
it appeared that this charming girl had had her full share of trouble.

“On her death-bed my poor dear mother confided me to Mr. Quentin as a
sacred trust. And very nobly he acquitted himself of the obligation he
had accepted out of his deep love for her. After I had finished the
education he generously provided for me, he put me to board in the
house of some friends of his, paying for my maintenance, and doing
everything he could to make my life easy for me. And so--and so,” she
ended with a little catch in her voice, “it came about that the
peculiar relationship between us drifted into marriage. I felt towards
him the greatest gratitude, and not a little affection; he was the
only friend I had in the world, and he was very fond of me. That is
the history of my life so far, and during the three years of my
married life he always has shown me the greatest kindness and
consideration.”

So they had “drifted into marriage,” to use her own expression, as the
easiest way out of a rather difficult situation. Aylmer did not
suppose that Quentin loved the daughter as he had loved the mother,
and she had only admitted affection, not love. He suspected it was a
very placid relationship on both sides; that the feelings of the man
were more those of a parent than a husband, and hers more of a
daughter than a wife. She seemed so full of life, so born for
enjoyment, that he found himself rather pitying her. Even if she did
prefer men older than herself, there could have been no romance in
this union with one old enough to be her father. Ten years would
surely have been sufficient disparity.

Aylmer stayed on for another couple of days, and on neither of the
evenings did Mrs. Quentin join the dancers. He understood her
abstention the first night, she had given him fair warning that she
was not going to run any risk of a relapse. But, on the second evening
she seemed fully recovered, and he experienced a keen sense of
disappointment, when, in response to his suggestion, she announced
that she would be content with looking on. By then he had almost
definitely made up his mind to leave Ostend. But, he had hoped to take
away with him the memory of a last dance with her.

He wondered for a moment if her health was the real cause of her
refusal, or whether she was obeying a secret instruction of her
husband; if Quentin had displayed a fit of jealousy of a man a good
deal younger than himself, and had compelled her to abstain from
dancing altogether so that she should not dance with him.

Small things are often great factors in clinching a determination.
After that refusal on what he was sure were insufficient grounds, he
told himself that he was now eager to leave, to remove himself from
the sphere of her fascinations. He would stay one more day and night
at the most, taking Peyton with him, or leaving him at the hotel,
according to the young man’s choice.

And then, on the next morning, an incident occurred that made him
change his mind. In the lounge, after breakfast, he saw Mrs. Quentin
and Martyn engaged closely in conversation. There was nobody else in
the apartment, and the man looked up quickly as Aylmer came in. There
was an angry gleam in his eyes, as if he resented the fact of their
being disturbed.

At least that was the impression made on Aylmer by that sudden hostile
glance. Taking the hint, he left them and went up to his own room. In
that moment, brief as it was, he had noticed that the young woman
seemed very agitated, and on Martyn’s face was a cold, hard
expression. It looked very much, he thought, as if they were indulging
in a quarrel.

At the end of a quarter of an hour he came down again, into the
lounge, on his way out of the hotel. Martyn had left, and Mrs.
Quentin, apparently oblivious of observation, was sitting alone with
her handkerchief pressed to her face. He could see, by the movement of
her shoulders, that she was crying.

His natural impulse was to steal away; she would hardly care that he
should be a spectator of her sudden distress. But, as he tried to
carry out his intention, she suddenly dropped her handkerchief and,
recognizing him, greeted him with a wan smile. It was a most awkward
situation. He could not think of anything fitting to say, and yet it
was impossible to ignore her agitated condition.

His words came nervously, in a stammer.

“Mrs. Quentin, I am so distressed to see you like this. Can I do
anything, be of any help?”

Her self-control seemed suddenly to return to her, the recollection of
where she was, in a public apartment open to all comers. She rose,
evidently with the intention of going to her own room, in order to
remove the telltale traces of her emotion. But before she left, she
threw him a grateful glance out of the tearful eyes and she spoke
these remarkable words:

“It is very sweet of you, and I should judge you are the kind of man
who is always chivalrous to a woman. But you cannot help me.” As she
moved away, she added in a tone that seemed one almost of despair:
“Nobody can help me.”




 CHAPTER THREE

After she had left, Aylmer remained in the lounge for a few moments
thinking deeply over what just had occurred. He recalled the
despairing tone in which she had uttered those few words: “Nobody can
help me.” Was it possible there was some mystery about this beautiful
young woman, who had hitherto seemed so bright and gay, and who had
declared to him but a little time previously that she was quite
contented with her life?

She did not strike him in the least as one possessing a neurotic or
hysterical temperament. Obviously, there had been some serious quarrel
between her and this man Martyn, who had the power to move her to
almost convulsive emotion. If it had been her husband who was the
actor in this brief and dramatic scene, he would not have wondered so
much. Very few married people go through life without occasional and
bitter quarrels. In spite of his placid demeanor, Quentin might be a
man of deep feelings, perhaps of violent passions which he did his
best to keep in check, but which suddenly blazed forth in his
uncontrollable moments. A middle-aged husband united to a young and
singularly fascinating wife can hardly escape occasional spasms of
fierce jealousy.

But this could not be the case with Martyn. Even if he was secretly in
love with her, he would hardly dare to exercise any authority over
her, to reproach her for something in her conduct of which he
disapproved, and, to the extent of reducing her to tears. It was a
perplexing mystery, and the more Aylmer thought over it, the less
could he imagine a clue to it. What could be the reason for Martyn’s
mysterious influence over her?

This incident had the effect of making him alter his resolution to
separate himself speedily from the too fascinating Eileen. He felt an
irresistible impulse to watch this trio closely, in the hope that he
might discover something that would help him to elucidate the mystery.

He already had dropped a hint to Peyton that he would be leaving
shortly, and, although that clear-sighted young man had not said much,
Aylmer could see from his manner that such a step would have his
approval. Peyton went so far as to say that he was not particularly
keen on staying on at the Continental and would be quite contented to
go with his friend to any other place where they could have an equally
good time. With the new turn of events, Aylmer had to confess that he
suddenly had altered all his plans.

Peyton lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise. He did not say very much,
but, as usual, he spoke to the point.

“I thought your decision was a wise one, and I am sorry you have
altered your mind,” he said quietly. “Something must have happened to
account for it. But I suppose I can’t expect you to tell me what it
is.”

For a few seconds Aylmer hesitated. It occurred to him that something
was suggesting itself to Peyton’s rather active mind. He, in all
probability, was thinking that his friend had so far forgotten himself
as to make love to Mrs. Quentin and had not been repulsed. He must
clear himself and her of that dishonoring suspicion, and the only way
to do so was to tell the actual truth. He narrated to Peyton, under
the strictest seal of secrecy, what had happened in the lounge that
morning. Peyton, he knew to be the soul of honor, a man who never
would betray a confidence.

It was a little time before the young man spoke. He evidently was
turning the matter over in his mind. It was characteristic of him that
in serious matters he was always very deliberate in expressing his
opinion.

“There is certainly something mysterious in it,” he said at last. “I
mean in the fact that he has the power to produce such emotion in her.
As you say truly, if it had been her husband one would not have given
a second thought to it--just a little matrimonial wrangle, such as
occurs now and then between the most placid couples. Now, I have kept
my eye upon them a good deal during these few days, and I have come to
certain definite conclusions, rightly or wrongly.”

Aylmer pricked up his ears. He knew that this easy-going, vivacious
young man had remarkable powers of observation and nothing in the
demeanor of anybody he was watching escaped him, and that he also had
a marvellous faculty of lucid deduction from those same observations.

“Please go on,” said Aylmer tersely. “I am very curious to know what
conclusions you have arrived at.”

Thus encouraged, Peyton proceeded in his drawling, high-pitched voice.
“In the first place, Quentin is by no means passionately in love with
his beautiful young wife; but, he is very fond of her with a sort of
paternal affection, and she is not any more in love with him. On the
other hand, this rather objectionable Martyn worships the ground she
treads on, in true lover-like style. He hates to see her in the
company of another man, I should say in yours especially.”

“And what do you guess are her feelings towards him?” asked Aylmer
eagerly.

“If my diagnosis is correct, I should say she hates him as much as he
loves her. But more important still, she fears him as much as she
hates him. She seems restless and _distraite_ when his eyes are upon
her, as if she were apprehending some violent after-scene.”

Aylmer ruminated over his young friend’s remarks. He knew he had an
uncanny knack of reading the thoughts of others.

“If he is really in love with her, he has a strange way of showing his
affection,” he remarked. “He bullies her into tears when they are
alone, and even in her husband’s presence he says rude and insulting
things.”

Peyton shrugged his shoulders. “That is the nature of the creature, a
sort of cave man who would caress a woman one minute and thrash her
the next.”

He spoke again in a lighter tone. “Well, now I see what has made you
change your mind. You want to stay here to try to fathom the mystery.
I still think you would be wiser to go. But, you are master of your
own actions. I will help you all I can.”

That night things went on in normal fashion. Mrs. Quentin, who had
quite recovered from her emotion of the morning, announced that she
was completely herself again, and accepted Aylmer for her partner. The
young man fancied he saw a slight scowl on Martyn’s brow as he led her
out. But, the husband bestowed one of his pleasant smiles upon them
both, while exhorting his young wife not to overtax herself.

Eileen seemed in wonderfully good spirits, as if she had never had a
care in the world. Peyton danced repeatedly with the pretty girl on
whom she previously had passed her comments.

“I am sure it is quite a serious case,” she said with mock gravity.
“They are gradually tangoing into love with each other. Poor dears, I
do wish they could perform with a bit more grace.”

“Nothing really serious, I am quite sure,” was Aylmer’s reply. “Just
the holiday spirit, that is all. Claude has got a wonderfully old head
on his young shoulders. He’ll want to look about a bit before he
settles down.”

The next day Quentin gave the young man some news which he seemed to
consider of great importance, to judge by the manner in which he
conveyed it.

“I learned from the reception clerk just now that a person of
considerable importance is expected to-day,” he told Aylmer. “Cyrus J.
Whitefield, one of America’s biggest millionaires. I expect you have
heard of him, a veritable captain of industry.”

Aylmer certainly had heard of the gentleman in question, although for
the life of him he could not have said how he had amassed his
millions. It was evident that Quentin took a great interest in the
advent of the millionaire, probably because he was such a worshiper of
commercial success.

“Do you know him?” Aylmer asked politely.

“I came across him in an hotel in Nice before I was married,” was the
answer. “We forgathered just a little after the usual cosmopolitan
fashion. I shall remind him of that occasion. But it is very likely he
may not remember me. In his position he must know dozens of people,
and he would regard me, no doubt, as a very insignificant individual,
one to be forgotten immediately.”

Mr. Cyrus J. Whitefield arrived in due course, but did not present
himself to the general public till just before dinner, when he came
into the lounge.

Aylmer and Peyton were standing near the Quentin’s who were
accompanied by the inevitable Martyn, but they were not in their
actual company. They were quite close enough, however, to take in all
the details of the little comedy that followed.

The millionaire, a tall, clean-shaven, typical American, cast a
searching glance from his deep-set, keen blue eyes round the
apartment, doubtless with the object of discovering if he recognized
any friend or acquaintance. Apparently, he did not; for, his gaze
traveled from left to right, paused a moment on the beautiful Mrs.
Quentin, and went past her husband without any gleam of recognition.

It was obvious that Quentin had not lingered in the great man’s
memory. But he was not the person to be abashed by a trifle like that.
He went up to the American with outstretched hand.

“I am afraid you have forgotten me, Mr. Whitefield. I had the pleasure
of meeting you some four years ago at the Hôtel Negresco, at Nice.”

Mr. Whitefield murmured a rather brusque apology, saying that he had a
bad memory for faces. Mr. Quentin was determined not to let his quarry
go.

“Will you allow me to present you to my wife and our great friend Mr.
Martyn?”

Introductions being effected, the millionaire slipped into a vacant
chair beside that of the charming young woman, and at once proceeded
to pay her compliments. He had rather the deferential air of the
ladies’ man in the society of the opposite sex, and although he was
sixty years of age, did not in the least consider that he had lost the
art of pleasing where a good-looking woman was concerned.

“But surely, Mrs. Quentin, you were not at the hotel when I was there?
Whoever else I might have forgotten, I should most certainly have
remembered _you_.”

Eileen gave him one of her pretty smiles. “You have nothing to
reproach yourself with, Mr. Whitefield, so far as I am concerned. When
my husband met you at the Negresco, I was not then married to him.”

The millionaire looked relieved. He felt it would have been a serious
reflection on his good taste if he could have forgotten such a
beautiful young woman.

Peyton, who, with his friend, had been an interested spectator of the
little scene, nudged Aylmer. “I’ve been introduced to the Johnnie in
London,” he whispered. “He is an old acquaintance of my father, in
fact he is a client of ours. But I shan’t thrust myself upon him like
Quentin. A bit bad form, I think, what? Besides, I don’t fancy Quentin
wants us to be drawn into the circle; he intends to keep the
millionaire as much to himself as he can. Fancy how pushing some of
these quiet men are when they see the opportunity.”

But, if such were Quentin’s intentions they were destined to be
frustrated by Whitefield himself. His keen glance happened to rest for
a moment on young Peyton and remembrance suddenly stirred within him.
He turned abruptly with the question:

“I am sure I’ve met that young man before, his face is quite familiar
to me, but for the moment I can’t put a name to it. Do you know him?”

“Yes, we have made his acquaintance in the hotel. His name is Peyton;
he is a junior partner of his father’s firm of stockholders, I believe
a firm of considerable importance.”

“Of course, of course, I know the old boy well, I have known him for
years in business.” He beckoned to the rather reluctant Peyton to come
forward, and shook him heartily by the hand.

“Very pleased to see you, my young friend. Your father introduced you
to me on my last visit to London. You remember me, don’t you? Why
didn’t you make yourself known to me when I came in?”

Peyton, feeling himself rather abashed by the millionaire’s loud tones
and confident gestures, muttered something about not wishing to
intrude. Then his sense of humor came to his aid, and he said with a
somewhat mischievous smile:

“Besides, Mr. Quentin took possession of you so quickly that I could
hardly find an opportunity.”

Whitefield burst into a loud laugh; he was a bit boisterous, this
tall, keen-eyed man at whose touch everything appeared to turn to
gold. But he evidently appreciated the situation and saw the joke.
Apparently, so did Mrs. Quentin by the peculiar smile which curled her
pretty mouth.

“Well, it’s all right now, and I don’t think any the worse of a young
fellow for being a bit modest. Is that a friend you were talking to?
If so, bring him along. As some of us have met before, we may as well
make a little party of it the short while I am here. We’ll get the
waiter to give us a special table so that we can be together at
meals.”

Aylmer was brought along and presented. Quentin seemed to grow rather
quiet after the irruption of the two young men, a circumstance which
confirmed Peyton in his belief that he had wanted to keep the
millionaire to himself. But, before they went to dinner, he roused
himself sufficiently to put a question to Whitefield.

“You don’t intend to make a long stay here, then?”

The American shook his head. “Three or four days at the outside, just
want to see after a little bit of business, and then I’m off. For the
matter of that, I don’t stay very long anywhere.”

At dinner he sat next to Mrs. Quentin, and certainly exerted himself
to amuse and entertain his companion, a task in which he succeeded, to
judge by the brightness of her demeanor and her frequent peals of
silvery laughter. Aylmer watched her closely. Was she a flirt, he
wondered, greedy for admiration wherever it came from? And yet, he
flattered himself there was a subtle difference between her demeanor
to Whitefield and her bearing towards himself. She was gay and
vivacious enough, but she seemed more intimate with him than with the
gallant and talkative American.

As was usual with him, Peyton had formed some impressions at dinner
and before, which he communicated to his friend later in the evening.

“The great Cyrus doesn’t seem to bother much about anybody but Mrs.
Quentin,” he remarked. “The husband was trying to get hold of him as
hard as he could, but the old boy kept shaking him off. Perhaps my
innocent little remark had opened his eyes a bit; when he came to
think it over, he mightn’t have quite liked being rushed at like that.
Still, I suppose he’s used to it by now, he’s quite a public
character. For myself, I haven’t much use for millionaires, except as
a beacon-light to ambitious youth to go and do likewise. Did you
notice Mrs. Quentin’s smile when I made that little joke about her
lord and master? No? It was a very subtle one. I think she was a bit
annoyed at his obvious officiousness.

“Another little thing I noticed,” went on this very keen observer
after a slight pause. “There was a distinct look of disappointment on
Quentin’s face when Whitefield said he was only going to make a short
stay. What was the reason of that, I wonder? He can’t want anything
out of the old boy, a dilettante sort of chap like that. Not that he
would be likely to get it if he did. Whitefield’s reputation is too
well known. It is said that mustard isn’t in it with Cyrus J. Anyway,
he’s awfully gone on the wife. I expect that’s why he’s putting up
with the rest of us. I wonder how that hangdog Martyn likes the state
of affairs? What an infernal wet blanket the fellow is! He’s neither
one thing nor the other, neither a ladies’ man nor a man’s man. What
Quentin can see in him beats me.”

That evening the fair Eileen danced a good deal, dividing her favors
pretty equally between Aylmer and the American, who was a very good
performer and as light on his feet as a young man.

“He’s not in it, of course, with you,” she told Aylmer later. “But
he’s wonderful for his age. He seems a very wonderful sort of person
altogether. From what Richard tells me you would think a man who is so
wrapped up in money-making would despise the frivolous side of life.”

But it seemed that, in his less strenuous moments, the American was
very much attracted toward the frivolous side of life. He loved the
fleshpots, he liked philandering with pretty women, he cut a good
figure in the ballroom, he appeared to be one of those who make money
largely with the idea of giving themselves a good time.

Peyton’s surmise that the beautiful Mrs. Quentin was the magnet was
justified later on in the evening. When she intimated that this must
be her last dance, Whitefield protested, declaring, with the egotism
peculiar to the man, that he was ready to go on for another hour. The
night was yet young, he declared, darting at her a look of intense
admiration. However, finding her firm in her refusal, he very soon
left the little circle, making as his excuse the fact that he had a
great deal of work to get through before he went to bed. In vain did
Quentin, in his most conciliatory manner, urge him to join them in the
lounge for a drink and a smoke. He was a great lover of the pleasures
of the table, and he was always in a most benignant frame of mind
after dinner. Night, he declared emphatically, was by no means the
ideal time for work.

The keen-faced millionaire fixed his hawk-like gaze on him, and there
was just a shade of contempt in his voice as he spoke. He had drunk a
great deal more than the other man, but he had a cast-iron head and
the digestion of an ostrich, and he might have been drinking water for
all that his speech and appearance suggested to the contrary.

“That’s a fine theory for idlers,” he said. “But we men of business
work hard and play hard. When we’ve played a bit too hard, we have to
work double tides at any hour of the night or day. As Mrs. Quentin is
so obdurate, I shall stop playing and get back to work.”

He made no secret of his admiration, perhaps the possession of his
millions made him speak the blunt truth without regard for the
feelings of less distinguished people, to which class he, no doubt,
relegated Quentin.

But that placid gentleman did not appear at all to resent the fact
that his wife seemed the only one who counted in the millionaire’s
estimation. When he had departed, he gave utterance to some very
eulogistic remarks on him.

“A splendid fellow,” he said with very evident sincerity. “It is a
privilege to sit in the company of a man like that. For inherited
wealth I don’t care a snap of my fingers. But for a man who has worked
his way up till he has become a power in the land, I have an unstinted
admiration. I have never enjoyed an evening more in my life. It was a
delight to hear him talk to us.”

Peyton gave his friend a sly glance at this last remark. Aylmer knew
what was passing in his mind. During the whole of that evening, the
great magnate, Cyrus J. Whitefield, had directed practically the whole
of his conversation to Mrs. Quentin. To the others he had addressed
the briefest of observations.

They adjourned to the lounge, and half an hour later they were
conscious of a certain stir and bustle in the hotel. In a few moments
the rumor ran round that a singularly daring robbery had been
committed while the guests were sitting at dinner.




 CHAPTER FOUR

Presently the manager came into the lounge, which by now was quite
full. Agitation and distress were written on his mobile countenance.
Detaining gestures were made to arrest his progress, but taking no
heed, he went on until he came to a halt before Mrs. Quentin.

He spoke excellent English. “Alas, madame, I am the bearer of terrible
news. Thieves have got into the hotel during the dinner hour, and have
reaped a rich harvest. Mrs. Scadden, the Scotch lady, is the chief
victim; you know what a splendid store of jewelry was hers. She is
away on a visit to friends; she does not yet know of her loss. She
will be back some time to-morrow morning; I think I will wait till
then to apprise her of this terrible happening. We have done
everything. The police are in the hotel now. The chambermaid, going on
her rounds discovered that two rooms had been entered and ransacked of
their valuable contents. The thieves entered by the windows.”

Mrs. Scadden was a wealthy Scotch widow who must have invested a large
portion of her capital in precious stones. Every evening at dinner she
was a blaze of scintillating light, dazzling her fellow guests with
the opulent display.

The manager’s voice took on a tone of deeper commiseration as he
unfolded the story further. Mrs. Scadden was an ostentatious and
arrogant woman, not popular with the other people at the hotel, nor
with the staff; she set too great a valuation on herself.

Mrs. Quentin was liked by everybody from the manager to the diminutive
page-boys. That charming smile, that genial manner, secured her
friends everywhere.

“I am desolated to tell you, madam, that you are also a victim; I do
trust not to the same extent. Your room was found in disorder,
everything turned over and ransacked. Your husband’s room has not been
disturbed.”

Quentin uttered a deep imprecation; Martyn growled one equally deep.
Husband and wife rose together, moved by a common impulse to go
upstairs and ascertain the extent of the loss. The others remained
where they were. As a rule, Martyn did not address himself more than
he could help to either Peyton and Aylmer, but this sudden catastrophe
had the effect of compelling him to talk, even to people for whom he
had no liking.

“Of all the fools, I think women are the greatest,” he remarked in
unamiable tones. “If they will bring their gewgaws away with them to
make each other envious, why don’t they carry just as much as they can
plaster themselves with, and leave the rest at their bankers’? If they
didn’t do that, they might have the sense to leave what they are not
using in the custody of the proprietor. As for that silly Scotchwoman
decking herself out as if she were an Empress at a state function, I
have no patience with her. And if Mrs. Quentin hasn’t sense enough to
take care of her property, Quentin ought to look after it for her.”

Presently husband and wife returned. Mrs. Quentin looked pale and
worried; but Quentin did not appear to be greatly disturbed, perhaps
he was too great a philosopher to worry unduly about the loss of a few
trinkets.

She turned with a tragic gesture to the two young men. Since that
conversation in the empty lounge, there had appeared to be a sort of
armed neutrality between her and Martyn; they had spoken to each other
very little, and then in the most formal manner.

“Everything has been taken except what I am wearing to-night.
Fortunately, that is the most valuable of my small stock. Still, it is
very annoying.”

Quentin patted her shoulder kindly. “Don’t worry, my dear. If you are
very good, I will save up and in time replace it.”

“I hope you will take better care of the new than you have taken of
the old,” growled Martyn in a low voice.

“Don’t rub it in too much, my dear fellow,” said Quentin in his usual
placid tones. “Eileen recognizes, as fully as you do, now, that it was
injudicious to keep it in her room. But what’s the use of crying over
spilt milk?”

Having administered this rebuke to the disgruntled Martyn, he
addressed the company generally.

“Seems to have been quite a clever piece of work. I have had a long
talk with the head police official, who is upstairs, and he appears to
be completely baffled. There has been very close examination, they
have taken any amount of notes. But nothing much comes out of it.
There are no clues, he admits, not even the presence of finger marks.
The scoundrels must have worn thin gloves, he thinks. It looks very
much as if Eileen and Mrs. Scadden must bear their loss with as much
of philosophy as they can summon to their aid.”

Again he patted his wife’s shoulder, with the same kindly gesture.
“Cheer up, little woman. It is a misfortune, but you might have
suffered from a worse one. You might have walked out of this hotel and
slipped on a piece of orange peel, and been a cripple for life. You
might have been run over by a passing taxi. Let us take it calmly and
have a final drink, while this excellent body of police is gradually
coming to the conclusion that it has been outwitted. In a few hours
from now, Mrs. Scadden’s very opulent jewels and your comparatively
insignificant ones will be stripped of their settings and made
unrecognizable.”

“You’re a rich man,” growled Martyn from his corner. “But it is a
damnable thing to have happened. I am not sure it would not be wiser
to shift to another hotel; they have got a mark on this, it seems.”

Mr. Quentin, who appeared to be in the best of humors, smiled
pleasantly at his friend. “My dear Martyn, you always look on the
gloomy side of things. As they have made such a good haul to-night,
the chances are that they will give us a wide berth for quite a long
time. Anyway, as Mrs. Scadden and Eileen have now no jewelry except
what they carry on their persons, they will hardly enter in upon us as
we are sitting at dinner and hold us up to ransom. Ah, here’s the
waiter. Let us drink confusion to the scoundrels.”

He ordered drinks in a spirit of the most cheerful philosophy. As he
raised his glass to his lips, he looked at Aylmer with a quizzical
smile.

“Now, Mr. Aylmer, you told me a little time ago that you were deeply
interested in criminology. Why don’t you go upstairs and have a chat
with the head of the police? You might give them a wrinkle, you know.
Eileen would be awfully grateful to you if we could get back the
‘loot’ or catch the chaps who have made off with it.”

Mr. Quentin was rather mellow to-night, and he meant it all in chaff.
The young man recognized his mood, but, for all that he spoke quite
seriously.

“I don’t know that I have specialized in the methods of these _rats
d’hôtel_. But I think there is one thing pretty certain. To engineer
this coup as they have done, they must have been supplied with some
information from inside. Somebody in the Continental is in league with
them.”

Quentin spoke seriously in his turn. “Of course, that is an obvious
conclusion. Amongst the servants, or possibly the guests, I do not
doubt there is an accomplice. Poor Mrs. Scadden, who bedizened herself
in season and out of season, presented herself as a very open target.
I could not say that of my wife, who wore the few jewels she possessed
in good taste and on the proper occasions. It must have been known
they kept their gewgaws in their rooms, and they chose the quietest
time of the evening to make their raid. Somehow, you know, I pity
these crooks. If they only put their brains to legitimate uses, what a
success they might make of their lives. I’m sorry our friend
Whitefield left us so soon, he won’t hear of it till to-morrow
morning, and then the affair will have lost its dramatic quality.”

Later, when they separated, Peyton had a little chat with his friend.
“Quite mellow to-night, our good Quentin,” he said. “He’s a bit of a
sportsman, isn’t he? Quite nice to his wife about replacing the
trinkets. I thought old Martyn looked very savage over it all. And so
you are convinced there is somebody inside here who is an accomplice
in this job, eh?”

“I am pretty sure it could not have been carried out otherwise,” was
Aylmer’s convincing answer.

Mr. Cyrus J. Whitefield learned the news next morning, and was very
greatly disgusted when he knew that Mrs. Quentin was a victim. He did
not express any commiseration for Mrs. Scadden, who, he learned, was
fat and remarkably plain. His sympathies were for youth and beauty.
With his usual bluntness, he went straight to the point, and inquired
of Mrs. Quentin: “What did they sting you for, if it isn’t a rude
question?”

He had addressed his wife, but Quentin answered quickly: “Oh, really
nothing to write home about; I should say four hundred would cover it.
My wife is very wise in this respect; she doesn’t leave her best
jewelry in her box; she puts it on.”

Four hundred pounds was, of course, nothing to a man who thought in
millions. He opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, then
closed it again, apparently from the restraining influence of second
thoughts. Peyton read him like a book. It had been on the tip of his
tongue to say that he would write her a check for the amount and
accompany her to buy the trinkets that were to replace the stolen
ones. But he was not quite sure of his ground, and such an offer might
mortally offend both husband and wife.

And here it may be mentioned that this very daring jewel robbery was
relegated to the long list of similar mysteries. The thieves, expert
at their business, had left not a single clue, and after trying their
hardest, the police had to confess themselves baffled. Poor Mrs.
Scadden, whose loss was very serious, was vituperative and
inconsolable. Eileen adopted the philosophy of her husband. There were
worse misfortunes than this.

“It’s less to look after,” she said gaily the next evening to Aylmer
as they were dancing together. “What little I have got left, I can
take care of without any trouble. I shan’t really be sorry if Richard
doesn’t replace it; it would be a constant anxiety.”

She always spoke of her husband as Richard, and when he thought over
it, Aylmer found himself coming to the conclusion that Quentin was a
man whom nobody would have thought of calling by the familiar
abbreviation of Dick. He was genial in a way, after dinner
particularly so; but, there was a certain something about him that did
not invite familiarity. You felt you could go to a certain point with
him--but no farther. Nevertheless, he possessed a considerable
personality.

Aylmer ran an appraising eye over her, as she gave utterance to these
remarks. She did not bedizen herself like the Scotch widow, but what
she wore represented a goodly sum. Her diamonds and pearls, though
few, were of the first quality. The _rats d’hôtel_ certainly had come
off second best, so far as she was concerned. She carried at least a
thousand pounds on her very charming person.

At the end of four days the millionaire departed, expressing his deep
regret at having to leave such delightful society. He expressed those
regrets in his usual loud voice to Mrs. Quentin, whose hand he
appeared to be pressing very tenderly as he made his _adieux_. He
might have intended to address the whole of the party through her, but
his manner, as he bade the others good-by separately, did not indicate
any particularly warm feeling.

Young Peyton, who seemed to pass his life in minute observations of
his fellow creatures, had several remarks to make to his friend about
the departed Whitefield.

“Laid it on pretty thick when he said good-by to Mrs. Quentin, didn’t
he?” he observed. “He tolerates me because I am my father’s son; I
should say he rather dislikes you than otherwise, for obvious reasons.
He thinks the fair Eileen looks upon you with favor. That bounder,
Martyn, I am certain, he cordially detests. Well, I am with him there.
With regard to Quentin himself, I don’t quite know what his feelings
are. I fancy he regards him as a nonentity.”

“He certainly did not take much notice of anybody except the lady,”
said Aylmer. “I think you are right about myself. I can’t exactly say
he was uncivil, but he appeared to ignore me as much as he possibly
could.”

“Very rum chap Quentin, I can’t make him out,” resumed Peyton,
pursuing his meditations. “I thought our friend J. Cyrus flirted with
her in the most open way--a good bit beyond the limits of good taste,
in my opinion. To do her justice, she didn’t respond; she gave me the
impression she was trying to keep him off, and put him in his place, a
difficult task with such a self-sufficient, overbearing chap. It must
have been obvious enough to Quentin, as it was to everybody else, but
he never seemed to resent it in the least. I used to see Martyn
scowling at him as if he could murder him. But the husband looked on
with his usual air of placid indifference.”

“Evidently not a jealous husband; perhaps he has got beyond the age of
jealousy,” commented Aylmer.

“Well, you know, or probably you don’t know, the latest development. I
only knew of it myself about half an hour before Whitefield left. I
happened to be in the lounge while the two men were talking together.
Whitefield remarked that he was pretty certain to pay a visit to
London in a couple of months’ time. Quentin was on at him at once.
Would he come over and dine with them at their Hampstead house? If it
was too far out, they could put him up if he would stay a day or two.
Whitefield seemed to think a bit, then said he couldn’t promise to
stay with them, but he would certainly see something of them while he
was in London. He would be busy, as he always was, but he would make
time to get to Hampstead. Quentin appeared delighted and asked him if
he could rely upon that as a promise. Whitefield’s answer was that he
could. So evidently Quentin is going to hang on to him, and desires
his better acquaintance. Of course, if he does go, it will be with the
intention of renewing his flirtation with the lady. I’m sure he
wouldn’t walk across the street to shake hands with Quentin if he were
without his wife.”

That this agreeable, placid man was not by any means a jealous husband
was proved next morning, when Aylmer came upon the couple in the
lounge.

Quentin addressed the young man with his usual pleasant, rather grave
smile. “I have got a lot of letters to write this morning, and Eileen,
as is natural, wants to go out into the sunshine and fresh air.
Martyn, as is usually his custom, has gone off on his own. What do you
say to being her escort, that is if you are not engaged to your
friend, young Peyton?”

Aylmer assented to the suggestion with alacrity. Having stayed on from
the desire of discovering the cause of that uncontrollable agitation
of the other morning, he naturally was ready to embrace any
opportunity of being alone with Eileen, as it was impossible to
venture the most distant allusion to the subject in the presence of a
third party. How often had those words occurred to him: “Nobody can
help me.” What mystery was hidden behind that despairing utterance?

They talked on trivial subjects to begin with. But presently he felt
himself compelled to put a direct question in the hope of inviting
confidence.

“How are you and Mr. Martyn getting on now? It has struck me that
quite lately--dating back, in fact, from a certain morning when I came
upon you in the lounge--your relations have been strained. Once you
were an inseparable trio, but now he seems to absent himself, except
at meals.”

She flushed a little, and then answered him in a tone of lightness
that he felt sure was assumed.

“We certainly, at the moment, are not the best of friends. I think, on
the whole, I am rather glad. Whatever his feelings may be for me, I
have never had much liking for him. I suppose he thought his great
friendship with Richard gave him a certain authority over me, which I
very much resented. On that morning to which you have alluded, I had
to put him in his place. But I am naturally a peace-loving person, and
the task upset me very greatly.”

“I cannot tell you how much your distress, it seemed more like
despair, affected me,” said Aylmer in a tone the obvious sincerity of
which evidently made a deep impression on her. “You said I could not
help you. But is that really true? Believe me when I tell you there is
no service you could ask of me which I would not render if it were
within my power.”

She looked at him long and searchingly, while the rapid rise and fall
of her bosom testified to the emotion that simple speech had aroused
in her. And in her eyes was that telltale light which comes only when
a woman is interested in a man. For a moment the young man was sorry
that he had gone so far, that he had not controlled himself better.
Why had he not moderated the warmth of his manner, the tenderness in
his voice? Why had he let her read his heart so plainly? He felt
himself a cur for making thinly-veiled love to a married woman.

“Would you be my friend, if ever I needed one?” she asked presently in
a voice that seemed almost caressing.

At that question, the tide of prudence which had suddenly surged
within him rolled back again. He answered fervently that he would.

She spoke again after a brief pause. “I am not sure, but some day I
may need a friend. I cannot read the future. But sometimes I fancy it
may be dark and uncertain. I should like to think I had somebody to
rely upon, if such a time ever came. I know you have a tender and
chivalrous nature, most especially where women are concerned. I cannot
say very much now. But if I told you a very great secret would you
swear by all you hold sacred to respect my confidence?”

“Dictate to me any form of oath you please and I will take it,” was
the reply.

Again that tender light in her eyes as her earnest gaze fixed itself
upon him.

“I will exact no oath. Give me your word of honor, that will be enough
for me. My instinct tells me I can trust you.”

He bowed his head. “As you choose,” he said simply. “What you tell me
shall never be divulged to any human being.”

The words dropped slowly from her lips, as a deep flush stained the
beautiful face. “Something within me, I know not what, impels me to
tell you this secret. You know me, as everybody else does here, as
Mrs. Quentin. But Richard Quentin is not my husband; we are not man
and wife.”




 CHAPTER FIVE

She noted his sudden recoil, the almost horrified expression in his
face, as she made this astounding confession.

Her voice had in it a vibrating note of reproach when she spoke again.
“Surely, you do not think that of me? If I were what you seem to
suppose, I could not look you in the face. Listen while I tell you a
strange, an astonishing story, but a true one.”

Ashamed of himself for having so swiftly harbored evil thoughts, he
composed himself to listen.

“I told you after I left boarding-school he found me a home with some
friends of his, a married couple who, I fancy, were under considerable
obligations to him. I was not at all happy there, and I suppose I
could not help showing it when he came to see me. I did not take to
either the husband or the wife, and they did not take to me. I saw
from the first they did not want me, and I expect it was the fear of
offending Mr. Quentin that made them hesitate to give a point-blank
refusal to his suggestion. Perhaps also the want of money, for, I soon
found out they were poor and making a brave show on very little.
Anyway, we never hit it off together from the day I entered their
house to the day I left it.”

And, at this point, Aylmer said the thing he might have been expected
to say, and he said it with obvious sincerity.

“I am pretty certain the fault must have been on their side. It seems
to me that any normal person could get on with you. You seem so
even-tempered, so adaptable.”

She thanked him with a smile. “One is never a fair judge of oneself;
still, I do not think I am difficult. If they had given me a little
encouragement instead of keeping me always at arm’s length, I fancy I
could have made myself fairly at home. Richard, I could see, began to
have his suspicions of the state of affairs, and one day rather
sternly bade me tell him the truth--was I happy or not?

“I hated to trouble him more than I could help, after his
extraordinary kindness to me. But, that day I was in unusually low
spirits and could not pretend. My answer was a flood of tears which it
was impossible for me to restrain. He was very, very fond of
me--chiefly, I think, for my mother’s sake--and he was deeply touched
by my outburst of grief. He soothed me as a kind father might soothe a
child, and assured me that my unhappiness should not continue. He
would think it well over, and find some means of ending it. I must
wait patiently for a few days while he was making up his mind as to
what should be done. At the end of three days he paid me another
visit, and made me a most remarkable proposition.”

“I should have guessed that he would have asked you to marry him,”
interposed Aylmer. “In the case of a guardian and a young, attractive
ward, that is often the solution of an awkward position.”

“Yes, I was prepared for that myself. And I was so wretched at the
time that, frankly speaking, if he had asked me to marry him, I should
have consented, although my feeling for him was of a strictly filial
nature. But, apparently, no such idea recommended itself to him. He
discussed the project of having me to live with him as his ward, or
better still, his adopted daughter. He did not favor this scheme,
foresaw that it would give rise to all sorts of gossip and
uncharitable comment.

“He alluded to the subject of marriage in a very delicate sort of way,
saying that even if I were willing to overlook the disparity in our
ages and make what must be, under the circumstances, an experiment of
the most hazardous kind, he felt it would be his duty to protect me
from any such rash impulse. For himself, there never had been but one
woman in the world he wanted to marry, and she would not have him.
That, of course, was my dear mother. As her heart had been buried in
her husband’s grave, so his was buried in hers. He could never give to
any other the love he had given to her.”

She paused for a second, and Aylmer could find nothing to say. Surely,
from what he could guess was coming, there had never been a more
extraordinary situation. The girl would have taken him for a husband;
but, although he loved her in his own way, the man would not take her
for a wife.

“There was, he concluded, only one feasible solution for the
difficulty, one from which, when he first suggested it, I frankly
recoiled. It was that we should present ourselves to the world as
husband and wife. Nobody would know that our real relations were those
of guardian and ward. In this way he would have a right to protect me,
and the tongue of scandal would be effectually silenced.”

At that moment it seemed that her companion was on the point of
interrupting. She apparently divined the nature of the comment to
which he was about to give utterance, and she went on swiftly, as if
in answer to it.

“Of course, if we had been ordinary people with plenty of friends and
acquaintances, it would have been almost impossible to carry out such
a project unless we actually had gone through the ceremony of
marriage. But, in our case, the difficulty was removed by the fact
that both of us led a life of singular isolation. I had no friends at
all, my dear mother having carefully secluded me from the
companionship of any of the people she knew in her adopted profession.
I was estranged, through no fault of my own, from all my relations. I
took no interest in them; they were entirely oblivious of even my
existence.”

“I understand your position perfectly,” the young man said. “But was
Mr. Quentin in an equally isolated state? Had he, like you, nobody to
consider?”

“Strange as it may sound to you, he appeared to be equally alone in
the world,” was the answer. “Ever since I have known him, he has been
a singularly reticent man. Never to me, never to my mother, according
to what she told me, has he divulged any details of his family, of his
past history. All we knew was that he was a man of means who spent the
greater part of his life in travel.”

“But your home is in England, is it not?” asked Aylmer, voicing his
surprise. “Traveling abroad so much, he would pick up acquaintances
about whom he would know as much, or rather as little, as they would
know about him. But, surely, in his own country, he must have some
intimates, like his friend Martyn, for instance.”

She shook her head emphatically. But, in spite of that action, it
seemed to him there was just a shade of hesitation in her manner as
she spoke. “He has just a very few old cronies who occasionally come
to see him at Hampstead during the very short periods that we are in
residence there. In a general way, he is averse to cultivating
society, and he hates entertaining in his own house. He prefers this
cosmopolitan life, and is content to consort for a brief space with
birds of passage like himself.”

“And would you wish a different sort of existence? Or, are you as
contented as he is?” asked Aylmer.

“I am not quite sure,” she said after a brief pause. “The constant
flitting about has its bright side. One is hardly ever dull; there is
always some sort of excitement in a continual change of scenes and
people. But then I am very young yet. Later on, perhaps, I may feel
the desire to settle down, to have a real home, a place you can look
upon as a haven of peace.”

They walked on for a long time in silence. The young man was thinking
swiftly, deeply, over the singular tale she had unfolded to him.
Presently he spoke.

“And when you made this strange arrangement, did it ever occur to you
that there might come a day when you might meet somebody you really
cared for, when these extraordinary relations might become exceedingly
irksome?”

A vivid blush overspread her face at this question.

“As I told you, at first I recoiled at the proposition. But he is a
singularly persuasive man. He employed all his eloquence to overcome
my reluctance, to prove to me it was the best way out of a most
difficult situation. I don’t think, at the time, I probed very deeply
into the future; I was too anxious to embrace any lot that promised me
even moderate happiness. But, to do him justice, he was not unmindful
of the contingency to which you have alluded.”

Aylmer heaved a sigh of relief. He had thought very hardly of Quentin
for having taken advantage of the girl’s inexperience and unhappiness
to lure her into a false and anomalous position, one which, in time,
she might find to be insupportable. He hoped she had been left some
chance of escape from such a bondage.

“Yes, he was very fair and considerate. He told me in the most
delicate way that if the experiment did not result in my happiness, if
in the course of time I came across one whom I really loved and who
really loved me, he would put no obstacles in the way. On the
contrary, he would do everything he could to smooth away the
difficulties that would arise.”

A very singular man this Quentin, that was quite obvious, thought
Aylmer. Still, it puzzled him why such a roundabout way should have
been chosen. Granted that her living with him as his ward, or adopted
daughter, might have given rise to scandalous comment, there were
other methods by which he might have secured his object of providing
for her. He was, apparently, a very well-off man; he could have made
her an allowance sufficient to support herself, apart from him. This
masquerading as man and wife seemed one of the very wildest of
projects that could emanate from the brain of one who appeared to be
perfectly sane and also a man of the world. The situation would be
very difficult to explain convincingly to the most ardent lover, if
such should come upon the scene later on. They might have no real
friends who took any interest in their proceedings, but, in the course
of their short nomadic life together they must have come across heaps
of people to whom she was known as Mrs. Quentin, the supposed wife of
a man old enough to be her father.

His thoughts were in such a whirl over this remarkable revelation that
he found it difficult to collect them. The one thing that insistently
presented itself to his mind was the fact that she was really a free
woman, and that he was at liberty to woo her, if he chose.

“And you have told me all this,” he said at length, “because you have
an instinct that some day you may want a friend. I do not wish to
force your confidence in any way, but I should like to know if that
instinct has some foundation in fact; in a word, that you are, even
now, apprehending trouble of some kind.”

There was a long pause before she replied to him, and there seemed in
her manner the same hesitation that he had noticed a little time
before.

“I do not know if there is any foundation in fact. It is, I think,
simply an instinct but one that I cannot reason myself out of.” She
spoke a little incoherently. “I have told you because I trust you, and
because you offered to be my friend.”

He spoke very seriously. “My dear Mrs. Quentin, again I repeat that I
shall prove myself worthy of your trust.” He added with a boldness
that surprised himself: “I shall always be a friend. But if you care
to look a little closer you will find more than a friend.”

These expressive words seemed to arouse in her an intense agitation.
Her bosom heaved; impulsively she laid her hand upon his arm, and, an
almost piteous cry came from the lips that trembled with her emotion.

“Oh, no, please not now. I was afraid of that, or I think I should
have made you my confidant sooner. We must remain just friends, firm
and faithful friends.”

He looked at her long and searchingly. Was he mistaken, after all, in
thinking that she had for him any warmer feeling than that of
friendship? And yet, his friend Peyton, that shrewd observer, very
plainly had hinted that she was not indifferent to him. She had told
him she was a free woman. Why did she shrink from anything in the
shape of an avowal on his part? Before that revelation, he would not
have indulged in a hint of his feelings. But now there was no question
of injury to the man who masqueraded as her husband.

“Do you mean that--?” he began in an agitated voice, but she did not
allow him to complete his question.

“Oh, I beg of you not to press me further, not to question me.” Her
tones, full of entreaty, were far from steady. “I am not mistress of
myself, just now; you must have guessed what an effort it has cost me
to make such a confession to you. Be content now with the knowledge
that I esteem you more greatly than anybody I have ever met. I should
make you very, very vain if I told you the high opinion I have formed
of your character.”

“Must we always stop at friendship?” he asked gravely. “Is there no
hope of anything warmer on your part?”

But to that question she would make no answer. She could only send him
from her beautiful eyes that piteous and entreating look that forbade
him to press her further.

And yet, although he was not naturally a very keen observer, certain
things in her attitude, the depth of her agitation especially, seemed
to suggest that she returned his affection, although her lips
obstinately refused to confirm it. In spite of Quentin’s promise to
release her from an intolerable situation, was she doubtful that he
would keep his word when the crucial moment came? Or, was she thinking
that, even if he kept faith with her, the difficulties of the new
situation would still be very formidable?

She spoke presently in a lighter vein. “We shall not lose sight of
each other as is usually the case in an acquaintance of the casual
kind. We shall be going to England very shortly, and shall stay there
for some little time. I am going to tell you a great secret, which you
must be quite surprised at when you learn it from its proper source.
Richard has made up his mind to ask you to visit us at our home at
Hampstead; but, he is sure not to ask you till just before we say
good-by here. Don’t let your manner betray that it is not the surprise
he imagines.”

He gave her the required promise, while he meditated over the
information she had given him. There seemed no limit to Quentin’s
eccentricity. In England he was supposed to live the life of a
recluse, shunning company and seeing none but a few old cronies. Yet,
in a brief space, he had departed twice from his rules. He had asked
Whitefield, an absolute stranger, to visit him, and now he was going
to ask another stranger to be his guest. His conduct certainly was
contradictory. What had he seen in either of these two men to arouse
the desire of cultivating their society?

Of course he did not express these thoughts to her, but, he could not
get them out of his mind. He would have liked dearly to have had
Peyton’s alert young brain at work on this sudden change of front.
But, of course, he could not take him into his confidence, as he could
not betray the trust the beautiful young woman had reposed in him.

There was one point on which he was very curious--Did the ungenial
Martyn know of this singular relation between the couple, or did he,
like the rest, suppose them to be husband and wife in the ordinary
meaning of that relationship?

He put the question bluntly to her, and her answer was that Martyn was
not in the secret. She went even further than that in stating that
nobody except himself understood the true nature of the situation.
But, in spite of the strong fascination she exercised over him, he
could not quite bring himself to believe her. There was a subtle
something in her manner that roused his suspicions, that suggested
there were certain things in which she did not intend to give him her
complete confidence. He had an instinctive feeling that Martyn knew as
much as he did himself. But after such an emphatic assurance, he felt
it impossible to pursue the subject.

A later reference to that morning on which he had found her in tears
did not lead to any satisfactory result. She treated the matter
lightly, pretending there was really nothing in the incident, that she
had happened to be in a somewhat hysterical mood, and had given way to
an emotion that was not justified by anything that had taken place
between her husband’s friend and herself.

One result of the confidential relations that so suddenly had been
brought about was that, during the remainder of his stay at Ostend,
Aylmer was a good deal more in her society. Martyn was still one of
the party, but he continued to absent himself the greater part of the
time. And Quentin seemed rather pleased than otherwise that his wife
had found somebody who was ready always to keep her company when he
was not disposed to be her escort.

On the night before the two young men left for England, Quentin took
the opportunity, when alone with Aylmer, of inviting him to visit them
later on in London.

“We shall be at Hampstead in about a month from now,” he told the
young man. “And I will write to you as soon as we get there, and fix a
day for you to come and dine.” He added, after a slight pause: “I hope
that nice young fellow Peyton will not be offended if I don’t include
him. But I think he is a bit too youthful for such an invitation to
give him pleasure. And Eileen does not care for very young men.”

The next day he said good-by to the supposed husband and wife. His
regret at parting with Eileen was tempered by the thought that he
would soon be meeting her again. And this meeting would be independent
of the invitation that Quentin had given him.

He was resolved to deliver her, by every means in his power, from this
unnatural bondage, and to pursue this scheme, it would be necessary
they should meet in secret. He had suggested this to her several
times, and had been met by an agitated refusal. But, in the end, she
had surrendered, and had promised to do what he asked.




 CHAPTER SIX

On the night of his arrival in England, Aylmer dined with his friend
Peyton at his father’s house in Wimbledon. Peyton senior had an
exceedingly flourishing business, and was a man of considerable
wealth. If he had been possessed of a pushing temperament, or had
married an ambitious woman, he might have forced his way into the
select circles of London society. But both he and his wife came from
good, sound commercial stock and were content to abide by middle-class
ideals. They did not care to expose themselves to the chance of being
snubbed by their so-called social superiors, or to purchase a tepid
toleration on account of their money-bags and by giving lavish
entertainments.

“Some people like that sort of thing, are always straining every nerve
to get out of their own sphere,” he would say when he discussed the
subject with his friends. “But our inclinations don’t lie that way.
Claude will be a rich man some day, and I dare say, if we worked for
it, he could marry the daughter of some impecunious peer and be
patronized by her relations. That wouldn’t suit me, and I hope he will
never have any hankerings in that direction. He’d find more happiness
with some nice girl of his own class. And the same applies to the two
girls.”

He had brought up his children in these sturdy and independent
principles, and, having inherited the sound common sense of their
parents, they acquiesced very cheerfully in what some might have
called his lack of ambition.

His eldest daughter, Laura, was married to a prosperous manufacturer
in the Midlands. The younger, Kate, was engaged to a barrister some
ten years her senior, who was fast securing a lucrative practice.
Claude, the only son and youngest of the trio, at present, had no
desire to settle down. There would be plenty of time for that, and
when he did marry he might be reckoned upon to make a sensible choice.

And Mr. Peyton was perfectly happy in his mode of life, and his money
gave him every comfort and luxury that he wanted. He was quite content
to go to his office every day, to take his annual holiday abroad, to
entertain his own particular business friends and be entertained by
them, in return.

Certainly, it was a very comfortable house, or rather mansion, that he
lived in, and staffed by a capable set of servants. The old gentleman
spent his money lavishly and was fond of good living. But, not a year
passed that he did not put by a considerable sum out of his big
profits. With his sound commercial principles, he could no more have
lived up to his income than he could have flown. According to his
gospel, it was the duty of every man to work hard and save for his
wife and children.

It was quite a family party, the host and hostess, the engaged
daughter and her fiancé the rising barrister, and the two young men.
Mr. Peyton liked Aylmer very much personally. But, to his son, he
always expressed his profound regret that he led such an idle life,
that he did not do something.

“I know he has plenty of money,” he would say, “but that ought to be
an incentive to him to make more. My father left me a snug little sum,
but I didn’t chuck the shop and go and live on the interest of it. I
stuck to the business, and I shall stick to it as long as my mental
and bodily faculties last. Better wear out than rust out, my dear
boy.”

In the main, the young man agreed with his father, although he was not
quite such a whole-hearted believer in the gospel of work as the old
gentleman. Thanks to a superior education, he had developed more
interests in life. The existence of Peyton senior was circumscribed by
the area of his office; he cared nothing for art, literature, or
music. Even a too long holiday bored him. Truth to tell, he had
developed into something of a business machine. Claude had made up his
mind that long before his father’s age he would enjoy a well-earned
leisure, and amuse himself with distractions that did not appeal to
the rigidly bourgeois mind, which has a tendency to hold self-culture
at arm’s length as being an unprofitable occupation.

Aylmer was very fond of young Claude, but though he respected the
parents exceedingly for many things, he found them a bit stodgy.

The old gentleman could talk only on two subjects, business and
politics. On the latter he would discourse with considerable fervor.
But, as he was a violent Tory of the die-hard school, and more than a
little intolerant of more moderate opinion, it was difficult to listen
to him with much satisfaction. Mrs. Peyton was a splendid housekeeper,
and ran the establishment like a machine; but, in other respects she
was quite a colorless person.

Kate Peyton had inherited the strong common sense of her parents, but
she had grafted on to it a few artistic instincts. She liked really
good literature and she was a talented musician. It was to be feared
that neither her father nor mother enjoyed, to any extent, the
classical music she expounded to them. Mrs. Peyton would secretly sigh
for the good old waltzes of her girlhood, and her husband had no
appreciation of any form of music, gay or severe.

The dinner was a somewhat slow affair. In fact, had it not been for
the brilliant efforts of the barrister, a talker by profession, it
would have been quite dull. He managed, however, to say enough for the
whole party. Claude was a lively enough young fellow on ordinary
occasions; but, when in the society of his parents, the stodginess of
the atmosphere seemed to weigh him down. His sister was affected in
the same way. She was quite an intelligent girl when she found herself
in the society of congenial spirits; but she, too, felt the effect of
the atmosphere created by these two well-meaning, but very limited,
people.

When they all got to the drawing-room after a dinner that left nothing
to be desired from the point of view of hospitality--the barrister,
who was a great connoisseur of music, begged his fiancée to play for
them. Knowing his tastes, she chose some lovely things from Chopin,
which gave great pleasure to three people in the room. Poor old Mr.
Peyton was observed to nod more than once during the performance, and
Aylmer felt pretty sure, by the strained expression on the hostess’s
face, that good manners alone prevented her from following the bad
example.

After the music was over, they put in an hour in the billiard room, a
handsome apartment done up in the choicest style. They played a game
of pool, and here Mr. Peyton senior showed to much greater advantage.
He was far the best player of the lot, and potted the balls one after
another with the most deadly precision.

The barrister returned to town; he had a busy day in the Courts before
him. Aylmer had been asked to spend the night, and the two young men
went into the smoking room for a final chat and a drink.

“I’m afraid you’ve found it a bit heavy, old man,” remarked Claude to
his friend. He had the greatest respect for his parents; but, in
common with his sister, he was fully aware of their limitations. “The
dear old boy is not cut out for general society, he isn’t giddy
enough. Where he shines is when he has a snug little dinner-party of
his business friends and can talk shop to his heart’s content. Now,
let us have a good powwow. We can stop here as long as we like, for
the best thing about him is that he allows his family to do
practically what they like, no stupid restrictions or anything of that
sort.”

Aylmer politely, if not quite truthfully, disclaimed any impression of
“heaviness.” He said some very kind things about the old people, and
expressed his pleasure at having met the future son-in-law, whom he
considered a most excellent and cultivated fellow.

He thought it time to break to Peyton the news that Quentin had given
him an invitation to Hampstead. He was not absolutely certain how
Claude would take it, but he was pretty sure there was no paltry
jealousy in his composition.

“I rather wonder he didn’t ask you,” he said a little lamely in
conclusion. “But I expect you’re a bit too young for him to be quite
at his ease with you. I am just the right medium, I suppose.”

When Peyton spoke there was certainly no evidence of pique at the fact
that his friend had been preferred to himself. “I’m not at all certain
I should have gone if I had been asked,” he said quietly. “Mrs.
Quentin gave me to understand at the beginning of our acquaintance
that she did not care for very young men, and it may be bad taste on
my part, but I never had the slightest inclination to try to arouse
her interest. Very charming and all that, but she always struck me as
too much of an unknown quantity.

“With regard to the husband, agreeable and plausible as he is, there
was something about the man--I can’t in the least define what it
was--that failed to attract me. I never had any wish to cultivate a
deeper acquaintance. And, of course, you will go? I need not ask that
question.”

He looked very searchingly at his friend as he put the query, and
Aylmer could not prevent a faint accession of color. “Oh, yes, I shall
go,” he answered, assuming as careless a tone as he could with that
keen gaze on him. “There is something about the couple that piques my
curiosity; I should like to have peep at their home life. When you
meet people amongst crowds, there is always something a trifle
artificial about them.”

The younger man lowered his glance and made no further comment. But
his thoughts were very busy. He had not failed to notice that during
the last few days of their stay at Ostend, there had been a certain
growth of intimacy in the relations between Eileen and his friend, a
certain subtle change of manner in their demeanor towards each other
which confirmed his worst fears. Privately, he thought Aylmer was more
than foolish in running into obvious peril with a young woman whom he
looked upon as a very dangerous siren.

With the calm, practical nature he had inherited from his hard-headed
father, there was no chance of his ever involving himself in
disastrous entanglements. But Aylmer was of a totally different
temperament. That rather quiet manner of his hid a great faculty of
romance, a strong tendency to impulse, to act on the spur of the
moment. He was just the sort of man to fall an easy victim to the
devastating influence of a great passion, to count the world well lost
for the sake of love. Claude felt profoundly sorry that his friend
ever had come across the Quentins.

And then his thoughts turned upon Quentin himself. He was no fool,
this quiet, suave-spoken man. Surely, he must have seen what was so
obvious to Peyton himself, that these two were more than ordinarily
interested in each other. If he had seen it, why had he gone out of
his way to throw them together? Truly, there was something about
Quentin he did not fully comprehend.

It was with difficulty he refrained from uttering the words of wisdom
which were surging within him, but which, for the best of reasons he
forbore. He was well enough acquainted with human nature to know that
anything he could say would be useless. A man deeply enamored pays no
heed to advice, however sound it may be. Aylmer must know, as well as
he did, the danger of the course he was pursuing, and was recklessly
stifling his sane judgment. If he was to be saved, nobody could save
him but himself.

And, although Aylmer was not as acute in many things as the younger
man, he could form a pretty shrewd guess at what was passing in
Peyton’s mind, as he sat there very silent, but with a pre-occupied
look on his pleasant face. Yes, from his point of view, Peyton was
quite right in thinking him a fool. But then, he did not know the real
facts of the case, that Eileen was a free woman, free to love without
injury to her supposed husband. If she had not made that startling
confession to him, he was sure he would have had the strength to
decline Quentin’s invitation. He was far too honorable to make love to
the wife of another man, however much he adored her in secret.

The next morning, the three men went up to London, father and son to
the City offices, Aylmer to his comfortable suite of rooms in Ryder
Street, where he was received by his valet, who had taken his own
holiday during the time his master was at Ostend.

The young man had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, not to
mention relatives. And he was a popular member of three clubs.
Therefore, there was no difficulty in filling up his time, in spite of
the fact that he was, in Mr. Peyton’s sense of the word, an idle man.
But the days seemed to go very slowly, the real truth being that he
was awaiting with feverish anxiety the advent of that important letter
from Eileen.

And at last it came. And brief as it was, he read it over half a dozen
times, as is the way of ardent lovers. It told him that they had
arrived in England four days ago, and she had taken the earliest
opportunity of redeeming her promise. She would be waiting outside the
Café Mario, the place at which they had appointed to meet, at
half-past one.

Needless to say, she did not have to wait; for he took good care to be
there before her. His heart beat as he saw the graceful, slender
figure coming towards him. And they shook hands warmly, with just a
little air of shyness on her side.

The Café Mario was an unpretentious restaurant in the heart of Soho.
Of course, he would have preferred to take her to a more palatial
establishment; but, when he had suggested the Berkeley or the Savoy,
she had said both of those places were too public. He had rather
wondered at this, at the time, as he had gathered that she and Quentin
knew so few people. But she had been very insistent on the point that
they must choose an unfrequented neighborhood.

The café was not very full, and they found a comfortable table at the
end of the long narrow room; and, an intelligent waiter, who took them
in hand, so to speak, recommended certain dishes in which the
establishment excelled.

They were both a little shy at first. But, as the luncheon proceeded,
their embarrassment wore off, and they appeared to become more
reconciled to the novelty of the situation. But a certain nervousness
showed itself in her as fresh patrons entered the place. She had the
air of a child doing something which had been forbidden, and is in
fear of being found out.

He commented on it at once. “You seem very nervous, dear,” he
remarked. It was the first time he had addressed her so intimately,
and a swift color came to her cheek. But he was sure she did not
resent it. “Why should she?” he asked himself. Having met him in this
clandestine fashion was sufficient proof that she cared for him, that
she accepted him as a lover.

She smiled a little. “I am not so sure that this is such a safe place.
I have heard two or three cronies of Richard’s speak in praise of the
Soho restaurants. It would be dreadful if one of them took it into his
head to pop in here this particular day.”

He comforted her by declaring that such a coincidence was improbable
in the highest degree, and it seemed that she caught some of his
confidence. Presently she told him some very interesting news.
Quentin, that morning, had spoken of the projected visit to Hampstead,
and had intimated his wish that she should write to Aylmer at once,
and ask him down to dinner on the Wednesday of the following week. As
Hampstead was rather a far cry for such a confirmed Londoner, he was
being asked to stay the night.

“I posted that letter as I came along,” she told him in conclusion.
“So I expect you will get it by the last post to-night. I suppose we
may reckon on your acceptance?”

An eloquent look was his answer. She had got over her nervousness by
now, and her manner was more assured. “I am rather glad that we shall
have a little time to recover ourselves and get used to the situation.
If you had been asked for to-morrow, I think I should have felt
dreadfully guilty when we met at Hampstead. As it is, we shall have to
keep guard over ourselves, for fear of something slipping out. For
instance,” and here she blushed very prettily, “you must not repeat
that word you used just now. That would give us away completely.”

“By Jove, it would,” said Aylmer, laughing. “And I shouldn’t know what
excuses to make. If I had nieces, I might say I was so accustomed to
using the word to them.”

They spent a very happy couple of hours, which she was supposed to
have passed in looking at the shops. When they parted, she insisted
that she should go out first, and he follow a minute or two later, in
case of accidents. If they were not seen together, no tales could be
told to Quentin.

Aylmer assented, adding boldly: “But some day we shall have to break
the news to him.”

“Ah, some day,” she answered quickly, “but you must wait for me to
choose that day. There is just one little thing I want to say to you
before we part, a little secret that you ought to know. Richard tells
everybody he is not a man of business, but in a certain sense that is
untrue. He is very fond of speculation, in which he is not
particularly successful. But he has a great belief in his own
judgment, and he often invites his friends to join with him. I want
you to promise me that if he makes any suggestion of this kind to you,
you will firmly decline for any reason you may think fit to invent.
Have nothing to do with his schemes, however plausible they may sound.
Will you promise me now?”

He did as she asked him, rather marveling at this second confession,
which seemed to throw a new light on Quentin’s character. If there was
one thing on which he had especially insisted during their brief
acquaintance, it was that he had no business aptitude. And yet,
according to Eileen’s statement, in a certain sense he was a man of
business, though not apparently a very successful one.

By the last post that evening, Eileen’s letter arrived. In it she gave
him minute instructions how to find The Laurels, which was situated
close to that ancient hostelry Jack Straw’s Castle.

On the appointed day he went to Hampstead by the tube railway as being
the quicker way. He knew the neighborhood very well, having often
rambled over the Heath and along the various roads that surrounded it,
and he soon located the commodious, old-fashioned house standing back
from the road in about a couple of acres of well-kept garden.

As he neared the big gate that opened on to a wide carriage drive, he
saw a man advancing from the opposite direction. There was something
peculiar about this person’s appearance which attracted Aylmer’s
attention. He walked with a slight limp, was a little over middle
height, and was dressed very shabbily. He was not quite seedy enough
to be a tramp, and he was certainly not a workman. But what struck the
young man most was the remarkable refinement of his face and figure,
at strange variance with his worn and disreputable clothes.

He was nearer the gate by some yards than Aylmer, and on reaching it,
he opened it with the air of a man who knew his way. Aylmer followed
slowly, and saw him making for the front door. Then, apparently on a
second thought, he swung round, and struck into the path leading to
the kitchen entrance.

Aylmer rang the bell, wondering what manner of man this strange person
could be who so quickly turned from the main entrance, as if the idea
had struck him that his shabby attire would convey the idea of an
incongruous visitor.




 CHAPTER SEVEN

It was some time before the ring at the bell was answered. Then,
after a second summons, the door was opened by a very dignified butler
who wore the old-fashioned side-whiskers, eschewing the more modern
method of clean-shaving.

Aylmer decided from his experience, that this pleasant-looking person
was a choice thing in butlers. He was respectful without being in the
least servile. He took from the young man his hat and coat and showed
him into the drawing-room, where, somewhat to his surprise, he found
Eileen alone.

She rose, with just a faint suspicion of color in her cheek; no doubt
she was thinking of their last meeting in the Soho restaurant and had
not quite got over a certain guilty feeling.

“Welcome to The Laurels,” she said in her pretty, cheerful voice.
“Richard will be back presently to echo my welcome. But he has been
called away for a few moments to attend to some rather tiresome
business. You must put up with me till he appears.”

How charming she was, he thought. What a knack she had of saying
little depreciating things of herself which rather provoked a
compliment. He answered her in a similar vein. “I shall be delighted
to see Mr. Quentin when he comes but he has left a more than efficient
substitute.”

The dignified butler presently appeared with tea and a decanter of
whisky. The hostess put a question to him: “Is Mr. Quentin likely to
be long, Dicks?”

Dicks answered her in a deep, mellow voice. “I am not quite sure,
ma’am. Perhaps it would be better not to wait. And besides, he never
takes tea.”

Naturally, this capable man was well acquainted with the habits of the
household, and could give sound advice. Eileen turned to her guest.
“Tea, Mr. Aylmer, or would you prefer a whisky-and-soda?”

Aylmer declared for the more harmless beverage. Eileen seemed pleased
at his choice.

“I noticed, when we were at Ostend, you were what I should call an
abstemious sort of man,” she said, speaking rather more seriously than
was her usual custom. “I am very glad of it, for your own sake and
that of others who are connected with you. In this house things are a
bit the other way, too much so for my liking. Richard, in spite of
that quaint manner of his, is a very temperamental person. He is
always in a state of nerves, and they require soothing, with
_that_”--she pointed with a contemptuous gesture to the decanter. “You
heard Dicks say he never takes tea. When he does put in an appearance,
he will pour himself out a very liberal dose of whisky.”

Another small revelation about the master of the house. And yet, was
it quite a revelation? During their sojourn abroad, together, Aylmer
had remarked that Quentin was a heavy drinker, not only at meals with
the stimulus of food, but during the day.

“And the few people who find their way here,” went on Eileen in the
same serious voice, “seem to be troubled with a similar weakness. And
it runs through the house; the servants drink. Dicks is a most
excellent servant, and never forgets himself, but that flush on his
cheek is more than a symptom of good health. And his master puts
temptation in his way.”

She was letting him into the inner secrets of the establishment with a
rather embarrassing frankness, he thought. But later on at dinner he
had an opportunity of understanding what she meant.

The drawing-room, a long, low-ceilinged apartment of considerable
size, looked out upon the front garden. Aylmer could look right down
to the gate. He kept his eyes open, expecting to see shortly the
shabbily-dressed figure of the man with the refined face emerging on
his way out, from the kitchen quarters. But many minutes passed and
there was no sign of the man who earlier had arrested his attention.
Probably some out-at-elbows relation of one of the servants, who had
dropped in for refreshment of some sort. It was evidently a very
hospitable house. From what Eileen had let fall, the servants could do
much as they pleased under the rule of a too indulgent master.

Half an hour passed. Nobody came down the garden, and the host had not
put in an appearance. Aylmer by no means resented his absence, as he
much preferred to be alone with the charming young woman; but he could
not help thinking it was somewhat strange behavior on a first visit.
He had been asked especially to come early, and Quentin, surely,
should have been there to receive him.

The suspicion of what her guest must be thinking seemed to arouse in
Eileen a growing embarrassment. At length, unable to contain herself,
she rose, and rang the bell sharply.

She spoke in an irritated tone to the butler when he answered the
summons. “Please ask Mr. Quentin if he will be very much longer. We
have finished tea. Mr. Aylmer has been here for over half an hour.”

In a few minutes Dicks returned. Mr. Quentin sent his most sincere
apologies to his guest. He would be with them directly.

But, it was a good ten minutes after that message before he put in
appearance; and, during that period, the man with the limp had not
shown himself. Somehow, Aylmer could not help associating his host’s
absence with that rather sinister-looking person.

When he arrived, he was full of contrition and cordiality. As soon as
the greetings were over, he stretched out his hand to the decanter,
and poured out a very liberal allowance of spirit, to which he added a
quite small measure of soda-water. This he drained at one long gulp,
and as he held the glass to his mouth, Aylmer noticed that his hand
trembled. The young man fancied that his whole demeanor, since he had
entered the room, evinced traces of some unusual inward agitation.

He seated himself in an easy chair, and began to talk in a rapid,
jerky fashion. “I suppose one cannot escape small annoyances in this
world. One shuts oneself up like a recluse, excludes commonplace
persons from one’s life, only opens one’s doors to people with whom
one feels a certain measure of affinity. And yet, careful as one may
be, one can never wholly escape from disturbing things.”

While giving utterance to these cryptic words, he poured himself out
another dose of ardent spirit, which this time he consumed in a more
leisurely fashion. Aylmer stole a glance at Eileen, on whose brow was
a distinct frown. She evidently did not approve of his recourse to
stimulants as a remedy for his frayed nerves.

Aylmer found himself wondering if this tendency to drink was more than
an infirmity; if it had grown into a vice. During the time they had
been alone, he had asked Eileen if she felt more contented now that
she was in England. Her answer had been of rather a hesitating
character.

“In some ways, yes,” she had told him. “But I believe the other life
suits Richard better. I don’t think the loneliness is very good for
him; he is thrown too much on his own resources.”

He fancied he was able to read between the lines of that vague
statement. In the crowded life of an hotel, Quentin was open to
observation, he had to keep a control over his unfortunate impulses.
Here, in this big house, with only one weak woman, hardly more than a
girl, and a set of obsequious servants, he was responsible to nobody
but himself. And the young man felt almost certain that, fond as the
man must be of Eileen in his placid, paternal way, he did not allow
her to exercise much influence over him. Quiet as he was, he conveyed
the idea of obstinacy.

It was rather an embarrassing moment. Quentin had admitted that he had
been upset, but he would not say frankly what had upset him. To create
a diversion, Aylmer inquired after Martyn.

The commonplace question seemed to rouse Quentin from his disturbing
reflections. He spoke in a brisker tone.

“Oh, very well, very well, indeed. I had a letter from him a couple of
days before we left for England. He is making a leisurely journey
through Italy. He never stops in one place for long, a bird of passage
something like ourselves, but without any anchorage in his own
country, such as Eileen and I have here.”

“Are you likely to make a long stay at Hampstead?”

Quentin seemed to hesitate. Eileen, from whose fair brow the frown had
not wholly disappeared, answered for him.

“It is no use asking Richard that question; he couldn’t give you a
reliable reply. He is a man of moods and impulses. To-day he might
tell you we would stay a month, and next week he is as likely as not
to give me twenty-four hours’ notice to pack up and be off to the end
of the world.”

Quentin laughed good-humoredly at the petulance in her tone.

“Not quite so bad as that, my dear, surely. If the climate behaves
itself, I think I could put in a good few weeks here. But of course,
if we have an abominable spell of weather, I am afraid I shall want to
set out for sunnier lands. I hate gloom and rain,” he concluded with a
little shiver of disgust.

There were no more embarrassing moments, and presently the
conversation flowed easily between them. The slight cloud disappeared
from Eileen’s face, and she was again the sunny, charming young woman
he had known at Ostend.

Aylmer thought how little one knows of people till one sees them in
their own home. At the hotel they always had seemed an easy-going
couple, not particularly devoted, perhaps, but always very pleasant to
each other. On this, his first visit to them, in their strictly
domestic surroundings, there had been a certain sub-acid note in
Eileen’s demeanor to her supposed husband. Did he, in this more
intimate environment, display, unchecked, certain qualities that
aroused her resentment and caused her to show herself in a less
attractive light? He could not, of course, bring himself to admit that
she was at fault.

In due course they went in to dinner, Quentin apologizing for there
being no other guest. “We are quite _en famille_, as you see, Mr.
Aylmer, but I shall hope that you will not be too bored with us.”

The young man made some polite rejoinder, and the dinner proceeded,
the dignified Dicks and the neat-looking parlormaid attending on the
small party. The Laurels was not nearly so big a house as the Peytons’
mansion at Wimbledon, but it was a much more elegant one. The
furniture at Wimbledon was solid and expensive, that of The Laurels
evidently had been chosen by a person of very considerable taste and
artistic leanings. The same applied to the dinner. There was more
profusion at Mr. Peyton’s table: here there was a smaller menu, but
the dishes harmonized better with each other. And the wines were
especially choice. But in this respect Quentin, of course, had a
serious rival, for the stockbroker dealt with a first-class
wine-merchant, and was greatly assisted by him in his choice of
vintages.

At a certain point in the repast, Eileen half rose with the intention
of leaving the two men to themselves. But Quentin intervened. “My dear
child, in a small party like this, let us dispense with that barbarous
custom of separating the sexes just when we are really beginning to
get convivial. Stay with us. I am sure Aylmer is too great an admirer
of the ladies to object.”

Quentin had been by no means sparing in his enjoyment of the excellent
wines to which his butler had helped him, and he was certainly by now
in a most convivial mood. He set down his half-finished glass of port
with genuine satisfaction.

“Help yourself, while it is here, Aylmer,” he cried, dropping the
formal “Mister” in his jovial mood. “And persuade that little
teetotaller to have a drop more. I have only a half-dozen bottles of
it left, and I don’t know where to replace it. There’s nothing like it
on the market at the present moment.”

But Eileen refused on the ground that, as she was no judge of wine, it
would be wasted on her. Quentin turned round to the butler, who, so it
seemed to Aylmer, had been lingering unnecessarily in the room.
“Dicks, you must take away a glass of this to drink downstairs, you
know it of old.”

The dignified butler brought not one but two glasses. For a moment his
genial master looked uncertainly at the second glass, as if wondering
why it was brought. Then he seemed to recollect himself. “And, of
course, one for Mrs. Masters, the cook. She deserves it, for she
surpassed herself in that _vol-au-vent_.”

Dicks, with a muttered word of thanks, left the room. Aylmer stole a
glance at Eileen, and saw that the cloud had slightly returned to her
face. She evidently did not approve of these free and easy relations
between the servants and their master. Mr. Quentin might have
restrained his good-heartedness on this particular evening.

When they crossed the hall, into the drawing-room, sounds of enjoyment
were heard issuing from the regions of the kitchen. Even Quentin, with
his lax notions of domestic discipline, frowned a little at the sound.
“What an infernal row,” he said.

Eileen spoke very sharply. “It is perfectly disgraceful. Mr. Aylmer
must be surprised at the way in which the house is run. And it is all
your fault. You let them turn the place into a bear garden; you never
exert your authority in the slightest degree.”

A rather obstinate look came over Quentin’s face; although he was in
too jovial a mood to resent such plain speaking by any show of temper.
“My dear, are you not more than a bit uncharitable? These poor devils
are enjoying themselves downstairs, as we are enjoying ourselves
upstairs, only our veneer of refinement enables us to disguise our
feelings better.”

To these philosophical remarks, Eileen did not condescend to reply.
But Aylmer surmised that there might be several things at The Laurels
which did not meet with her approval. He rather wondered that she did
not introduce greater order into the establishment herself. Was
Quentin, in spite of his quiet, amiable manner, one of those obstinate
men who will not be interfered with?

In the drawing-room she played and sang a little. But, neither her
vocal nor instrumental performance was of a high order. Presently
Quentin began to talk, and Aylmer was surprised to find what a very
well-read and cultivated fellow he was when he fairly got himself
launched forth. He wandered from politics to art, from art to
literature and music, and was perfectly at home in every subject on
which he touched.

It was rather a revelation to his guest, for at Ostend he never had
let himself go, never poured forth the treasures of information with
which he seemed so fully endowed. Even Eileen, in spite of her chagrin
at the imperfect running of the establishment, seemed to forget her
annoyance, and listened to him with evident pleasure. And, Aylmer was
quite convinced that his host was a many-sided man.

The time passed quickly; and then, at a pause in the conversation,
Quentin glanced at the clock. “I’m afraid I’ve been a sad monopolist
this evening,” he remarked. “I see it is past eleven, and I have been
talking most of the time. Are you a late bird, Aylmer? Living so much
alone when in England, we get into the habit of going to bed early. Is
it too soon for you?”

Aylmer replied politely in the negative. Quentin rang the bell for the
butler to lock up the house, and “good-nights” were exchanged. As a
matter of fact, eleven o’clock was rather an early hour for the young
man, and when he got into bed, he felt very wakeful.

Naturally, he was more than a little excited by his first visit to the
house which sheltered the object of his affections. He wondered much
at the peculiar relations which existed between Eileen and this
middle-aged man who passed as her husband. Now that real love had come
to her, she was naturally dissatisfied; but before this period, had
she enjoyed any measure of real happiness in such an unreal existence?
Perhaps for this reason--for Quentin was too intelligent not to have
surmised what she was feeling--she had been rushed about from place to
place in the hope of providing her with amusement and distraction.

He fell into a doze presently, and then woke up with a sudden start.
He lay wide awake, listening. Yes, surely, there was the sound of
stealthy footfalls along the corridor outside his room and down the
big staircase that led into the hall. Presently, straining his ears,
he heard the front door opened very softly, and apparently it was not
closed. He struck a match, and looked at his watch; it was a few
minutes past two o’clock.

He peeped into the corridor, and made out that the door of one of the
bedrooms was ajar. He knew it was the one in which Quentin slept,
Eileen’s room being next to it. Quickly, he stepped across to the
window and drew the blind a very little aside, so that he could see
through to the garden.

It was a very bright night, the moon shining brilliantly, and he could
see as plainly as if it were day.

Three men were clustered under the shade of a big tree close to the
gate which opened on to the carriage-drive.

There was no mistaking those figures, dressed in the same clothes in
which he had last seen them. They were Quentin, Dicks the butler, and
the man with the limp. The three were engaged in animated
conversation.




 CHAPTER EIGHT

It was evident a conference of considerable importance was taking
place between this strangely assorted trio--Dicks, in his respectable
butler’s dress, Quentin in the clothes he had worn at dinner, and the
lame man in his shabby attire.

Quentin and the stranger seemed to be taking the most prominent part
in the discussion, Dicks putting in a phrase now and again. The lame
man appeared to emphasize his remarks with a wealth of gesture
suggestive of a foreigner.

For something like twenty minutes, Aylmer watched this singular scene
from his hiding-place. But, although the window was open at the top,
they spoke in such low tones that he could not catch a scrap of their
conversation. Then the party broke up. Dicks opened the gate, and
advancing a little way into the road, looked carefully from left to
right. Having satisfied himself there was nobody about, he gave a
swift signal, and the man with the limp passed out, walking very
quickly in spite of his infirmity.

After a brief period, during which Dicks leaned over the now shut
gate, as if he were listening to the retreating footfalls of this
strange guest, master and man returned to the house, side by side,
still talking very earnestly, their conversation inaudible. Aylmer
heard the hall door softly closed and the stealthy return of Quentin
to his bedroom. Dicks presumably had returned to the servants’
quarters, which were approached by a separate staircase, at the rear
of the building.

A decidedly mysterious happening, was his reflection, as the young man
returned to his bed. He felt sure he had been right, at the start, in
connecting his host’s absence with the sudden appearance of the man
with the limp. He understood now why he had been detained so long at
the front door; it was to enable Quentin to get out of the way. The
whimsical thought came to him that the second port glass, which the
host had not at first seemed to understand when Dicks brought it to
him, was intended for this mysterious person secluded in some remote
portion of the house, out of sight and sound of strangers.

Whatever the nature of the secret, Dicks, the suave and dignified
butler--Dicks, of whom, in the little she had said about him, Eileen
did not seem to hold a very high opinion--was in it.

After a great deal of cogitation, Aylmer began to dismiss it from his
mind. Perhaps it was a family secret. Perhaps the shabbily-dressed man
with the refined features was some disreputable connection of whom the
well-to-do master of this elegant house, very naturally, was ashamed.
Perhaps the poor wretch turned up, from time to time, to appeal to his
compassion and obtain pecuniary assistance. If such were the case, he
might find Dicks a valuable assistant, one who would loyally help him
to keep the skeleton firmly locked up in the cupboard, even pass him
off to the other servants as a broken-down connection of his own.

In this class of man there is a wonderful fidelity to an employer for
whom he feels respect and gratitude. Quentin, he judged, was a master
out of a thousand, likely to treat a servant of long standing more as
a friend than an inferior. But, above all, he wondered if Eileen had
heard anything of the night’s proceedings.

In the morning, when they met at breakfast, she asked him the very
usual question that a solicitous hostess puts to her guest: “Did you
sleep well, Mr. Aylmer?”

As the young man answered, he kept his eye on Quentin to note if what
he said had any effect on him. “Quite well, thanks. Or, rather, I
should say, as well as I ever do. I am a very light sleeper and wake
up half a dozen times in the night. The slightest thing wakes me up.
The best part of it is, I soon go off again.”

Quentin did not seem in the least affected by this statement, whatever
his private thoughts might have been. “So you’re a light sleeper, are
you?” he remarked in an indifferent voice. “I’m worse than that, I’m a
very bad sleeper at the best of times. I don’t suppose I get a
thorough night’s rest once in a month. Not like Eileen.”

The girl laughed easily. “No, I certainly don’t suffer from insomnia.
I fall off as soon as my head touches the pillow; and there I stop
till the force of habit makes me wake. The result of a good digestion
and a clear conscience, I expect. Perhaps you men have neither.”

Aylmer was sure she was speaking the truth, and he felt a sense of
relief. She had heard nothing of this strange episode of the night.
Even if she did know something of what had led up to it, her loyalty
to Quentin would naturally keep her silent. As for Quentin himself,
faith in the man was shaken. He might or not be suffering from
insomnia as he had alleged. But Aylmer felt he would require
corroboration of the fact from some impartial source before he was
ready to believe him.

Quentin was not quite so jovial as he had been on the previous
evening, when he had been well primed with those very excellent
vintages with which his butler had plied him so assiduously; but he
was excessively genial. He begged his guest not to hurry away
directly, to defer his departure till after lunch, and Eileen seconded
the request. The young man could hardly refuse, as he felt from the
manner of both that he was not outstaying his welcome.

“That’s all right, then. Now, I have got to put in an hour or two of
work. I owe several letters. Suppose you and Eileen take a stroll this
beautiful morning, and we three will join each other later,” was the
suggestion of this exceedingly urbane and agreeable host.

No arrangement could have pleased Aylmer better. It did occur to him,
as Eileen went upstairs to prepare for the excursion, that Mr. Quentin
was not such an idle man as he represented himself to be. He had said
he owed several letters. Was it not a little strange that a recluse
should have such a large correspondence? Aylmer remembered that at
Ostend he had spent a goodly portion of each day at the writing-table.
There was something contradictory about the man.

Eileen came down presently, dressed in a pretty frock and picturesque
hat that suggested Paris as their place of manufacture.

They strolled along till they found themselves at the charming highway
known as the Spaniards Road, surely one of the most pleasant spots
about London. Presently Aylmer ventured to press her to arrange with
him a second meeting. In the hurry of parting on the first occasion,
no reference had been made to the future.

She did not answer at once. The young man felt just a little resentful
at her silence. “Perhaps you don’t want to repeat the experiment?” he
said, speaking rather stiffly. An ardent lover, such as he was, is so
prone to take offense easily.

There was a note of reproach in her voice. “Are you not a little
unjust--you who are more considerate than the majority of men--in
saying that to me? You must have seen how much I enjoyed myself; I
certainly took no pains to conceal it. You know I would love to come.”

“Then why hesitate?” he asked with the logic of his sex.

A faint little sigh fluttered from her lips, as she turned her
beautiful eyes on him. “The best of you never quite understand a
woman, how she is sometimes afraid to grasp her own happiness. But you
do know the strangeness, the difficulty of my position. How can I be
sure that it is going to end happily, that I am not doing you a wrong
in encouraging you?”

“But it seems to me plainer sailing than you will admit. You have
Quentin’s promise that if you met somebody you really cared for he
would put no obstacles in the way. I have not spoken quite so boldly
before. But is it not a fact that you have met that somebody? Your
actions tell me so, even if they have not been actually confirmed by
your words.”

She spoke very gravely. “Oh, believe me, I have not been playing with
you. My words shall carry confirmation now. I love you, I shall always
love you, whether the ultimate issue of our relations be happiness or
disaster.”

He pursued the advantage which her frank avowal had given him. “Then,
there need not be the difficulty in the situation that you imagine,
unless you believe that Quentin will go back on his promise. A certain
amount of awkwardness, I admit. But will that affect us much if we
truly love each other? And even if he should be disposed to play such
a dastardly part, you are over age, you are your own mistress. You can
defy him and come to the man you love.”

She laid her hand for a second upon his arm. “You put courage into me;
I am afraid I am not a very brave person as a rule,” she said softly.
“I will meet you again, when you wish.”

“Say this day week,” he cried eagerly. “And shall it be the same
place, or another?”

“We may as well make it the same. There is a fate in these things; I
am a firm believer in destiny. If we are to be found out, no
precautions will avail us. Of that I am positive.”

Aylmer laughed his pleasant, optimistic laugh. “Well, my dear, if we
are found out, I should be less sorry than you. It would precipitate
matters, and we should be standing on firm ground.”

She made no answer to that suggestion, but he could sense that she
felt alarm at the prospect of things reaching a climax. He wished he
could get at the real reasons of that alarm, but there was a certain
reserve in her which even his deep love could not dissolve.

When they returned to the house, she went up to her own room, and Mr.
Quentin appeared from his sanctum, or study, or whatever he called the
apartment in which he conducted his correspondence, and invited Aylmer
in for a chat.

The whisky decanter was on the table, and a half-filled tumbler beside
it. “My nerves are so bad, I have to take a little peg in the
morning,” he explained by way of apology. “Very pleased if you will
join me.”

Aylmer thanked him for his hospitable offer, but declined on the plea
that he very rarely drank between meals. Quentin nodded his head
approvingly.

“Quite right, my dear boy; stick to it. I wish I had never acquired
the habit. Easier to get into than get out of. In fact, after a
certain time, you _can’t_ get out of it, hard as you may try.”

No, it was evident that the man had outgrown the power of resistance.
Aylmer felt very sorry for the refined, delicate young woman put into
such an incongruous household. What pleasure or real companionship
could there be between her and a man of such habits?

After a little desultory conversation, Quentin fired at the young man,
a direct question. “Please don’t think I wish to display any
impertinent curiosity in your private affairs, but I take it you are a
man of some capital.”

From the hint Eileen had given him, the young man guessed to what end
this question was leading. He replied briefly that he certainly had
some capital and that he lived on the interest of it.

“I gathered so from something young Peyton let fall one day,” pursued
Quentin. “As I think I have told you, I am in much the same position.
I don’t possess a large circle of acquaintance, but I happen to have
one or two old friends who are in the know, and they put me on to a
good thing when it comes their way. Have you ever gone in for
speculation?”

Aylmer answered somewhat coldly in the negative, adding that his
natural inclination was against it.

“Quite so,” assented his host suavely. “I used to have the same
feeling myself, when such a suggestion was first mooted to me. I said
that a safe four per cent. was better than a problematical four
hundred, that in the former case you could sleep sound at night
without troubling about your investments. But I altered my opinion.”

“Perhaps that is the reason why you are troubled with insomnia now,”
suggested the young man with a gentle sarcasm from which he could not
refrain.

Recollecting what he had said at breakfast that morning, Quentin could
not but realize the shrewdness of the thrust. “A palpable hit,” he
admitted, “but it does not draw blood. I was just as bad a sleeper
when I was only getting my four per cent. as now when my return is so
much bigger. Anyway, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, you
will admit that. For some years I have speculated on the advice of my
friends, with the result that I have nearly doubled my capital.”

“You have had exceptional luck; I congratulate you,” remarked Aylmer
dryly. “Most speculators I have heard of--apart from men of business
who are financiers pure and simple--find themselves heavily mulcted in
the long run. Like gamblers, they begin by winning and end in a heavy
loss. You are evidently a keen man of affairs.”

“Not in the least, not in the least,” rejoined Quentin hastily; it was
evident from his hurried manner he felt that his confidences were not
meeting with the reception he had anticipated. “I am a wretched hand
at figures, cannot understand an ordinary balance-sheet. My success is
due to the friends I have mentioned, who know every move in the game,
and are kind enough to let me take a hand in it.”

Aylmer preserved a disconcerting silence; and, after a brief pause,
his companion played the card which he had been keeping up his sleeve
all the time. Without any further circumlocution, he came to the
point.

And while he was speaking in his soft, persuasive way, Aylmer was
revolving in his mind a rather difficult problem. Quentin had stated
distinctly that his speculations had been successful, that in a few
years he nearly had doubled his capital. On the other hand, Eileen had
said that they were unprofitable, although he was optimistic enough to
persevere, in spite of his unfortunate experience. They could not both
be speaking the truth. Could the man be telling a pack of barefaced
lies? Or, had Eileen, from the best of motives, indulged in
exaggeration, with the view of deterring her lover from taking a hand
in an uncertain game?

“Of course, a man of your intelligence will guess that I have a motive
in speaking to you on this subject. At the moment, I have a very
exceptional opportunity offered to me from the same quarter that has
put me on to so many good things. If I can put twenty thousand in hard
cash on the table, I can get a small share in a speculation--it is a
very big thing and nothing under that sum is of any use--there is a
certainty of making a hundred per cent. profit at any period between
now and the next twelve months.”

For want of something better to say, Aylmer remarked that twenty
thousand was a considerable sum.

“It is,” admitted the speculator frankly. “And now I am coming to the
point. It is more than I can conveniently lay my hands on just at this
juncture. I could rake up ten thousand quite easily. It occurred to me
that you might like to find the other ten, and we could go shares in
the ultimate profit. I dare say you would like me to give you some
details of this most promising scheme.”

At this point Aylmer thought it better to stop him. Even if Eileen had
not gone out of her way to warn him, he would have turned a deaf ear
to Quentin’s blandishments, on account of his unconquerable dislike to
speculation in any shape or form. The gambling instinct was
practically non-existent in him. He very occasionally played at cards
for a small stake, and still more occasionally risked a modest sum on
some big race. But, as he never hazarded more than he could well
afford to lose, he could not, in any sense of the word, be called a
gambler.

“It is awfully good of you to suggest it to me,” he said politely,
“and if I had your speculative temperament, I should probably jump at
the chance. But, this sort of thing makes no appeal to me. Besides, I
am under a sort of pledge to my dear old father not to hazard the
money he left me. He was always rubbing it into me that high interest
meant bad security, and that it would be wise to be content with a
modest return on my capital.”

There could be no doubt that Quentin was disappointed by the emphatic
refusal, but he did not show it too obviously. “If you feel like that
there is no more to be said. I am sorry for both our sakes, and I
cannot think of anybody else to whom I could make the suggestion.
Martyn has been with me in smaller things, and he loves a flutter. But
I know the amount is beyond his resources. Ah, I hear the luncheon
gong. By the way, not a word of this to Eileen. Like yourself, she has
a great horror of speculation. She might be annoyed that I had spoken
of the subject to you.”

He hardly had ceased speaking when Eileen came in, and Aylmer was
relieved from having to give any positive assurance that he would
respect his host’s wishes.

After luncheon he took his departure. Quentin, who had been as cordial
as ever during the progress of the meal, offered his own car to take
him home. But the offer was declined.

His host accompanied him to the gate and shook him warmly by the hand.
“We have enjoyed your visit greatly, Aylmer; you must soon repeat it.
Eileen will write to you again, shortly.”

The young man expressed in fitting terms the pleasure he had derived
from his sojourn at The Laurels. He had felt rather embarrassed during
that conversation in the study. But, it seemed that Quentin was too
much a man of the world to resent the attitude his guest had taken up.
Anyway, if he felt any resentment, he was clever enough to conceal it.

The next day Aylmer lunched in the city with young Peyton, who was
curious as to how he had got on at Hampstead, and rather eager for
details. Aylmer satisfied his friend’s curiosity as far as possible.
But he carefully concealed two things--the mysterious advent of the
man with the limp, and Quentin’s attempt to inveigle him into
speculation. His feelings for Eileen made him disinclined to provoke
any caustic comments upon the Quentin _ménage_.

On the day appointed, Eileen presented herself, as arranged, at the
Café Mario.

“I was almost afraid I should have to disappoint you,” she told him.
“Richard at breakfast time had strong leanings towards a day in the
country. Fortunately, when he went to tap the barometer--he always
does that before he ventures on a pleasure excursion--he found it
distinctly unfavorable. You can guess what a flutter I was in while
this was going on.”

Very shortly after they had begun their meal, she put to him a
question. “You had a long talk with Richard in his study after we
returned from our walk. Please tell me, did he make any suggestions of
a financial nature to you?”

It was fortunate he had given no promise to Quentin in the matter, or
he might have been puzzled how to reply. It was, therefore, with a
clear conscience that he answered her.

“As a matter of fact, he did, and I declined to fall in with them.”

She pursued her inquiries further. “To what extent did he want you to
commit yourself?”

“Ten thousand pounds.”

“Fearing that he might approach you, I spoke to him on the subject. I
told him that I wanted to keep you as a friend, and that friendship
was apt to be severed when men had money transactions together. He
promised to respect my wishes.” She added bitterly: “Were his promises
ever worth anything?”

So now he knew the reason why Quentin had entreated him to say nothing
to her on the subject. Evidently, he was not a man to be relied on,
one who did not shrink from double-dealing. That bitter exclamation
about his promises being worthless revealed a great deal.

There was a strained look about Eileen for some little time; it was
evident she was still brooding over the unfortunate incident. But,
presently she recovered herself, and the cloud over her spirits rolled
away. It was a couple of hours before they separated, and this time
she allowed him to see her to the door.

He was saying a few words to her about their next meeting, when a man
walked swiftly past them as they stood in the doorway; and, as he
passed, he flung a rapid glance at them.

He saw her face grow suddenly pale, and a startled look came into her
eyes. “What’s the matter?” he asked anxiously.

“Did you see that man who has just passed?” she asked in a hoarse
voice.

He looked after the retreating figure, now some way down the street,
and, somehow, it seemed familiar to him. “Is it somebody who knows
you?”

“Somebody who knows us both,” was the agitated reply. “It was Martyn
and he recognized us.”




 CHAPTER NINE

Aylmer took a second look, and so far as he could judge from a back
view, the figure certainly seemed to resemble that of the man whom he
had last seen at Ostend in the company of the Quentins.

“Are you quite sure?” he asked. “There are many doubles in this world.
Let me see, from what Quentin told us, a week ago Martyn was making a
tour through Italy. There is, of course, plenty of time for him to
have got to England; but then, as they are such intimate friends, you
would surely have heard of it.”

“Richard may have heard from him for all I know to the contrary, but
he does not tell me everything,” she answered in a low voice. In
another minute she forced a brave smile. “Well, what is done cannot be
undone; it is fate, I suppose.”

“You have no doubt in your own mind it was Martyn?”

She shook her pretty head. “Not the slightest. I have seen too much of
him, at home and abroad, to be mistaken.”

She was evidently very much shaken, and he tried his best to cheer
her. “Well, my dearest, if Martyn turns informer, you must show a bold
front. There is, perhaps, a little double-dealing in our meeting like
this; but Quentin is a double-dealer himself. And under the peculiar
circumstances, we are not doing him any great wrong. If anything
happens, let me know, and I will come down to The Laurels at once and
make a clean breast of the whole affair. If it were not for your
feelings in the matter I should like it to come out as soon as
possible, so that we may know exactly how we stand.”

He hailed a taxi, and put her into it, pressing her hand fondly as
they said good-by to each other. It distressed him infinitely to see
how wretched she looked as she drove away. He could not help thinking
she stood very much in dread of this man who had entrapped her into
such an unnatural, and humiliating, position.

To a certain extent, she was still an enigma to him. In that brief
visit to The Laurels, he had made a few observations. He had noticed
that she took a certain dominant tone to Quentin, spoke her mind
freely upon things that were, perhaps, of not very paramount
importance--such as the lax discipline of the household--and that he
had not attempted to argue with her, neither had he shown any
resentment. Perhaps he was a complex character, easy in trifling
matters that he did not care about, but a tyrant in the things that
counted, intolerant of interference in anything that challenged his
supremacy.

Aylmer went next day to see Sir Charles Reeks’s solicitors, Pitt and
Shackles, an old-fashioned firm that had its offices in Chancery Lane.
Pitt, the senior partner, a bluff, pleasant old man, had asked him to
call on some business connected with the winding-up of the dead man’s
considerable estate. When their conversation on this subject was
concluded, Mr. Pitt asked him if he was still cultivating his hobby of
criminology.

Aylmer smiled. “Well, in a way. I am still very keen on it, you know.
I read every book I can get hold of on the subject. But I would give
all my theoretical knowledge for a short spell of actual
investigation.”

The solicitor laughed genially. He thought it good for a rich young
man to have a hobby, even if it was a rather gruesome one.

“You would like to set up as a Sherlock Holmes, eh? Can’t say it would
appeal to me; I prefer to look on the pleasant side of life. By the
way, you rather formed an opinion that Sir Charles’s death was not an
entirely natural one, did you not? You had rather a suspicion of foul
play, if I remember rightly.”

“Well, perhaps, that is putting it strongly. The medical evidence was
that he died of heart disease, but I know for a fact that all the time
my father and I were acquainted with him, there was nothing the matter
with his heart. The fact that he was accepted as a first-class life by
two of the best insurance offices proves that.”

“I suppose a man can develop heart weakness suddenly,” suggested the
solicitor. “But I understand you had nothing in the way of actual
proof.”

Aylmer agreed. “Absolutely nothing. But there was one suspicious
circumstance which we commented on at the time. A few days before his
death, he drew out through his bankers’ agency the large sum of
fifteen thousand pounds. Not the smallest portion of that money was
found at his death. If he had paid it away to somebody--he was a
business-like man--he would have got a receipt for it. But they found
no receipt.”

The solicitor shrugged his shoulders. “In some ways Sir Charles was a
man of business, but he was also very eccentric. Pardon me for saying
that his leaving his money to you who had no claim upon him, to the
exclusion of his near relations, proves that. In these affairs, there
is very often a woman in the case. Is it not probable that he made a
present of this sum to some member of the other sex who had greatly
attracted him? That would account for the absence of a receipt.”

“Of course, that is a quite possible explanation,” assented Aylmer.
“And I have no clues. There are finger-prints upon an old dispatch-box
belonging to Sir Charles, but these are more than likely to be those
of some outside porter.”

After a little further conversation with the affable old gentleman,
the young man left. He was feeling rather worried by what had happened
at his last meeting with Eileen, and anxiously expecting a letter from
her.

At the end of four days it came. She wrote that Martyn had come down
to The Laurels the day before, and had spent most of the time with
Quentin, in his study. As Richard had said nothing to her on the
subject, she concluded that Martyn either had not recognized them, as
she thought he had, or that he was keeping silence with the object of
not making mischief. In another two days she would be meeting him, but
she had resolved not to keep her news till then as she felt he would
be anxious to hear at the earliest moment.

He was relieved for her sake. But, still he wished she would show a
little more courage, and confront the position boldly and at once. Was
the reason of her hesitation the fear that Quentin would seek to evade
his promise? From what she had let fall at lunch, she had had
experience of his broken promises in other matters.

They met for this, the third time, at a different place. She had
begged for this in her last words when they parted at the Café Mario.
Aylmer chose a little-known restaurant in Great Portland Street, which
was fairly well off the beaten track. Soho had brought her bad luck,
she would not go there again.

She had some news for him. Quentin had declared to her he had enjoyed
the first visit so much, that he must have Aylmer down there again
soon. She was to write to him formally next day in her capacity of
hostess, and invite him for a date early in the following week.

Aylmer thought this was exceedingly sporting of the man, as he must
have felt a certain chagrin at the refusal to join in his grandiose
schemes of getting rich quickly. But Eileen’s next words considerably
modified this opinion.

“I am going to give you a second warning,” she said quietly. “I know
Richard pretty thoroughly. He has the grip and tenacity of a bulldog;
and, until he is beaten fairly and squarely, he will never let go. He
likes you well enough, I dare say; but he is not particularly
enthusiastic in the matter of friendship, and I believe there is an
ulterior motive behind this invitation. I hate having to tell you, but
I feel it my duty to do so.”

“An ulterior motive!” he echoed blankly. He felt the more he saw of
Eileen, the more he would get to know of the real Quentin hidden
behind that urbane mask.

“He has not, I feel certain, relinquished that project he spoke of to
you. He will speak of it again.”

“What, after my definite refusal?” asked Aylmer, amazed at the
astounding pertinacity of the man.

“Of course, he will approach it in a different way; but to you the
result would be the same. So I warn you in time. Have some good, sound
excuse ready to meet whatever proposal he makes to you. Or, if you
prefer it, refuse the invitation altogether, on the plea of a prior
engagement.”

“That would hardly work, would it?” laughed Aylmer. “If I refuse the
invitation this time, he will bombard me till I am obliged to come.
Still, my vanity is a little hurt that he is not asking me solely for
the pleasure of my society.”

“So be it, you will accept,” said the supposed Mrs. Quentin quietly.
“Of course, I may be wrong; he may have come to the conclusion you are
too hard a nut to crack, and let you go in peace. But, as I tell you,
I know him pretty thoroughly. He is a man of a most dominating
quality, although that is the last impression he gives. And when he
has once made up his mind to attain a certain object, he doesn’t let
it go without a hard struggle.”

“I take it, then, your life is not altogether a bed of roses?”

She considered a moment. “I am allowed my way in the little things; he
has his in the big ones,” she said at length.

“And at heart, you have a considerable dread of him?” questioned her
lover further.

“I freely admit it,” she said frankly. “He has about him a quiet
strength which beats down my own weakness.”

He paused a little before he spoke again. “Have you a fear that he
will refuse to keep that promise he made you when he persuaded you to
masquerade as his wife?”

“I hate talking about him; for, in his own way, he is very kind and
considerate to me. But, in as few words as possible, Richard Quentin
cannot be relied upon to keep any promise that it might suit him to
break.”

It was comfortless information she was imparting, and he could see
that the words were forced from her by his close questioning. And yet,
the day must come when she would be compelled to choose between her
love for him and her dread of this masterful man. Still, no need to
vex her to-day with that problem.

On the following day he had the formal invitation, to which he
returned a prompt reply of acceptance. He again had been asked to come
early and stay the night.

He found Eileen alone on his second visit, and on the table there was
a telegram. She pointed to it. “From Richard,” she explained briefly.
“He had to go to Manchester yesterday on some business, and he
expected to be back about five this afternoon. This is to explain that
he can’t get back till eight, and asking me to apologize to you and
put off dinner till half-past.”

For a professedly idle man, it struck Aylmer that his host was rather
a busy fellow, off on business one day and coming back the next. “I
suppose he has been after that speculation,” he suggested to Eileen.

“More than likely,” was the answer. “But I know nothing for certain.
He is always rather reticent about his movements, especially to me. I
think, of the two, he is more communicative to Dicks, the butler.”

After tea, Eileen proposed that they should go for a walk. During
their rather long ramble, Aylmer steered the conversation round to
Quentin and his speculations.

“By the way, if Mr. Quentin does approach me again on the subject--I
have rather guessed the way in which he will do it--I am quite
prepared for him,” he told her.

Her reply was that she was glad to hear it, and also that her warning
had set his wits working.

“One thing rather puzzled me, you know,” he went on. “In that
conversation I had with him in his study, he told me that he had
nearly doubled his capital by the success of his speculative schemes.
I understood from you that he was generally unfortunate.”

She was silent for a little time before she replied.

“I suppose he comes off a winner sometimes, but you know what it is
with gamblers. They always remember when they have gained, but they
find it convenient to forget their losses. They exist on hope.”

“That would hardly keep them very long,” persisted Aylmer. “Quentin
seems to go in for big stakes, and if he is uniformly a loser, he
would soon be brought to the ground, unless he has a tremendous
reserve at his back.”

She spoke a little impatiently. “Let us admit that in the long run his
gains out-balance his losses. Don’t you see that my object is to
prevent your being one of the losers?”

He did not pursue the subject further. He recognized it was concern
for his interests that had made her give him that warning, even at the
risk of a certain disloyalty to the man who was giving her material
comforts, even if he could not give her love. They stayed out a long
time, and Quentin arrived home a few minutes after they got back.

He was full of cordiality, and profuse in his apologies for not being
there in time to receive his guest. And, as might be expected, he
called for liquid refreshment as soon as greetings had been exchanged.

The evening passed much in the same way as on the previous visit.
There was a similar well-thought-out dinner and the usual excellent
wines. When they went into the drawing-room, the young hostess played
and sang. Eileen retired early, pleading that she was a little tired
from her long walk of that afternoon: the two men were left alone.

Quentin suggested that they should go into his study and smoke. When
they were seated there, a drink was forced upon the young man which he
did not really want, but did not like to refuse. He was quite ready to
smoke, and his host’s cigars were excellent.

Quentin, without any preamble, alluded to his visit to Manchester.
“Been a bit of a rush, going down one day, and coming back the next.
The business that took me there was that speculation I told you of.”

Aylmer composed himself to listen. He felt pretty certain of what was
coming. Eileen was right; Quentin was not the man to be discouraged by
a first rebuff.

“And all I have heard down there--a mass of details were put before
me--makes me doubly regret that I cannot take a hand in it. I really
hoped I could persuade them to let me come in on my own ten thousand
basis. But they were adamant. Nothing less than twenty would do. I am
more vexed than I can say that I have to miss such a chance.”

Aylmer hardly knew what to say. “Probably some equally good thing will
come your way one of these days,” he remarked, in a feeble attempt to
console the unhappy speculator.

Quentin shook his head with a melancholy air. “Nothing nearly as good
as this, from all I have learned. It is the opportunity of a lifetime.
I felt it the first moment it was broached to me, that was why I was
so keen upon it. It is heartbreaking.”

It was a very embarrassing moment for the young man. As he could find
nothing to say that would be in the least appropriate to the occasion,
he remained silent.

Mr. Quentin took a deep draught from his tumbler, and then launched a
fresh attack on his unfortunate guest.

“Now, I hope you will forgive me for returning to the subject so far
as you are concerned. You have told me plainly that you have a horror
of speculation. Well and good, I can quite understand that feeling,
although I do not share it. Suppose I make another proposition. Will
you _lend_ me ten thousand pounds, at a very handsome interest? I can
afford something very good out of what I make. You don’t make any
profit over and above your interest, but you don’t run the smallest
risk.”

Aylmer had rather anticipated some suggestion of the sort. But when it
did come, the amazing audacity of the man almost took his breath away.
Did Quentin take him for an absolute fool? He really knew nothing of
him or his friends, with the one exception of the ungenial Martyn, and
was absolutely ignorant of his resources. He spoke of there being no
risk. There was always the risk in this kind of venture that he might
drop the whole of the money he put in.

He would like to have explained all this in a very unambiguous manner,
but he did not wish to offend the man for obvious reasons. He did not
wish to be shut out of The Laurels for good. It might in some way
interfere with his relations with Eileen. He mastered his annoyance,
and spoke in a calm, level voice.

“I will be quite frank with you, Mr. Quentin. I am afraid this
proposition is not more feasible than the first one. My property is
all tied up under trustees, rather old-fashioned and conservative
people. You are man of business enough to know that if I went to them
with such a request, I should be met with a negative.”

It was a facer. Quentin breathed hurriedly in his agitation; he had
shown more self-control on the previous occasion. “You would not care
to approach them on the subject?” he asked, making a last desperate
effort.

“It would be useless,” replied Aylmer, politely but firmly.

They finished their cigars, but there was a certain tension in the
atmosphere after this little episode. Each, no doubt, knew in his own
mind what the other man was thinking.

When they had bade each other good-night, and Aylmer was able to think
quietly over the incident, unpleasant thoughts obtruded themselves. He
had flattered himself that Quentin had taken a genuine liking to him.
Was it not more likely that, knowing him to be well off, he had
cultivated his society with the ulterior motive of making use of him
as soon as an opportunity presented itself? Again, did he suspect that
Aylmer was greatly attracted to Eileen, and had relied on that feeling
to further his own projects? His opinion now of the master of The
Laurels was by no means a favorable one.

Breakfast next morning was rather a silent meal; Quentin’s good
spirits seemed to have dropped to zero. This time there was no request
that he should prolong his stay till after lunch, no reference to a
further visit. When Eileen said good-by, she told him that he must
come again, but Quentin did not second her suggestion.

As he walked through the gate of The Laurels, Aylmer had a strong
conviction that, so far as his host was concerned, he had no further
use for him.




 CHAPTER TEN

Having left almost directly after breakfast, it was quite early when
Aylmer returned to his rooms in Ryder Street. The more he thought over
it, the more he was upset by what had happened. The alteration in
Quentin’s manner had been so marked that the most unobservant person
must have noticed it. And the young man resented it hotly. In the
first place, such an audacious request should never have been made,
and in the second place, it was in the worst possible taste to show
resentment because it had been refused. Cultivated and clever as
Quentin was, he was evidently lacking in the instincts of a well-bred
man.

The young man felt restless and low-spirited after his host’s chilling
dismissal of him. Feeling the need of somebody to confide in, he
determined to go down to the City and take his young friend Peyton out
to lunch. He would very much like to have an impartial opinion on the
matter. And, although he had been reticent about certain things
connected with Hampstead, he saw no reason why he should not reveal
this particular episode. If Quentin had not badgered him--there was no
other word for his pertinacity--the second time, he would have
dismissed the incident from his mind, or, at any rate, have locked it
up in his own breast.

Peyton was engaged for a few moments, so he took a seat in the
waiting-room. Another man was sitting there, evidently waiting for one
of the partners. Aylmer looked at him carelessly with the impression
that the features were familiar to him; but, for the moment he could
not recall when or where he had seen them. Presently a clerk came in,
and addressing him as “Mr. Ramon,” told him that Mr. Peyton senior was
now at liberty and would be pleased to see him.

The man rose at this announcement and, walking with a slight limp,
followed the clerk. At once, memory returned to the young man. This
tall, elegant-looking person, perfectly groomed, was the same shabby
individual he had seen entering the grounds of The Laurels on his
first visit and leaving them in the dead of night after that long
colloquy with Quentin and his butler. He had discerned something
foreign in his gestures on that never-to-be-forgotten occasion. Ramon
sounded like a foreign name, presumably a French one.

When he entered his friend’s room it was close upon the luncheon hour,
and when Peyton received the invitation, he accepted with alacrity.
Hastily locking his desk, he suggested that they should make a move at
once, before he was caught hold of by some inconvenient client.
“There’s always a certain type of man who puts off his business till
just about the luncheon hour,” he remarked, “and somebody may be
meditating a descent at the present moment. Let us clear out at once.”

When the two young men were out in the street, Aylmer inquired about
the man whom he had seen in the waiting-room. Of course he was not
going to divulge the real reasons for his curiosity; that would be
letting Peyton too much into the secrets of the Quentin _ménage_.

“There was a chap in the waiting-room who went in to see your father,
a good-looking, smartly-dressed fellow whom the clerk addressed by the
name of Ramon. His face and appearance seem very familiar to me,
although I can’t recall where I have seen him. Who and what is he? I
have run across him, somewhere, although his name doesn’t suggest
anybody I have actually known.”

“He’s a Frenchman, although he speaks English as perfectly as any
foreigner can; of course, you can tell him by the roll of his r’s,”
was Peyton’s answer. “He has been a client of ours for, I should say,
a couple of years. Drops in now and then to invest a bit of money in
rather speculative securities. The governor, who, as you know, always
leans to the safe side, does his best to induce him to deal in less
risky stuff. But he won’t be persuaded.”

“And what’s his particular line? He has got some sort of business, I
suppose?”

“A kind of financial agent, as we understand; his solicitors, whom we
know very well, put him on to us. Not at all in a large way, I should
say. I fancy a sort of jackal, nosing out likely things for the big
men. He has small offices, two rooms in Old Broad Street, with a
couple of clerks and a typist. I went there once to give him some
information he had written for, and was not much impressed with the
establishment. Still, he seems to rub along, somehow, and has invested
quite a tidy bit of money since we have known him. Lots of these
foreigners are awfully careful chaps. Does my description help you fix
him?”

Aylmer answered as carelessly as he could that it did not, that he had
very likely been deceived by a superficial resemblance to somebody he
had met, probably abroad.

But in his own mind he was sure that Monsieur Ramon and the
shabby-looking man he had seen at Hampstead were one and the same
person. To begin with, it was rather a striking face, with its
refined, clear-cut features, the sort of face you easily could carry
in your memory. And there was the further proof of the limp.

They lunched at that well-known resort, the Palmerston, in Old Broad
Street. Half-way through the meal, Aylmer told his friend of the
financial suggestion Quentin had made to him on his first visit.

The sagacious young Peyton elevated his eyebrows in surprise. “Well,
of all the cheeky things I ever heard,” he exclaimed. “He gave me the
impression all through of being a cool customer, but I’m surprised to
hear he went so far as that. You can’t call yourselves more than the
merest acquaintances. You refused, of course. How did he take your
refusal?”

“Very well, indeed; I though it was all over and done with. But last
night he returned to the charge, but in a different way. Instead of
being his partner, he proposed that I should lend him the money at a
handsome interest. Of course, I declined that, too.”

“Pertinacious beggar,” was Peyton’s comment. “Some people have the
cheek of old Nick, himself. And did he take the second refusal in the
same amiable spirit?”

“Frankly, he did not, that’s just what I am annoyed about. There was
an immediate drop in the temperature, which lasted up to my departure
early this morning. Do you consider he had any cause to be offended?”

“Of course not,” was Peyton’s emphatic answer. “If you had known a man
all your life, he would have no right to be offended by the refusal of
such a request. He doesn’t strike me as being endowed with remarkable
sensitiveness, but he must have been dashed keen to get hold of that
ten thousand, or he would hardly have screwed up his courage to have a
second go at you. Looks more than a bit fishy, too. If he is a man of
straw, it would not be safe to lend him a penny. And if he is as well
off as he pretends to be, he would be able to get the money from his
bankers. That’s what bankers are there for.”

“What excuse did you make to him?” inquired Peyton, presently. “It
must have put you in a very embarrassing position.”

“Well, of course, nobody could feel quite comfortable in such a case,
although he was in the wrong, from the start. I pitched him rather an
embroidered sort of tale about trustees and all that sort of thing. Of
course, I have not any trustees, there were only executors to my
father’s will. But still, it is quite true that if I contemplated any
serious disturbance of capital, I should consult them before taking
any steps. I don’t pretend to be a man of business, and I should never
act without advice.”

Peyton did not speak for some little time; when he did, he delivered
himself of some sound reflections. “Well, it shows that it is a very
risky thing to cultivate intimate relations with people you pick up
casually. You never know what is going to be sprung on you. If you had
been a weak sort of chap, you might have compromised with this fellow.
I dare say he would have jumped at a much smaller amount, if he had
been offered it.”

Aylmer had been much impressed by that remark of his clever young
friend, that if Quentin had been a man of considerable means he could
have got assistance from his bankers. This reading of the matter had
not occurred to him, but he immediately saw its truth. A bank will
always lend on good security. He knew that if he wanted temporary
help, he could have easily got it.

Presently Peyton hazarded a question that he felt a little trepidation
in putting, being such that his friend was abnormally sensitive on the
subject of Eileen. “I suppose Mrs. Quentin knew nothing of this?”

Aylmer answered him very deliberately. “No, he had not taken her into
his confidence. But she took an early opportunity of warning me that
if he should make any financial suggestions, I was to turn a deaf ear
to them.”

Peyton nodded his head with a comprehending look. “Evidently she knows
her man,” he remarked briefly. “I am very glad to hear that she did
that.”

Aylmer was sorry that he had to let out so much, but he could not bear
that any suspicion of being privy to her husband’s schemes should rest
upon Eileen. Peyton would work all this out in that active brain of
his, and, no doubt, come to a right conclusion. He would put more than
one question to himself on the subject. When and where did Mrs.
Quentin give him this warning? She would not be likely to find an
opportunity in their own house. The inference, therefore, was that
they were on very intimate terms for her to give him such a warning at
all, and that it was given him at some clandestine meeting.

And there was no doubt Aylmer apprehended quite accurately the trend
of his young friend’s thoughts. In truth, Peyton was much troubled by
what was suggested in these revelations and felt that the pair were
treading on the very thinnest of ice. But, knowing the utter
uselessness of wise counsel in such a case, he reluctantly held his
tongue. Love of this kind is a madness that no worldly-wise physician
can cure. It was a thousand pities for both the man and woman; but,
salvation could only come from themselves.

Three days later, the lovers met at their new trysting-place, in Great
Portland Street. Taught by their one narrow escape, they observed
great caution, entering and leaving the restaurant separately.

Of course, he always was the first at the rendezvous; but she did not
keep him waiting more than about five minutes, being that rather rare
thing, a fairly punctual woman. They had not been long together,
before she put to him the question he expected.

“Richard approached you again on that matter, did he not?”

“Yes, almost directly after you left us, as soon as we were settled in
the study. Of course, he has said nothing to you about it. I don’t see
how he could, after the promise he gave you.”

“He would not say anything to me, naturally, as he would have to
convict himself of broken faith,” she said. “And callous as he is in a
good many things, I think he has enough self-respect to be ashamed of
himself when he has done anything very heinous. But, at the breakfast
table next morning, I could see what had happened. He had put some
fresh proposal to you and met with a refusal.”

“You judged that from his manner, of course,” observed Aylmer. “I
expect I showed a bit of embarrassment on my side. It was really a
very awkward thing, you know, he showed his disappointment so plainly.
The first time he took it like a sportsman.”

There was contempt in her smile as she answered him. “The first time
he had not given up hope; he expected to be able to bring you round to
his way of thinking later. It was worth keeping the mask on. When he
felt sure it was finished with, he had no hesitation in letting it
all.”

“I suppose, at the present moment, Quentin dislikes me about as much
as he dislikes anybody, just because I won’t join in a wild
speculation.”

“I don’t think just now he is overfond of you,” admitted Eileen.

“I suppose he has made some disparaging remarks about me?” queried
Aylmer. “I have a very strong conviction that he will not invite me to
The Laurels again. Is not that your opinion, also?”

It was some little time before she answered. “I am sure that it is
best for us to be absolutely truthful with each other. Richard is a
very vain man, rather proud of his intellectual predominance over
others. You have resisted his influence, and that in itself has hurt
his pride. And where his pride is hurt, he is vindictive and
resentful. Since you ask me the question, I do not think he will
invite you again.”

“He will have to make some excuse to you for suddenly dropping me,
will he not?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Of course, in due time, I shall make the
suggestion that you come again, as if I were utterly ignorant of
anything having happened, which I should be but for my own
interventions. He will have some answer ready, that you are a bit too
young for him, or that you are not so interesting as he first thought.
You can trust him to find some excuse that he thinks is good enough to
deceive me.”

“Perhaps he has already given you a hint of this?”

She gave a little laugh, not a very merry one. “You must be a wizard.
Yes, a few minutes after you left, he said he had not enjoyed this
second visit at all, that he had been rather bored. That was said, of
course, to prepare me.”

Aylmer’s face flushed with anger, the gross injustice of it all
rankled deeply. “I dare say I shall be able to exist without Mr.
Quentin’s friendship, especially since it is founded upon such sordid
motives. That is,” he added anxiously, “if it is to make no difference
in our relations, if we can still meet as we are doing now.”

There was a very steadfast light in her eyes as their glances met, the
telltale light of the woman who loves and is not ashamed of her love.
“My dear, you may be sure I shall meet you whenever I can; I only
really live when we are together.” There was a sudden catch in her
voice, as she added: “If I failed to meet you, it would be because
circumstances I could not control would be too strong for me. Be
assured of that.”

Those words, coming on the top of his previous depression, chilled him
with a sense of foreboding. There was mystery everywhere, it seemed.
Mystery in the advent of that shabby stranger who had sneaked away
under cover of the darkness--mystery in Quentin’s frantic attempt to
get hold of his, Aylmer’s money--mystery in Eileen’s abject fear of
the man who had no legal claim on her. What did it all portend?

“I wish you would take me just a little more into your confidence,” he
said gently.

A burning blush overspread her cheek. “In what way? Have I not reposed
the utmost confidence in you?”

He shook his head. There was a hint of reproach in his voice. “Only up
to a certain point. You will not tell me why you are so afraid of
Quentin.”

Was there not something evasive in her hesitating reply?

“Are you sure it is fear I feel? You know how good he has been to me,
that I owe everything to him. Where should I have been but for his
helping hand? You can understand, surely, how reluctant I am to
distress him, to show myself ungrateful.”

“But, as I told you once before, there will come a day when you will
be forced to choose between us. We cannot go on like this forever.”

“I know, I know,” she said, a little wildly; he could see how greatly
she was moved. “But give me a little more time, let me get more
accustomed to all that such a break-away means. You are a man, and
strong; I am a weak woman, weaker than most of my sex. If I were
different, more headstrong, had a duller conscience, I should act at
once upon my impulses, and those impulses would lead me straight to
you.”

The suppressed passion in those last words was convincing enough even
to the most suspicious listener. But he felt very down-hearted. How
long did she expect him to wait for her to overcome what he considered
her unreasonable scruples? For the first time in their relations, he
had an uneasy feeling that she was not treating him quite fairly.
Granting that there was something due to Quentin, and in the present
state of his feelings towards that strange man, he was not anxious to
mete out to him more than the barest justice, there was a greater
consideration due to her lover.

There was a certain cloud between them during the rest of the time
they spent together. With a woman’s intuition, she sensed it, and when
they parted, she made a suggestion that she hoped might restore him to
a happier mood. No doubt she admitted to herself that her own attitude
was responsible for that cloud. She proposed that, instead of waiting
for another week, as was their usual custom, they should meet again in
a couple of days.

His brow cleared at once. He guessed it was her woman’s way of making
amends for any unhappiness she had caused him. He agreed, with an
eloquent look that told of his appreciation of the suggestion.

On the appointed day he was there, and a good few minutes before the
hour fixed, as usual. A quarter of an hour passed, another quarter.
When half an hour had gone, he ordered his lunch, expecting to see her
enter every moment. He stayed at the restaurant, sick at heart, a prey
to the most bitter disappointment, till the room was empty. There was
no hope of her coming now. She had never disappointed him before. The
idea occurred to him that she might have been taken suddenly ill, and
this thought added to his trouble.

He hoped that a telegram might arrive that day, perhaps a letter by
the last post. When neither came, he felt he must not be impatient.
Under the circumstances, communication would not be easy. If she was
not able to go out herself to the post, she could hardly trust a
servant with a letter, for fear that Quentin might hear of it.

On the second day, a brief note arrived, evidently written hastily,
and, he fancied, in a state of agitation.


 “My Dearest,--Please forgive me for disappointing you. As I was
 starting, ostensibly on a shopping expedition, Richard insisted upon
 accompanying me. I could devise no means of putting him off. It struck
 me there was something peculiar in his manner, unless it was my guilty
 conscience. This is the first opportunity I have had of writing. The
 same place and time this day fortnight. If he has any suspicions, he
 may have got over them by then. Ever yours,

                                                     “Eileen.”


He went on the day appointed to Great Portland Street, and the same
thing occurred again: Eileen did not put in an appearance; and,
evidently, she had not been able to warn him that she would not be
there.

When his lunch was finished, in a fever of impatience, he resolved to
go up to Hampstead and call at The Laurels. He could easily make the
excuse that, finding himself in the neighborhood, he had taken the
opportunity of paying the Quentins a visit.

A taxi took him up to the Heath, where he got out, and pursued his
journey on foot. As he neared the familiar gate, his heart almost
stopped still in his excitement and consternation.

The house was empty, and in the garden was a board announcing that it
was for sale.




 CHAPTER ELEVEN

Like a man in a dream, he opened the gate, and going to the board,
read on it the name of two agents--a firm in Hampstead, a well-known
one in the West End. Then, still in the same dazed condition, he
walked round the house, peering through the windows at the empty
rooms. What was the reason of this sudden flitting? It was just a
fortnight since he had received that letter from Eileen. If such a
step had been in contemplation when she wrote, she surely would have
apprised him of it!

As he went back, down the carriage-drive, after his brief tour of
inspection, he came face to face with Dicks, the late butler, who
touched his hat respectfully.

“Just strolled up to have a look at the old place, sir,” he explained.
“A bit of a jar being parted from it so suddenly. I have been here
with Mr. Quentin for a matter of six years.”

Aylmer looked hard at the man, not sure that he trusted this
exceedingly respectable butler much more than he did his master. There
was one secret, at any rate, that they both shared; his memory flew
back to that night when he had watched the pair talking earnestly to
Ramon, the man with the limp.

Dicks bore the scrutiny with perfect equanimity. His demeanor was
exactly that of the faithful retainer who had a sentimental
recollection of the place where he had put in so many pleasant years
of service.

Aylmer made up his mind to get what information he could, although his
instinct told him that Dicks was by no means a very communicative
person.

“I was more than surprised when I caught sight of that board.
Happening to be in this direction, I thought I would pay a visit to
The Laurels, on the chance of finding Mr. or Mrs. Quentin at home. Let
me see, how long ago is it since I stayed here? Somewhere about three
weeks, I should say. Mr. Quentin dropped no hint of his intention of
giving up the house. Rather a sudden resolve, wasn’t it?”

Dicks indulged in a slight shrug. “Please understand, sir, I don’t
wish to say a word in disparagement of Mr. Quentin. I never had a
better place; I never served a more perfect gentleman. But he was
always very impulsive. When he once got an idea in his head, he would
carry it out, as it seemed, without stopping to think. One day he told
me he was sick to death of England, sick to death of the house. ‘I
shall give it up, Dicks,’ he said. ‘My lease has only got three more
months to run. I could renew it then for another term if I wanted, but
I don’t want.’”

“Do you remember about what date that was?” asked Aylmer quietly. He
had good reason for the question.

“I should say a fortnight ago, it might be a day or two less, sir. To
tell the truth, I had often wondered, in my own mind, why he had kept
the place on, so long. He spent so much of his time abroad, that it
wasn’t of much use to him. And the way he ran it, it entailed a
terrible lot of money. The garden cost him a great deal; every year he
had the decorators in. He couldn’t have anything that wasn’t
absolutely spick and span.”

The thought which had crossed Aylmer’s mind was whether or not Eileen
had known of this contemplated flitting when she wrote him that letter
making an appointment for a fortnight later. The reply of Dicks was
not precise enough to enable him to decide. In all probability,
Quentin had revealed his intentions to his trusted butler before he
spoke to her. Still, it seemed inexplicable that she should allow him
to go to Great Portland Street on a fruitless errand.

“I was very much upset at the break-up,” went on Dicks, “but I can’t
say I was absolutely surprised. I had noticed last year that he seemed
very restless, and more than once he grumbled at the money it was
costing him. This year he was more restless, and he was, no doubt,
making up his mind to cut the whole thing before he spoke to me.
Perhaps he didn’t act merely upon impulse, but had well thought it
over in his own mind.”

“Do you know if Mrs. Quentin was upset at leaving?”

“Well, sir, she never said anything to me one way or the other. But I
should be inclined to say she didn’t take too kindly to the notion.
She seemed to go about the place looking very miserable, and once or
twice I could see she had been crying. I felt sorry for her. But it
was not my place to say anything. And, although I am not making any
complaint of her, she had always kept herself very aloof from all the
servants, especially from me.”

“It occurred to me, from what I observed during my two visits here,
that Mrs. Quentin was rather a cipher in the establishment,” said
Aylmer.

The respectable-looking Dicks coughed in a deprecatory fashion. “I
wouldn’t go so far as to say that, sir. But her husband was a very
masterful man, and fond of having his own way. He had been a bachelor
for so long, that his habits had become set, and his will was law.”

“You were here with him, then, before he married?”

“Some three years. And I can’t say the arrival of Mrs. Quentin made
much difference. If she had been like some young wives, she would at
once have taken a firm attitude; and if she had stuck to it, he might
have given in. But, to my thinking, since you have mentioned it, she
never did quite take her proper place. He being so much older, I
suppose she didn’t have the courage to stand up for herself.”

There was a little pause before the young man spoke again. He might as
well get what he could out of the man, even if it were not very much.
Knowing the softening effect of money, he slipped a note into his
hand.

“Well, Dicks, as it is not likely we shall have another chance of
meeting, here is something to drink my health. I hope Mr. Quentin was
generous to you at parting.”

The man’s reply was very emphatic. “Most liberal, sir. He was that to
all the servants, but especially so to me. I can never speak of Mr.
Quentin in any but the highest terms.”

“And after he first told you of his intention, how long was it before
they were actually out of the house?”

Dicks embarked upon a full and detailed narrative. The landlord was
communicated with the next day, and informed that he could put up a
board as soon as he liked. A few days later, a man from some big firm
in London came down to inspect the furniture, and make an offer for
it. Dicks had ventured to suggest that a bigger sum would be realized
if it were sent to a good auction room, but here Mr. Quentin’s
impulsive temperament asserted itself. Having once made up his mind to
go, he was in a fever to get off; he would not wait for the slower
method, but closed with the private offer. Three days more, and the
house was abandoned, and Quentin and his faithful butler said good-by
to each other.

“I don’t know exactly what he got,” was the conclusion of Dicks’s
story, “but it must have been a pretty tidy sum. There was a lot of
valuable stuff he must have given big prices for. Still, to my
thinking, it was a pity he didn’t let the things go to auction.”

Aylmer put another question. “And where have they gone to? You would
know that, of course, from the labels on their luggage.”

He had half apprehended that Dicks might plead ignorance on this
point. But the butler betrayed no hesitation in his answer. “They went
straight to Paris, sir. But, I believe they were not going to stay
more than a day or two there. I fancy Mr. Quentin has got one of his
restless fits on him, and will go wandering all over the Continent.”

And then the young man thought of a last question before they parted
company. “I suppose your master’s old friend, Mr. Martyn, knows of all
this.”

“I have not a doubt he does, sir. As you know, he is a most particular
friend. During the week before they went, he was down here every day;
he would have to be told, as he could see what was going on. Besides,
I am sure he was always most fully in Mr. Quentin’s confidence.”

Dicks lifted his hat in farewell and withdrew, going in the direction
of the Heath. Aylmer lingered a few moments longer, gazing at the
empty house with a great aching in his heart. He felt that Eileen was
lost to him. This stealthy departure could mean nothing else. They had
gone as soon as the furniture had been removed; there would have been
plenty of time for her to communicate with him, unless she had been
too closely watched for correspondence to be possible.

He had promised to dine with Peyton that night at the Savoy. But when
he got home, he sent a telegram of excuse. His nerves were all jangled
and unstrung; he had received too rude a shock. He did not feel he
could face anybody to-night, more especially Peyton, who would be sure
to bring the conversation round to the Quentins at some period of the
evening.

He had inherited from his Spanish mother a romantic and sensitive
temperament which, at the moment, was wounded to the quick. The
ordinary routine of life, the atmosphere of London, had suddenly
become hateful to him. He felt he must get away to some quiet place
where he could think and brood over the too brief hours he had spent
with the woman he adored.

The next morning he went to Rottingdean, that quiet little place near
Brighton, where he would meet nobody. Some day Peyton would have to be
told, but he must have himself in better order before he could bring
himself to unfold that mysterious story to his friend. Peyton would be
kindly and considerate, according to his lights, as tactful as such an
eminently practical person could be. But he would be sure to say
something that would make his wound smart more deeply.

For three days he stayed in that quiet little place, thinking,
thinking till he felt as if his brain would give way. And then there
suddenly occurred to him the name of a man, Walter Duberry, a man whom
he could not exactly call a friend, but between whom and himself there
was a certain degree of intimacy, due to the fact that Duberry
practised a profession in which Aylmer was deeply interested.

This man was a professional unraveler of mysteries--in other words, a
Private Inquiry Agent. They first had met at a certain Bohemian club,
whose rather small premises were situated in a street, off the Strand.
It was not by any means a fashionable establishment. There was no
entrance fee, and its subscription was an exceedingly moderate one.
But it numbered some very clever fellows amongst its members--authors,
journalists, musicians, none of them perhaps of the highest rank,
preponderating.

Duberry was a man of education and culture, who, like Aylmer early had
been attracted to the subject of criminology. Being his own master and
possessed of some private means, he was at leisure to follow his own
inclinations, which led him to practise professionally as one of those
useful people who undertake the unraveling of mysteries. He was a few
years older than Aylmer. He had now been established in business for
some time, and had made a considerable reputation.

There was a mystery connected with Quentin and his relation with
Ramon; there was mystery in his sudden disappearance and the strange
silence of Eileen. Was not Duberry a likely man to ferret it out?
After a few hours of reflection, he made up his mind to go up to
London and consult him. He felt an imperative need to find out all he
could about this man, who appeared to have plenty of money, and lived
almost the life of a recluse when in England.

Duberry, a tall, well-set-up man of about thirty-eight, was somewhat
astonished when his visitor was announced. Aylmer would hardly have
called on him at his office in Bloomsbury, unless he had come on
business. And yet, Aylmer was the last man in the world to require the
services of a Private Inquiry Agent, according to his own judgment of
him.

As his keen eyes, ever alert and watchful, rested on his caller, he
noticed a considerable change in him since they had last met at the
club, a few weeks ago. That continual brooding, together with
sleepless nights, had told severely on him; he looked ill and wan, and
his manner was restless and nervous. Duberry’s first thought, a very
natural one, was that he had got into a scrape with a woman.

He welcomed him cordially. “Very pleased to see you, Aylmer.” In the
Bohemian club to which they both belonged, it was not the fashion for
members who knew each other fairly well to address each other as
“Mister.” “Am I right in supposing that this is a professional visit?”

“Quite right,” was the response. And, Aylmer, without any further
preamble, unfolded the story of his acquaintance with the Quentins. He
told it with commendable lucidity, considering that he had to maintain
secrecy on certain points. He was in honor bound not to betray the
confidence that Eileen had reposed in him when she confessed that she
was not the man’s wife. And he was also anxious to keep from this
keen-witted acquaintance the actual nature of the relations between
her and himself.

Duberry listened with the closest attention. There was no indication
on his rather impassive countenance that he recognized the true state
of affairs, the real reason for Aylmer’s very keen interest in the
Quentin _ménage_. If he did, he was certainly quite successful in not
showing it.

When the story was finished, he proceeded to ask a few questions. “You
knew absolutely nothing of these people before you met them at Ostend?
Quite so. And you have never heard any allusions to friends or
relatives in England?”

The young man replied truthfully he had learned from Mrs. Quentin
certain things that appeared to explain this. Her mother had married
against the wishes of her family, and had been ostracized by them in
consequence. Quentin himself was a good deal of a recluse, not
particularly keen on the social side.

Duberry smiled. “The recluse stunt, I should say, is a bit of a
blind,” he remarked. “A man who shuns his kind is hardly likely to
frequent crowded hotels; his action in doing so rather shows that he
is a fellow of a gregarious nature. Again, would a real recluse invite
two utter strangers, Mr. Whitefield and yourself, to his private
house? It may happen he has few or no friends in England. There is
some reason for that we don’t know. But he is certainly not the
solitude-loving creature he pretends to be.”

Aylmer was silent. In this particular respect he himself had
entertained doubts of the sincerity of Mr. Quentin’s professions as to
his love of seclusion.

Duberry pursued his inquiries. “Do you happen to know how long these
people have been married?”

Aylmer felt a little embarrassed by his getting on this subject; and,
it seemed to him quite an irrelevant question. But he had always
noticed, in his frequent visits to the Law Courts, that the legal mind
has a habit of inspiring questions that seem irrelevant to the lay
mind.

He spoke as carelessly as he could. “I can’t be quite sure, but I
think Mrs. Quentin once referred to her marriage as having taken place
about three years ago.”

Duberry made a note of the statement, and asked a further question.
“You don’t know the name of his bankers, I suppose? No? Well, I expect
I shall be able to find that out, unless he hasn’t a banking account
anywhere. And I don’t think that very likely.”

No, it was not likely. More than once, Aylmer had seen him change a
check with the cashier of the Continental at Ostend, but had not taken
notice of the bank on which it was drawn.

Duberry began to sum up. “Well, there is certainly mystery about. Now
what I have got to do is to ferret out all I can about Quentin, about
Ramon, the financial agent in a small way, who dresses one day as a
beggar and the next as a man of fashion. I shall also take the butler
into my area of investigation.”

He paused a moment, before adding a few final words. “At first blush
it rather strikes me that the sudden disappearance may have its root
in financial stringency of some sort. You see, he pressed you very
hard for that money which his persistence shows to have been essential
to him. Your refusal may have forced him to look certain unpleasant
facts in the face, with the result that he found he could not hold on
any longer at Hampstead.”

Aylmer rose. Perhaps Duberry’s suspicion was right. Perhaps the man
was living only from hand to mouth, and found himself confronted with
a crisis. And yet, somehow, he could not bring himself to believe that
was the real reason of this sudden disappearance.

“You will let me know the result of your investigations, as soon as
possible. I may be going into the country for a little while, but any
letter will be forwarded at once. And if you wish to see me, I can run
up to London any time.”

Duberry promised the utmost dispatch. When the young man had left the
office, he thought a good deal. And one of his thoughts was that
Aylmer had kept something back in his narrative. He had noticed a
certain hesitation in him when he had put that question about the date
of the marriage. But, he was not surprised, for his experience had
taught him that no client tells the whole truth at once. There is
always something, for personal reasons, which he shrinks from
confessing.




 CHAPTER TWELVE

After leaving the office of the private detective, Aylmer went to
his rooms in Ryder Street. His original intention had been to return
to the quaint little village of Rottingdean that same day, and there
await developments. But, suddenly he had determined to change his
plans. And this alteration was due to his desire to be on the spot, so
that Duberry could get immediately in touch with him, if necessary. If
he went back to Rottingdean there would surely be some delay.

He rang up Duberry, and informed him that he had made up his mind to
stop in London for at least another week, in case of any sudden
communication. Duberry, on his side, had something to say.

“Glad you rang me up. There was something I forgot to speak about when
you were here. I was going to write to you about it. But now we shall
save time. I can easily identify a certain person, the man with the
limp; we know his City offices and his deformity. But about the other
people in the drama, the butler, the friend who formed one of a rather
inseparable trio, the lady and gentleman themselves--Can you give me a
pretty detailed description of them, so that I should spot them
immediately if I came across them?”

The answer was reassuring. Aylmer noticed that his friend was very
cautious over the telephone. He had not alluded to any one of them by
name.

“I can do better than write you a description. I am a bit of an
artist, you know. I am afraid that is too big a word, but I have a
slight gift for catching a fairly good likeness. I will send you
sketches by to-night’s post; you will get them in the morning.”

He set to work at once, and in a couple of hours had finished his
task. His portraits of Dicks and Martyn were lifelike. With Quentin he
was not quite so successful, and his portrait of Eileen was shadowy.
Perhaps he was too much in love with her to portray her absolutely.

Having sent these off, he began to feel a little easier in his mind.
Duberry, he was sure, would lose no time in getting on the track, and
whatever he learned would relieve him from this terrible state of
uncertainty. By resolving to stay in London, he had put it out of his
power to avoid for long a meeting with Peyton.

Why not take the bull by the horns without further delay? Peyton would
have to be told sooner or later; let it be sooner. He rang him up, and
after ascertaining that he had a spare evening, invited him to dine at
the Excelsior Club, of which they were both members.

During the progress of the dinner, he told his young friend of his
visit to Hampstead, and of his discovery that the Quentins had left.
He also told him of his meeting with Dicks, the butler, and of the
conversation which had taken place between him and that very
respectable person. Of course, he did not say a word about his
employment of Duberry, or the fact that his journey to The Laurels had
been undertaken in consequence of Eileen’s failure to keep her
engagement with him.

Peyton was wonderfully discreet. He recognized from Aylmer’s manner
that his telling him this singular story caused him some natural
embarrassment, and he did not wish to add to it by any inopportune
remarks. He did make just one observation.

“And you have not had one single line from either the husband or the
wife, giving you any explanation of this sudden departure?”

Aylmer replied quite truthfully in the negative. And Peyton spoke a
few final words with the air of a man dismissing the subject for good.
“It looks very much as if he was in some serious financial difficulty,
and finding he could get no assistance from you, made up his mind to
clear out. Well, I don’t expect you will hear any more of them, unless
one day you happen to strike them again in your wanderings abroad.”

In his heart, Peyton was, of course, very glad that the Quentins had
made this dramatic exit. Aylmer was feeling it very much, of that he
was sure. The change in his appearance, since he had last seen him,
indicated that he had been suffering great mental trouble. He could
only put it down to one cause: the loss of Eileen. To a man of
Peyton’s practical nature, it seemed impossible that a man could
grieve for long after a woman who had run away from him without a
farewell word. He was hard hit at the moment, naturally; but the sense
of her unworthiness would soon cure him. Of course, he did not quite
reckon with that ardent temperament which his friend inherited from
his Spanish mother.

Duberry was not a man to let the grass grow under his feet. The day
after Aylmer had called on him, he was up at Hampstead, making a few
inquiries amongst the tradespeople. Amongst these, the verdict was
universal. The Quentins were good customers and prompt payers. Their
sudden departure was a great surprise, and they would be a loss to the
neighborhood. Mr. Dicks, the butler, was well spoken of, although they
did not come much into contact with him. The orders nearly always were
given by an elderly woman who appeared to act as cook-housekeeper.
Sometimes Mr. and Mrs. Quentin had done a little shopping, but not
often. They lived a very quiet life and saw few visitors. The weekly
accounts were settled every Monday morning by a check on the
Piccadilly branch of the Consolidated Bank.

On his way back to town, after gathering this information, which
seemed to negative any suspicion of financial stress, Duberry looked
in at his own bank and asked them to make an inquiry as to Quentin’s
position, on the plea that he was engaged on some business with him.
In due course, the report arrived, and was communicated to Aylmer.

But before that report arrived, the indefatigable Duberry was on the
track of Ramon, the man with the limp. And to do this the more
effectually, he called in to his assistance a man named Webber, with
whom he was on very intimate terms.

Webber was aged about fifty-five, and, unlike his friend Duberry, had
been through the professional mill. Beginning as an ordinary
constable, he had shown particular zeal and intelligence, and finally
had worked his way up to a position of considerable importance in the
Criminal Investigation Department. But for a remarkable piece of luck,
in all probability, he would have remained at Scotland Yard till he
was pensioned off. This stroke of luck consisted in his being left a
comfortable little fortune by an uncle who, in early manhood, had gone
out to Australia with a few pounds in his pocket, and had done very
well. Being unmarried, he had made his will in favor of his sister’s
three children, dividing his possessions amongst them in equal
proportions.

George Webber was fond enough of his profession, but he was also a man
who could make good use of leisure. On his accession to a snug little
income of some seven hundred a year from this successful relation, who
nearly had been forgotten by his family, he made up his mind to retire
and leave the way open for younger men.

Shortly after his retirement, he had made the acquaintance of Duberry,
and on learning that he was following the profession of a Private
Inquiry Agent, had taken considerable interest in him. In process of
time, the pair became fast friends.

They were both bachelors, and had several tastes in common; they were
enthusiastic fishermen and keen golfers. Duberry found the experienced
man not only a pleasant companion, but a very useful friend as well.
Webber took a keen interest in the profession, and was a sort of
honorary adviser to the younger man, always ready to help him in any
difficult case.

Thus it came about, a few days after Aylmer’s visit to the offices in
Bloomsbury, that the two men were walking slowly down Old Broad
Street. In front of them was Ramon, the man with the limp, who had
come out of one of the buildings in that narrow thoroughfare.

When Duberry had given Webber a brief _résumé_ of the case which
Aylmer had asked him to investigate, the old Scotland Yard official
had agreed that they ought to get on the track of Ramon as soon as
possible. They had started to-day, having hung about the street till
they saw him emerge from his office. They were following him now with
the intention of finding out where he lived. At this hour of the day,
it would be pretty certain he would be returning to his home, wherever
it might be.

At the eastern end of Old Broad Street the man with the limp turned
into the railway station on the left, and they heard him ask for a
ticket to Dalston.

Duberry took two tickets for the same place, Webber whispering, as
they followed the limping man: “He doesn’t seem to reside in a very
fashionable quarter, does he? That is, if he does live there. One
would have expected him to have a season ticket, if he travels every
day. And then, perhaps, he has his reasons for not taking one--doesn’t
want to give his name and address for one thing.”

At Dalston, Ramon got out, and he was followed at a respectful
distance by his trackers. Dalston is a very busy neighborhood, and it
was just the hour when the male portion of the population was
returning from work. The streets were very full, and they could shadow
him without any great risk of being observed by him. For about ten
minutes he limped along, traversing several side streets leading off
the main road, and turned into one of the poorest-looking of them.

They were all shabby houses, testifying in their dilapidated fronts
and dingy window curtains that the tenants were people in the poorest
circumstances. In the door of one of these unprepossessing dwellings
Ramon inserted a latch-key, and entered the house. The two men halted
a little lower down, and began to compare notes.

“It’s long odds he lives here,” said Duberry. “If he were only an
occasional visitor, he would hardly burden himself with a latch-key,
although, of course, we mustn’t be too ready to take anything for
granted. One thing is pretty certain: his appearance and clothes are
distinctly out of harmony with this mean street. Well, having got
here, I suppose we had better hang about a bit, in case of any
developments.”

“Of course, we will hang about,” said the ex-police official, adding,
with a reminiscent chuckle: “In my day, I have waited hours and hours
shadowing a man before I could get hold of anything. I don’t think we
shall have to use much caution with this chap; I am sure he is more
than usually short-sighted. I noticed when he paid for his ticket, he
had to hold the coin quite close to his eyes to make sure of the value
of it. Well, we will just cross over and walk up and down on the other
side of this depressing street, on the chance of his coming out
again.”

Duberry admired that little touch about the short-sightedness. It was
just one of those bits of observation which denoted the experienced
hand, the man who had trained his faculties to the fullest extent.

As they paced up and down, Webber made some pertinent remarks. “If we
don’t have the pleasure of seeing him again this evening, you will
have to take up the hunt to-morrow; but I’m sorry I can’t join you, as
I have a previous engagement. But I’ve a notion he will come out
presently. In spite of the evidence of that latch-key, I don’t believe
this is his actual home. If my suspicions are correct, he will turn
out to be quite an interesting personage and well worth the trouble of
tracking.”

Their vigil was comparatively a short one; well within half an hour
Ramon let himself out of the shabby-looking house. A
slatternly-looking woman accompanied him to the door, and stood
chatting with him for a few seconds. Finally they shook hands, and the
man with the limp returned in the direction from whence he had come.

“Humph!” growled Webber in a low voice. “That handshake looks as if
they had parted for the evening. I begin to be confirmed in my opinion
that he doesn’t live there. Still, we’ve got him well in sight now,
and we’ll see it through. You see, he has changed his clothes, and he
is carrying a suitcase. That, no doubt, contains the togs he wore when
leaving the office. I wonder if he’s going to lead us much of a
ramble. I should say he has come down to this unfashionable quarter to
keep some appointment. We shall know more, presently.”

The man had altered his appearance considerably. When he had entered
the house it had been quite out of keeping with the surroundings, as
Duberry and his companion had noted at once. The clothes he wore now
had been well worn, to the verge of shabbiness. He did not look like a
working man, but rather gave the impression of a poorly-paid clerk.

They followed him for some time. Suddenly he turned sharply to the
right, and went in through the swinging doors of a rather dimly lit
public house.

When he was with a companion, Webber had a habit of indulging in
low-voiced comments on any particular turn in the situation. He did so
when he saw their quarry disappear through the swinging doors, “Our
quick-change artist is going to meet somebody here, thinks it is a
safe neighborhood. I see he has chosen the saloon-bar, showing he is a
man who likes the best surroundings. Well, we will follow and see what
happens.”

Webber, who always took the lead in any expedition in which they
jointly were engaged, by virtue of his experience and seniority, laid
a restraining hand upon his friend’s arm.

“Wait a second, we will handle this thing in an artistic manner. To go
in together will focus all eyes upon us, at once. You enter first,
order a drink, and sit down. I will come in two or three minutes
later, glance casually around, and recognize in you an old pal whom I
haven’t seen for some time. We’ll shake hands, and pretend to be
delighted to meet each other. We are both good enough actors to make
the thing appear quite natural. As I told you, I don’t believe Ramon
can see very distinctly; but, he may be meeting a friend who has got
normal vision.”

Duberry recognized the common sense of his friend’s suggestion. He
remarked, with the idea of showing that he was not without a proper
share of subtlety: “If I had the ghost of an idea that we were coming
into this part of the world, we would have put on more suitable
clothes. Anyway, we must make the best of it. I don’t think either of
us looks very much like the typical ‘tec.’”

The programme was carried out. Duberry went in first and ordered a
drink at the bar. When it was served to him, he retired to a seat
where he could have a clear view of the apartment and its occupants.
At this early hour of the evening there were not many customers, just
about half a dozen men round the center of the bar, and in the far
corner of it Ramon talking in low tones to a respectable-looking man
with side whiskers. Thanks to Aylmer’s life-like sketch, the detective
was able to recognize Dicks, the butler, without a moment’s
hesitation.

A couple of minutes later, the other actor in the drama sauntered in
and walked briskly up to the bar without looking to the right or left.
With his glass in his hand, he turned round and took a leisurely
survey of his surroundings. That survey immediately included Ramon and
the man with the whiskers. Then, at last, Webber’s roving eye came to
a halt at the table where his friend had seated himself. He gave a
well-simulated start of surprise, and a genial smile overspread his
round, florid face. He hastily crossed over with outstretched hand.

Not to be outdone in this little piece of byplay, Duberry manifested
similar signs of surprise and pleasure at the apparently unexpected
meeting. After indulging in the heartiest of greetings, Webber sat
down beside his friend, and began to talk in a loud voice of the last
occasion on which they were supposed to have encountered each other.
This piece of camouflage finished, he resumed his ordinary demeanor,
and presently inquired in lower tones if Duberry had spotted the man
with the whiskers. When he received an answer in the affirmative, and
learned that it was Dicks, the butler, his expression betokened
satisfaction.

“Not so bad for the first attempt,” he remarked in the same cautious
undertone. “Now, the thing is to turn this little incident to the best
advantage.”

He ruminated for some time. Then, presently, his active brain evolved
a plan. “Go over to the bar as soon as we have finished our drinks and
order another couple. While they are being served, try to get into
conversation with these fellows, offer them one or two good tips for
to-morrow’s races. Then, when you have established friendly relations,
press a cigarette or cigar on Ramon. Don’t give it to him yourself.
Hand your case to him, and let him pick it out. You guess my object,
of course?”

Duberry was not perhaps quite so resourceful as the older man, but was
fairly quick. “To get his finger-prints. Right, I’ll try it. We’ll be
no worse off than at present, if it doesn’t work.”

Webber watched the proceedings with intense interest. It was going on
all right. Duberry was possessed of an affable manner that soon gained
him the confidence of strangers. There was a little conversation, the
offer of a cigarette case to Ramon, who took it in his hand and
extracted a cigarette, and, at Duberry’s suggestion, passed it to the
butler. Dicks, apparently a non-smoker, shook his head. The case was
returned to the owner, who after the exchange of a few further
remarks, went back to his friend.

“Very neatly done,” was Webber’s pleased comment. “I will follow this
up for you at Scotland Yard. Now then, I think we had better part
company. I’ll be off as soon as I have finished my drink. You will
stay till they leave and do your best to follow them. If they go far
together in company you will have a difficult job, for that chap Dicks
gives me the impression of a very spry fellow.”

After Webber’s departure, Duberry sat there for some time, waiting for
the two men to make a move. It turned out that the pair had resolved
on similar tactics. Dicks went out by himself, after shaking hands
with his companion, and Ramon stayed behind a few minutes before
taking his departure. It was obvious they did not want to be seen too
much together.

Duberry followed him to the railway station, where the man with the
limp took a ticket back to the City. It was a bit of luck that he was
by himself, the detective thought, as it would now be easy to follow
him to his real dwelling-place.

He got into the front part of the train so that he should not miss his
quarry when they both got out at the station.

But here an unwelcome surprise awaited him. Plenty of passengers came
streaming along, but Ramon was not amongst them. He had stolen a march
upon his pursuer, and must have got out at an intermediate station.




 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It had been such plain sailing up to the present, that Duberry’s
chagrin was very great when he realized that he had been duped at the
last moment. He hung about the station for the best part of an hour in
the hope that Ramon would come on by a later train. But he waited in
vain.

He distinctly had heard him ask for a ticket to the city. What was the
cause of this sudden change of plan? Had Ramon, and his friend the
butler, suddenly sensed the true significance of that action in
offering his cigarette case, and arranged hastily to throw him off the
track for the present? Did Ramon, all the time he was limping along to
the station at Dalston, guess that he was being followed? Duberry
blamed himself for having acted in a somewhat maladroit manner.

Knowing that he was bent on a shadowing expedition, he should have
thought it all out better. He and Webber had presented too prosperous
an appearance to be in keeping with the environment of that shabby
public house. Ramon was handicapped by his evident weak vision from
spotting the incongruity, but a sharp fellow like Dicks would be
likely to have his suspicions aroused. Whether they would have to
follow their quarry east or west, he and Webber ought to have
disguised themselves as much as possible, have dressed themselves in
shabby clothes, have passed themselves off as belonging to a lower
class.

As he walked away from the station, he comforted himself with the
reflection that Ramon had scored only a momentary triumph over him.

“He can’t escape me for long,” so ran his thoughts. “He puts in a
daily appearance at his office, I suppose, and I have only to hang
about till he comes out and follow him to his real home. Besides,
after all, it may be quite untrue that they had any suspicion of us.
That getting out at some intermediate station may not have been
premeditated when he took his ticket. He evidently has friends who
live in peculiar places. It may suddenly have occurred to him to pay
one of them a visit.”

It also occurred to him that if Ramon actually was going back to his
own home, he would hardly like to enter the house in the clothes he
had worn at the public house, the cheap clothes which gave him the
appearance of a not over-prosperous clerk. He certainly was carrying a
suitcase with him. Had he gone to some place on the route in order to
change, and come back to town by some other method of conveyance?

The next morning Duberry spent at Somerset House, searching certain
files. The result of this investigation, along with others, was
communicated to Aylmer a few days later, when the young man appeared
at the offices in Bloomsbury in answer to a request for an interview,
in which progress was to be reported.

“As you can guess, this sort of investigation takes a fair amount of
time,” remarked Duberry as soon as the two men had exchanged
greetings. “But in the few days I have been on the job, I flatter
myself I have amassed a fairly valuable amount of information. I have
had the assistance of a great friend of mine, a retired Scotland Yard
official, who is kind enough to act as my honorary adviser when I
solicit his help. And in one instance, of which I will tell you
presently, he has rendered me incalculable service. Now I will narrate
everything in proper order.”

He mentioned first the fact that, having ascertained from one of the
tradespeople at Hampstead the name of Quentin’s bank, he had put
through the medium of his own bankers an inquiry as to that
gentleman’s position.

“My manager showed me the report he received. As I dare say you know,
bankers use very guarded language in reference to inquiries about
their customers, but it is always easy for another banker to read
between the lines. The report, interpreted by an expert, comes to
this--that Quentin is not the man of substance he appears to be; that
no man doing business with him would be justified in trusting him
beyond a very moderate extent. It’s a good thing, therefore, that he
did not entrap you into letting him have any of your money.”

“You surprise me, I confess,” exclaimed Aylmer. “Of course, I did not
look upon him as a man of considerable wealth, his inability to raise
ten thousand pounds on his own went far to negative that. But I should
certainly have said he was very well off. He paid heavy hotel bills at
Ostend, and his style of living at Hampstead must have cost him a good
deal. Everything was on a lavish scale.”

“He may be a spendthrift, lightly come, lightly go,” was Duberry’s
answer. “Or, for all I know, he may deal with another bank, two or
three perhaps, and only uses this one for his household expenditures.
However, this particular manager doesn’t think much of him, and men of
his profession are shrewd judges of financial standing. Anyway, that
particular report would not justify you in lending him five hundred
pounds, much less ten thousand.”

Duberry next gave him a detailed account of his proceedings with
regard to the man Ramon, how he and Webber had tracked him to an
obscure house in a mean street in Dalston, from thence to a dingy
public house where Dicks, the butler, had joined him, of the ruse
played with the aid of the cigarette case.

“It was here that my good old friend Webber proved of such inestimable
service, through his long connection with Scotland Yard. But of this
later. Following events in their proper sequence, I may tell you that
I spent the next morning searching the files at Somerset House. You
will probably guess my reason--to find the date on which the Quentins
were married.”

Aylmer drew a deep breath. He would have preferred that Duberry’s zeal
had not led him in this particular direction. “And you found it?” he
asked in as careless a tone as he could assume. “About three years
ago, speaking from my recollection of what she said.”

Had the carelessness of his manner been a little overdone, he
wondered, and failed to impress this exceedingly sharp person? He
fancied that Duberry gave him a very searching glance as he answered
him.

“No, that is just what I did not do. Quentin is not a very common
name, we know, still there were Quentins there. You gave me to
understand that the lady mentioned three years as the date. To be on
the safe side, I searched for five years. During that period no two
people with ages corresponding to theirs--he is old enough to be her
father, you say--were married.”

As he did not very well know what to say, having regard to his promise
to Eileen, Aylmer remained silent.

He thought a look on Duberry’s face showed increased suspicion. “Are
you surprised?” he asked blandly.

Aylmer roused himself to speak. “They gave me the impression, in
common with others, of being fairly and squarely married. But, after
all, it does not seem to me to be a matter of very great importance.”

Duberry smiled. “Excuse me, but I think it is in this respect, that it
is evidence as to character, or, I should rather say, the want of it.”

There was no disputing this, and Aylmer did not attempt to do so.
Duberry went on in his calm, logical way.

“It seems to me to throw a very vivid light on the manner of man
Quentin is. If he is not married to this young woman, he is, to put it
mildly, an exceedingly loose fish. If he is her husband, the ceremony
must have been performed under another name. That would not help him
in the least, since, apart from authors and actors, men who go about
the world under two names are not reputable persons.”

The logic of this was inexorable. For a wild moment, it swept across
Aylmer’s mind that, since Duberry knew the actual facts, he might as
well tell the truth and acknowledge honestly that he knew as much as
the detective had just discovered. But the recollection of Eileen’s
tender voice, of her appealing eyes, when she had extracted from him a
promise of secrecy, kept him silent.

Duberry was a good fellow, a kindly fellow, and, within certain
limits, capable of understanding and sympathy. But he had not the
“sixth sense,” the faculty of vision which would enable him to deal
with a set of extraordinary and abnormal circumstances.

If he had told Duberry the truth, that Eileen had been entrapped into
this sinister connection, partly through poverty and unhappiness,
partly through gratitude, would that hardened man of the world credit
the story for a moment? Would he not pity the younger man’s ignorance,
and class the woman, whom he so adored, as a designing creature,
intent on doing the best for herself? Duberry was clever, in a way
subtle, but he lacked insight. Aylmer had inherited insight from his
Spanish mother, and it helped him now.

Quentin might be all that Duberry thought of him, he had very little
doubt that he was. But he was prepared to swear that Eileen was pure,
that she never had been smirched by companionship with this
extraordinary man, who, on the most merciful judgment, had been proved
to be the associate of some individuals very open to suspicion.

After a brief pause, Duberry resumed his remarks. “I told you that my
friend Webber, through his long connection with Scotland Yard, has
rendered me the most incalculable service. He took those finger-prints
in hand, had them developed. Through him we are able to get at some
interesting facts in connection with Ramon.”

“The man with the limp, whom I saw entering The Laurels in a furtive
way, and leaving the precincts in a way equally furtive,” interjected
Aylmer.

“Exactly. Well, it seems that our friend is not unknown to the
authorities. He is a Frenchman by birth. Ever since he has been under
observation, he has had that limp, which, of course, must have been a
tremendous handicap to him in his checkered career. His history, since
he left France, is pretty well known to the authorities. He landed in
this country when he was about seventeen years of age. He obtained a
situation as clerk in a City house, and six months later was
discharged for the embezzlement of small sums. They turned him loose
and did not take the trouble to prosecute.”

Aylmer experienced a certain feeling of nausea. This foreign
adventurer, who had started his commercial career by embezzling small
sums from his employers, was closely connected with Quentin, and with
Dicks, the butler.

“For three or fours years he was lost sight of. Then he was discovered
as a clerk in a financial establishment, of rather questionable
reputation--anyway, decidedly on the shady side. There was some
trouble here; but again there was no prosecution. Probably it was not
safe for them to prosecute, as he knew too much about them and might
make damaging revelations.”

“A criminal adventurer, in short,” remarked Aylmer.

“Quite so. Criminality in the blood. Another lapse of a few years; by
the way, I reckon him to be a man of about forty-five to fifty. This
time his activities take the form of a bucket-shop. And here, after
twelve months’ fairly successful trading, he comes into conflict with
the authorities. A clear case of fraud, of misappropriated money. The
judge remarks that it is a bad case and sentences him to three years.”

“In short, not only a criminal, but a hardened one,” cried Aylmer.

“Decidedly a hardened criminal, and, I should say, one of the type
that would rather make a hundred pounds on the crook, than a thousand
pounds on the straight. For, mark you, most of these high-class crooks
have first-rate brains, but they exercise them in the wrong direction.
Well, Ramon comes out, and very shortly after his release, sets up
another bucket-shop--but this time under an English name. He goes on
quite successfully for three years, keeping well within the limits of
the law. Then, I suppose, temptation comes again, and he gets caught a
second time. Not quite such a grave offense, but the previous
conviction tells against him. On this occasion it is five years. So
you see Scotland Yard has had excellent opportunities of getting his
record and his finger-prints.”

“I wonder why he came to Hampstead in that guise,” observed Aylmer,
perhaps a little irrelevantly. “Was he hiding from the police, do you
think? And did Quentin and Dicks keep him safe there till it was safe
for him to go?”

Duberry shook his head. “I don’t fancy so. Since he came out the
second time, he appears to have been running fairly straight. Anyway,
they have got nothing against him, although, of course, they don’t
trust him. For a few years he lay fallow, proving one of three things:
that he had put by a fair amount of money, that he had friends who
assisted him, or that he was engaged in other profitable activities.
His latest development is that he has blossomed out into a financial
agent, with small offices and three clerks, of whom a typist is one.
Scotland Yard is keeping a mildly observant eye upon him, no doubt in
the expectation that one day he will fall into their clutches again.”

Apart from his general concern with the whole affair, Aylmer’s
leanings towards the study of criminology caused him to take a deep
interest in the career of this persistent wrong-doer.

“And to think that this has all come about from your visit to that
little dingy public house in Dalston, and getting his finger-prints on
the cigarette case. How I wish I had been with you!” he said
fervently.

Duberry smiled. “It was a good thing you were not. Dicks would have
smelt a rat at once. Even now I can’t make up my mind whether they
tumbled to it or not. Well now, I have to come to the last thing of
all, my tracking Ramon the following evening to his own home. There
were no twistings and turnings as on the previous occasion. I followed
him to a substantial residence, a little off Barnes Common, the sort
of place a man would require a very decent income to keep up,
something like twelve to fifteen hundred a year. A nice bit of ground
attached to the house, and a good-sized garage.”

“Evidently, then, he has struck a good thing in the financial agency,”
interjected Aylmer.

“It would appear so. I have since made discreet inquiries in the
neighborhood. Nothing very definite seems to be known about him or his
occupation, but he spends money freely and pays his tradespeople
promptly. He has a wife, a quiet, lady-like little woman, who does the
ordering and discharges the weekly bills. One child, a boy of about
ten, who is a partial cripple. This is as far as I can get with
Ramon.”

“He was sentenced in his own name on the first of those two occasions
when he came into conflict with the law?” asked Aylmer. “In the second
venture he carried on business under an English name. Now it appears
he has reverted to his proper one. My friends the Peytons know him as
Ramon.”

“Quite true,” replied Duberry. “The first conviction was many years
ago, and the trial created no stir, was reported very briefly in the
newspapers. Not one out of a hundred, perhaps a thousand people, would
have noticed it. He is quite safe therefore, as regards the world at
large, in reverting to the name of Ramon.”

“Well, as you say, we know all that there is to be known about this
fellow. And we can conclude from his meeting with Dicks, that that
apparently respectable person has some share in his present business
activities. Now, what about the Quentins? Have you been able to
discover their present whereabouts? The only clue we have is from
Dicks, who declared that they were bound for Paris, adding that they
did not intend to stay there for long. That might have been a
deliberate lie, of course.”

Here Duberry had to confess himself at fault. He had correspondents in
every capital, and he had given instructions to them to search the
hotel registers for a couple of the name of Quentin. But, up to the
present, the researches had been unsuccessful. He did not despair
absolutely of locating them, but he pointed out that the Continent was
a wide place, that Quentin appeared to have a very comprehensive
knowledge of it, and that if he wanted to hide himself, it would not
be a difficult task.

“Well, that is now the most important thing,” said Aylmer, feeling
that the present interview was concluded. “The information you have
got reflects the utmost credit on you. But my great aim is to find the
Quentins.”

Duberry promised to use his best efforts in this direction. When
Aylmer left the office, he found himself wondering if he had not acted
a little rashly in consulting Duberry on the strength of a mere club
acquaintance. The man lacked neither zeal nor intelligence. But, after
all, he was only an amateur, had never been through the mill. Had he
at his disposal the necessary machinery with which to put through an
investigation of this kind? What he had found out was, admittedly,
through the help of Webber. Would it not have been safer if he had
gone, in the first instance, to one of those retired sleuth-hounds who
had graduated in the experienced atmosphere of Scotland Yard? He had
an uneasy conviction that Duberry would not succeed in tracking the
Quentins.

When he reached home, his pulses beat as he saw a letter on the table,
on the envelope the well-remembered handwriting of Eileen. Eagerly he
tore it open, and devoured the contents, which were brief, despairing,
and vague.


 “My Dearest,--By now you will know of our sudden departure from
 England. You must believe me when I tell you that this is the first
 opportunity I have found of writing even this brief note. Martyn did
 see us that day, after all, and kept his knowledge up his sleeve for a
 time. Richard has gone back on the promises he made me, and there is
 now no hope of our coming together again. There is a barrier between
 us which cannot be removed. There is nothing left you but to forget
 our brief dream, so sweet while it lasted, but unsubstantial, like all
 dreams. And yet, I would not have you wholly forget. Think of me as
 one who loved you very truly, whose love for you will never grow cold,
 and whose heart is broken by the knowledge that we are separated
 forever. Do not try to seek me out, that would only add to my misery;
 for nothing can alter the inevitable.

                                                     “Your unhappy
                                                     “Eileen.”




 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

There was no address on the letter. Of course, she would not include
that, she sensed too well that the ardor of his love would lead him
straight to her, and above all things, she did not wish him to seek
her out.

He read the brief note, over and over again, till the phrases sang in
his brain. Quentin had broken his promise to her, the promise given
when he had first entangled her in his web of deceit. There was
between them an insuperable barrier which could never be removed.
There was nothing left for them but to forget that sweet dream. She
loved him truly, her love for him would never grow cold. It was a
letter of absolute despair, of final renunciation.

The postmark on the envelope showed that it had come from Paris. Even
if he had been at liberty to confide in Duberry, the clue was too
slight to be of any use. He knew from what Dicks had told him that
Quentin’s first destination had been Paris; and, no doubt, the
detective had acted on the information, so far as his facilities
allowed, without obtaining any result.

The couple were hiding somewhere in the width of the Continent,
possibly in luxurious surroundings, equally possibly in obscure ones.
And if that letter spoke the truth, and it certainly seemed to be
written from the heart, she was as eager to avoid discovery, as the
man who passed as her husband.

Presently he began to recover from the state of agitation into which
the receipt of that letter had thrown him. In his calmer mood, he
began to find himself indulging in much the same detached kind of
analysis that Duberry would have employed, if he had been made
acquainted with its contents and informed of all that had previously
taken place between Eileen and himself.

She had encouraged him to love her at Ostend; she had still further
encouraged him, when they met again in London. He still had the utmost
faith in her probity and straightforwardness; and, he felt certain she
would not have given him that encouragement if she had known at the
time that there was an insuperable barrier between them.

There was a barrier, of course, of a kind, but not strong enough to
prevent her using her own free will, if her love was strong enough to
induce her to disregard Quentin’s wishes in the matter; if, in his
selfish egotism, he had shrunk from the scandal that might ensue on
the revelation of the actual truth of their relations--a scandal which
Aylmer was fully prepared to brave, even if he did not actually shut
his eyes to certain disagreeable consequences of it.

Something, then, had occurred between Quentin and herself, in the
interview which had followed upon his discovery of their clandestine
meetings; in that interview he must have succeeded in convincing her
that there was a real obstacle in the way of her happiness with
another man, so real that she at length had been forced to acquiesce
in the final renunciation of her lover. Nothing could be more emphatic
than her declaration that the dream, sweet as it had been, must end,
and that further relations between them would be impossible.

It was not, perhaps, to be wondered at that a man of his ardent and
romantic temperament should refuse to accept the verdict she had
pronounced. Not, at least, without a full and frank explanation of the
reasons which had induced her to arrive at it. If only he could find
her, he felt confident he would force from her a confession of what
had taken place between her and Quentin. And yet, could he be quite
sure that he could persuade her to reveal anything she wished to
conceal? Had she not adroitly evaded his questioning on the subject of
that agitating interview with Martyn?

Still, he felt he could not contain himself until he saw her again.
Duberry must call into play all his faculties to find her. On the
morning of the following day, he presented himself again at the
detective’s office.

Of course, Duberry, a man of more than usual shrewdness, would be able
to read the real reasons of his insistence, to guess that he had a
very profound interest in Mrs. Quentin. But, he was too engrossed in
his own feelings to care greatly for that. Let him suspect what he
liked, so long as the object was attained.

He approached the subject with as much diplomacy as he could muster.
“This finding out the retreat of the Quentins seems rather a slow
process, doesn’t it? I was wondering if we could employ some quicker
methods. Could we not send a man over to visit all the big cities
abroad? I have a notion that Quentin is not the sort of man to shut
himself up in some dull provincial town.”

Duberry reflected the while he was cogitating over his client’s keen
desire to find the man’s hiding-place. “That could be done, of
course,” he said at length. “And in that case, the search would be a
very thorough one; but, naturally, it would be a pretty expensive
job.”

Aylmer waived this objection aside with a hasty and emphatic gesture.
“Don’t give a moment’s thought to that aspect of the question. Spend
as much money as you like; I am determined to go through with this
thing.”

“All right, then,” said Duberry cheerfully. “I know of a splendid
fellow, one of the best trackers I ever came across, and as much at
home on the Continent as he is in England. Now, of course, these
people _may_ be carrying on under an assumed name. If under their own,
their discovery is only a matter of time, he must run them to earth
sooner or later. But, assuming for the moment they are lying low, let
me have a couple of your excellent sketches of the man and woman for
the purposes of identification.”

“I can do that, while I am here.” In a few minutes the young man had
drawn two very lifelike portraits of Eileen and Richard Quentin. He
further handed over to Duberry a check for preliminary expenses.

“I’ll set my man on, directly; I know he is at a loose end just now
and will be glad to get hold of something,” said the detective as they
parted company. “This is, of course, the only thorough way of doing
the business, but I did not like to suggest it at the beginning on
account of the cost. I hope it will not be very long before he picks
up the trail.”

When his client had gone, Duberry shook his head reflectively. “I’m
sorry for him, such a nice, straight chap; everybody speaks well of
him. It is evident Mrs. Quentin’s good looks have made a very deep
impression on him, too deep a one for his peace of mind. Spanish blood
on his mother’s side, too. Just the sort to go mad over a woman. Not
enough English evenness of temper in him to steer a safe course where
his feelings are in question.”

There was not a much more miserable man in London that day than Frank
Aylmer as he left the detective’s office in Bloomsbury. Without the
radiant presence of Eileen, existence was practically a blank. The
intense longing to see her, to feel the touch of her hand, to hear the
soft tones of her voice, was driving him to the verge of insanity.

Wrapped in his swiftly racing thoughts, he walked on and on, till he
reached Regent Street. And there, in the middle of that busy
thoroughfare, he found himself face to face with Quentin’s close
friend Martyn.

He could tell at once that Martyn had recognized him, with a sidelong
glance of his rather shifty eyes, and was pressing forward in the hope
that he had not been seen. Aylmer frustrated his maneuver by placing
himself in front of him and extending his hand.

“How do you do, Mr. Martyn? Glad to see you looking so well. It is now
some little time since we made a merry party at Ostend.”

The somber-faced man took the hand extended to him in a very limp
fashion. “How do you do,” he said awkwardly. It was quite obvious that
he was not overpleased at the unexpected encounter.

Aylmer kept up his assumed geniality. “What a good time it was while
it lasted. And the Quentins were such delightful people. You knew,
perhaps, that I visited them at their Hampstead house?”

Martyn gave him a wary look. He had to say something, but appeared to
speak with the greatest reluctance. “Oh, is that so? Yes, delightful
people! I am sure they would give you a good time. Both Quentin and
his wife are the embodiment of hospitality.”

What a hypocrite he was, thought Aylmer as he noted the man’s obvious
embarrassment. Being such an intimate friend, he would have known as a
matter of course, of Quentin’s invitation to The Laurels.

“I am sorry that I had such a brief opportunity of cultivating them,
while they were in England. I suppose you know all about it, but you
can judge of my surprise when I called one day and found the house to
let. I ran across Dicks, the butler, as I was leaving the place. He
told me a very little, that Quentin had suddenly taken a distaste for
England, had thrown up the tenancy of his house, and gone on the
Continent. I have not the slightest doubt you know the details better
than I.”

The wary look on Martyn’s face deepened as he answered the question.
“Not very much, Mr. Aylmer. Quentin was always a very eccentric kind
of chap, you could never be sure of his movements. He would settle for
a few hours in a place, and rave about it, and declare his intention
of stopping in it for life. Then next day he would clear off, and the
next you heard of him was that he was a hundred miles away.”

“But, surely, as such a close friend, you had warning of this sudden
change of plan?”

Mr. Martyn shook his head emphatically. “You are quite mistaken. I had
no warning. Only a very brief note after the event.” Seeing the look
of incredulity on Aylmer’s face, he added hastily: “I dare say you
think it strange, but as I have just told you, Quentin was a very
eccentric man.”

It was quite possible that Quentin was a very eccentric man, but
Aylmer was now convinced of one thing; namely, that Martyn was a very
accomplished and steadfast liar. He had the butler’s evidence that the
man was there during the move from Hampstead, during which period he
must have known what was going on.

It was on the tip of his tongue to prove him the liar he was, but he
refrained from reasons of policy. He would pump him as far as he
allowed himself to be pumped.

“And where are they now?” he asked in a casual voice. “Somewhere on
the Continent, of course.”

But Mr. Martyn was not to be inveigled into confidences, if he had any
to impart. “Most probably,” was the brief answer; “but I cannot say
for certain. I had the one brief note from Quentin, stating that he
was going to Paris, and promising further communication. That further
communication has not reached me up to the present. Knowing the man so
well, I should guess it would be weeks or months before it did.”

There was evidently nothing to be got out of this very discreet and
reticent person. Aylmer made a last desperate attempt, speaking with a
geniality that cost him a considerable effort.

“I wonder if you would give me the pleasure of your company for
luncheon, at my club, the Excelsior?”

But Martyn was not to be cajoled into even the semblance of
friendship. “Any other time I should have been delighted. But every
moment of the day is occupied. I am going abroad to-morrow morning.
It’s an awful rush to get off. Well, good-by for the present. We shall
meet again some day, I expect.”

The man put out a limp hand, and darted off. He had obviously been ill
at ease during the whole of the brief interview, and was pleased to
bring it to an end. Aylmer thought a little over things after they had
separated.

It rather looked as if Martyn and Dicks had not met lately, or else
the butler would have warned him of what he had let out as to Martyn’s
visits during the move. On the other hand, Martyn himself might have
made a slip, in his embarrassment at the unexpected meeting.

Some very weary days ensued. The man whom Duberry had set upon the
track of the Quentins did not seem to meet with any success so far. He
had located the hotel in Paris at which the couple had stayed for a
few days after they took their hurried departure from the house at
Hampstead. But, after this one discovery, he was unable to pick up the
trail.

Duberry kept assuring his client it was only a matter of time; but, in
his impatience, Aylmer did not pay much heed to these optimistic
prophecies. It seemed as if fate was against him, and that his
imperative longing to find himself face to face again with Eileen, in
the hope of extracting from her some satisfactory explanation, would
never be gratified.

The detective, who, to do him justice, was busy enough in his own way,
had found out a good deal about that dark horse, the butler Dicks. He
had traced him to three different situations which he had held before
he had entered the service of Quentin. In each his record had been
most satisfactory. Judging from the united testimonials of his
employers, he appeared to be a person of the highest respectability
and integrity.

Against this was to be set the fact of his being in touch with such a
confirmed wrong-doer as the man Ramon. At the present moment, he was
living in lodgings by himself at Hampstead, and was apparently making
no effort to obtain another job. There was nothing, perhaps, very
suspicious about this. After so many years of service, during which he
could have put by a certain amount of money, it was only natural that
he should like to take a fairly long holiday.

Aylmer listened rather listlessly to these details about the butler.
He remarked, perhaps a little petulantly, that they were interesting
enough in their way, but they did not appear to help much in the
paramount object of discovering the Quentins’ hiding-place.

Duberry, being a very good-tempered man, did not resent the young
man’s petulance; he had met so many clients who showed bitter
disappointment if a detective did not at once proceed to work
miracles. He knew well enough the loss of Mrs. Quentin in a measure,
had upset the young man’s mental balance, and he was genuinely sorry
for him.

“At the present moment, Dicks doesn’t help us in the least,” he said
quietly. “But I shall continue to keep a watch on him. At any moment
he may rejoin his late master, and if that should be so, he will lead
us straight to our quarry. There is a strong suspicion in my mind that
Martyn is going after them. If I had enjoyed the good fortune to have
been with you that day you met him, I would have shadowed him from
that moment, and in a short time we might have been in possession of
the information we want.”

Another week went by, and there was still no news of Quentin’s
whereabouts. Dicks was still at his lodgings at Hampstead, and passed
a great part of his time in the various public-houses in the district.
On two occasions Ramon had been down to see him. On the last time, the
two men had walked together to the Tube station, and Duberry’s
emissary, who had followed them, reported that they appeared to be
indulging in a very serious quarrel. He did not, in the least, know
what they were quarreling about, as he did not dare to go very near
them for fear of being observed. When they parted in the lobby of the
station, they appeared to be very bad friends, to judge by the
expression on their faces.

Then, one morning, as Duberry was preparing to go out, his old friend
Webber was announced. One look at him revealed that he was bursting
with news of considerable importance.

“I have just seen my friend at Scotland Yard,” he said, speaking
rapidly and eagerly. “Ramon has gone wrong again, pretty serious thing
this time. His office is still open, but he hasn’t been near it for
some days. The house at Barnes is shut up. There is a warrant out
against him. They have tracked him to a mean lodging in Soho, and they
are going to take him to-day.”




 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Duberry, of course, was profoundly interested in this startling
information. He had set a watch on Ramon, and he knew that for the
last three days the so-called financier had not visited the office in
Old Broad Street. But, he knew nothing of the shutting up of the house
at Barnes. He had to confess ruefully to himself that the machinery of
Scotland Yard was very much more adequate than his own. It was the
penalty, in a small way, of the need of working with inferior
instruments.

“They’ve beaten me,” he confessed frankly to his old friend. “I know a
little bit; but they know a good deal more. Well, a private detective
can’t hope to compare with the ‘Yard,’ can he?”

Mr. Webber indulged in a genial smile. To the experienced police
official, Duberry was just a rather clever amateur who was trying to
acquire the rudiments of a very difficult profession by the light of
nature. If the truth were told, he had a good-natured contempt for any
man who had not graduated in the strenuous school of Scotland Yard. If
he had not liked Duberry so well personally, he would have shown this
contempt in a much more open manner.

“And you say it is a serious charge?” queried the younger man
presently, when he had digested the information given him.

Webber spoke in his usual brisk, staccato way. “Went in for a big haul
this time, a matter of five thousand pounds. Got the money out of some
mug--payment for shares in a practically non-existent company. The
mug, quiet for a long time, swallowed the frequent excuses made to
him. Then gets suspicious, demands his shares, or his money back; and,
finding he can get neither, does what he ought to have done much
earlier in the day, goes to the police, with the result that Master
Ramon is going to be laid by the heels.”

“Bit of a fool not to have cleared out before the man began to get
suspicious,” suggested Duberry.

Webber shrugged his shoulders. “If criminals didn’t make foolish
mistakes, they would never be caught. I dare say he could have got
away in time, if he had had the sense to try. It is too late now,
they’ve got him as fast as a rat in a trap. Every station is being
watched.”

Presently Webber began to explain why he had called. “It was just the
merest chance I looked in at the Yard this morning and saw my old
friend Rayner, through whom I got the previous information about him,
and heard the news. You may guess how interested I was. I felt like
the old hunter who has been turned out to grass and hears the familiar
baying of the hounds. As I told you, they are going to take him at the
shabby lodging in Soho to which they have tracked him. Rayner
suggested I might like to be in at the death, as it were. Of course, I
shan’t go with them into the house; I’ll wait outside while they get
him. It struck me you might like to come along with me to see the
finish. It would be a fitting wind-up to that bit of comedy we played
at the public-house in Dalston, when we so adroitly got hold of his
finger-prints.”

Duberry expressed the pleasure it would give him to be in “at the
death,” as the older man expressed it.

“I wonder if my client, Aylmer, would like to join us? After all,
Ramon is rather an old acquaintance of his,” he suggested.

Webber shook his head in a dubious fashion. “Better not, I think.
Amateurs are not wanted in this kind of business. You can tell him all
about it, later.”

Duberry smiled. He knew his friend’s contempt for amateurs quite well,
his strong opinion that they should be kept resolutely in the
background when serious work was afoot.

“All right, then, we won’t add to our party. And I doubt if he would
be greatly interested. The only thing he has set his mind on is to
find this Mrs. Quentin. I’m awfully sorry for the poor chap. He must
have been terribly hard hit; it seems to be driving him crazy.”

“It’ll be all the better for him if he never finds her,” growled
Webber. This hard-headed police official had no leanings towards
romance, and very little sympathy for despairing lovers of the Aylmer
type. “You’d be doing the young fellow a life-long service if you
instructed your man to draw a blank.”

“That’s just what he is doing at present,” laughed Duberry. “But as I
am taking Aylmer’s money, I must do my best to get him what he wants,
mustn’t I? Even if I chucked the job, he would only go to somebody
else. You can’t reason with a man who is madly in love, you know. A
dried-up old fossil like you can’t understand his state of mind. I can
understand it a bit, because I have a softer streak in me than you
have.”

Webber’s reply to this little shaft was a grunt and some sound advice
to get rid of that soft streak immediately, before it led him into
trouble.

Later on in the day, the two men went together to Soho. This time they
took care to dress their parts better than on the previous occasion
when they had hunted in company, as they did not wish to run the risk
of being recognized by Ramon, should they come into contact with him
either at large or as a prisoner. Duberry had got himself up as a
workman, Webber presented the appearance of a none too prosperous
“bookie.” The latter gentleman, who was clean-shaven in everyday life,
had ornamented himself with a false mustache of a singularly ferocious
description, which certainly altered his appearance completely.

One of the Scotland Yard men was lounging about at the end of the mean
street in Soho where the hunted man had found an insecure
hiding-place. Webber recognized him as an old acquaintance, and going
up to him, revealed his identity and introduced Duberry. From him,
they gathered the position of affairs at the moment.

“Mr. Rayner will be here with a couple of men in about ten minutes.
Ramon’s not the sort of man to offer any serious resistance, so it
will be an easy job,” he told them. “Ramon has been running about all
day, always with somebody at his heels. Of course, he knows that he is
being watched, that the game is up, and that makes him restless. He
went into the house about half an hour ago, there he is now, waiting
to be taken, so to speak. If I were in his shoes, I think I should be
glad when the suspense was over. He must know there’s no earthly
chance of his getting away.”

After a little further talk, Duberry and Webber left the man and
walked up and down the street together, waiting for the advent of
Ramon and his colleagues.

Suddenly, in the midst of their conversation, Duberry pressed his
companion’s arm. “Do you see who that is coming along on the other
side?” he whispered.

Webber looked, and recognized the well-known figure of Dicks. He was
not disguised in any way, just looked his usual respectable self. He
walked along very slowly, till he came to the house, which had been
pointed out to them as Ramon’s hiding-place. Here he halted, knocked
at the door, which was quickly opened to him, and disappeared from
their view. Evidently he had come for the purpose of seeing Ramon.

They went up to the man who was watching, and asked him if he knew who
the visitor was.

“No,” was the answer. “I have not been on this job before yesterday,
and only know Ramon by sight. But I understand there is a man with
whom he has been in close touch, and seeing a good deal of lately.
Most likely that is he; but if so, there’s nothing against him. Ramon
is the only one they want. A coincidence he should come to-day; he
will have the pleasure of seeing his pal taken. Assuming, of course,
he is his pal. There are half a dozen people who’ve rooms in that
house; he may be visiting any one of them.”

They explained this was unlikely, as they knew the man’s name and
history; further, that he was very intimate with the wanted man.

A few minutes later, Rayner, an alert, keen-faced man, appeared upon
the scene with his colleagues. Webber described the appearance of
Dicks, and put to him the same question; did he know anything about
the man, telling him his history so far as it was known to himself and
to his friend Duberry.

Rayner shook his head. “We have not had much time to make inquiries;
but so far as we have gone, our knowledge tallies with yours. Very
respectable fellow, by all accounts--that, of course, goes for
nothing. Been in service the greater part of his life. There are
suspicious things about him in his intimacy with a wrong ’un like
Ramon, and we may take it he has some strong motive for coming here
to-night. One of those deep ones, I expect, who get others to pull the
chestnuts out of the fire for them, while they stand out of harm’s
way. Think I shall take the opportunity of putting a few questions to
him before I leave that very unsavory-looking house. Well, you will
see us come out in a few minutes, with our prisoner. He’s not the sort
to give trouble, quite the respectable, well-mannered type of
criminal.”

He turned to one of his colleagues. “Back room, top floor, isn’t it?
Front room and the floor below empty at the moment. Well, good-by,
gentlemen. When we have got our man, we shan’t have anything more to
say to each other, I suppose.”

After Rayner and his companions had entered the house, the other three
men crossed the road and stood near the door, to be ready for the
final act of the drama.

That final act came in a very quick and surprising fashion. There was
a hurried noise of footsteps on the stairs, and Rayner and one of his
colleagues came rushing into the street. Seeing the three men
clustered round the door, he halted, and turned to his colleague.

“Bates, it doesn’t take two for this job. Get hold of the nearest
doctor and do all the other necessary things. I will wait here.”

Addressing Webber, he gave the reason of these surprising orders.
“Ramon is dead, the other man as near death as can be. A fierce fight
with knives in the foreign fashion during the few moments that the man
Dicks has been in the house. One can only conjecture that they were
old accomplices and that Dicks came here to-day to demand his share of
some plunder, and, on meeting with a refusal, picked a quarrel, with
a disastrous result to himself, as well as to the other.”

“Dicks is still alive, then?” asked Duberry.

“He was just breathing when I left him in charge of my colleague,
Morton, and rushed downstairs; I should say it was nearly his last
breath. Ramon was quite dead when we got into the room, stabbed
through the heart. Dicks must have got a blow in before he fell
himself. We couldn’t, of course, get a word out of him, so the secret
of their quarrel will go to the grave with them. Ah, here comes the
doctor. Good-night, Webber. Give me a look-in at the end of the week,
and I will tell you anything further that may come to light.”

The later details, however, were of a meager description so far as
Ramon was concerned. And Mrs. Ramon and the crippled boy had vanished
utterly, and no traces of them could be found. It was highly probable
that Ramon had friends of the same sort as himself, and that they had
found shelter with one of them. They discovered a bag in the
cloak-room of one of the big stations which contained a passport, a
suit of clothes, and about a hundred pounds in cash. If, therefore, he
had left behind him any considerable amount of money, it was most
likely that he had entrusted it to his wife’s keeping, for fear of a
sudden reverse of fortune.

In the case of Dicks, a good deal was found out of a surprising
nature. His father had been a small shopkeeper in a northern town, who
had brought up a fairly large family in a most respectable fashion. He
had been in domestic employment since the age of eighteen, mostly in
the service of good families. Several of his relatives were alive, and
spoke in the highest terms of him, of his generosity, his kindness of
heart. The extraordinary thing was that he had amassed a considerable
amount of money for a man in his humble calling, something over five
thousand pounds. His will was found in his lodgings amongst his
papers, and in it he bequeathed this sum in equal proportions to his
two favorite sisters.

“Of course, he could not have amassed that sum out of his wages and
tips,” commented Rayner when he imparted this piece of information to
his old colleague, Webber. “He must have had some other sources of
income at which we can only guess. Still, I am bound to say, nothing
in the least incriminating was found amongst his papers. The man was,
and will remain, a profound mystery, and there’s no doubt he was as
deep as they make them.”

“A small capitalist in his way,” remarked Webber. “I should make a
shrewd guess that he was often the financial backer of various rogues
more daring and less wary than himself. An exceedingly clever,
well-balanced fellow, save in the one respect of giving way to his
violent passions when he suffered some real, or fancied, injury. Well,
his secret goes to the grave with him. One hardly can suppose that he
went there with the deliberate intention of killing Ramon. It was a
case of a couple of rogues falling out, one word leading to another,
till both men saw red.”

In due course, Aylmer was told of the tragic end of the two men. The
death of Dicks was a misfortune, as since Duberry had made a certain
suggestion to him, he had rather been expecting that the butler
shortly would rejoin Quentin. That hope was now dashed to the ground.

There was nothing left but to possess his soul in patience, and to
rely upon the efforts of the man whom the detective had dispatched to
the Continent. But, as the days sped on without any result being
obtained, a sort of blank despair fell upon Aylmer’s soul. He began to
make up his mind that Eileen was lost to him forever.




 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A couple of months after the events recorded in the last chapter,
Aylmer was dining with his friend Claude Peyton at Wimbledon. During
this period, the search for the Quentins had been fruitless. Duberry
had to admit, not without considerable chagrin, that it seemed useless
to keep his man on, any longer. “If he was on the Continent, I think
we should have found him,” he said. “He must have gone further afield,
perhaps to Egypt, India or South Africa. He has evidently some strong
motive for shunning his old haunts, and hiding himself very
thoroughly. For all we know, after that brief stay in Paris, he may
have doubled back to England.”

“His bankers would know his address, as a matter of course,” said
Aylmer, in his desperation clutching at any straw. “And you know the
name of his bank.” He added gloomily: “But, of course, that doesn’t
help us a little bit. Whatever plausible tale one might make up, no
banker would divulge the address of his client.”

“Quite so,” agreed the detective. “He would offer to forward any
letter; but after the way in which Quentin has run away from you, you
can’t find any excuse for writing to him. If that wretched Dicks had
not gone and got himself killed, we might have tracked them through
him. Later on, if you run across Martyn again and find out where he
lives, we might keep a watch on him. But I am bound to confess that
things at the moment have come to a deadlock. You can’t search the
whole world on the chance of finding them in one particular corner of
it.”

It cannot be said that the young man’s deep feeling for Eileen had
undergone any serious diminution. But time is a great healer, and he
was gradually learning to accustom himself to the inevitable, to
recognize that his future life must be lived without the presence of
the woman who had so greatly touched his heart. For the last few
weeks, he had given up the habit of sitting by himself and brooding
over the memories of that too brief past. He had gone about amongst
his friends and had followed his old occupations.

As a result of this change of attitude, he had begun to resume his
previous familiar relations with Peyton. And that astute young man had
behaved with considerable tact. He knew well enough that a great
change had taken place in his friend, and he was shrewd enough to
guess the reason of his low spirits and altered demeanor.

But, he never made the slightest allusion to that visit to Ostend,
feeling sure that it was too sore a subject to be touched on. As a
matter of fact, the Quentins would long ago have ceased to become even
a dim memory to a man who had made and forgotten dozens of similar
casual acquaintances, had it not been for the unfortunate part they
had played in Aylmer’s life.

Peyton, for his own part, long ago had made up his mind about Quentin,
and then practically dismissed him from his thoughts. The man was a
plausible and gentlemanly adventurer who tried to get hold of rich
people for his own ends. He had learned that Aylmer was well off, that
was the reason he had invited him to Hampstead, and dropped him when
he found he was not as easy-going as he hoped. For the same reason, he
had cottoned on to the American millionaire, Cyrus J. Whitefield.

While not absolutely sure about Eileen, he at first had inclined to
the suspicion that this very charming young woman worked in
conjunction with her husband. Of course, in her case, he lacked the
proper materials necessary for a considered judgment, being in
ignorance of the fact that she was not really Quentin’s wife. In her
favor it must be remembered that she had warned Aylmer against
entertaining any scheme which Quentin might put forward. On the whole,
while he would not say he was prepared to give a verdict of not
guilty, he would go so far as to admit one of not proved.

The party at dinner was a small one, consisting of Mrs. Peyton, her
son and daughter, and a very pretty girl, a Miss Murcheson, who was
staying on a short visit. The head of the house was confined to his
room with a sharp attack of a very old enemy--his gout.

Miss Murcheson, Aylmer learned later, was a very old friend of the
family. She had been at school with Miss Peyton, and her father, a
widower, and, Peyton senior had been cronies almost from their
boyhood.

Aylmer, as usual on these visits, was staying for the night. The
absence of the genial host naturally shed a little dullness over the
party. The ladies retired early, and the two young men finished the
evening in the smoking-room.

Aylmer had kept his eyes open during the dinner, and had noticed
certain things. His young friend, although always very affable to men
and women alike, hardly could be described as a very susceptible
person. But there was a certain warmth in his manner to the very
pretty Miss Murcheson which roused Aylmer’s suspicions. With the
freedom of old friendship, he rallied the young man on the subject.

Peyton looked decidedly conscious, and did not venture to deny the
soft impeachment. “There’s no doubt she’s a very charming and pretty
girl, and, what is more to the point, she is a good and sensible one,
too. Her mother has been dead for a couple of years; but while she was
alive she brought her up splendidly. Nothing bold or flighty about
her, not one of the cigarette-smoking, cocktail brigade, but lively
and full of innocent fun. Just the sort of girl who would make a
splendid wife and mother, like her own mother before her. Money, too.
Old Murcheson is a very warm man, one of those chaps on the Corn
Exchange. There are only the two children, Lily and her brother. He
would settle something handsome on her.”

Aylmer could not repress a smile at the last sentence. It was so
eminently characteristic of the young man and the atmosphere in which
he had been brought up. Neither father nor son would have allowed his
fancies to stray in the direction of a dowerless damsel, if she had
possessed the beauty of Venus herself.

“What does it all mean, Claude?” asked Aylmer with unusual directness.
“Is this a roundabout way of saying you are in love with her?”

Peyton smiled a little sheepishly. “Well, old man, I know that you are
a frightfully romantic chap; in your case love would be a burning,
devouring flame. I don’t think it will ever be in my nature to feel
that sort of thing; there’s too much of the governor and other
hard-headed ancestors in me. But I will say I have never come across a
girl that I could be as fond of as I am of Lily. She seems to suit me
down to the ground, to fit in with all my ideas of womanhood.”

A placid enough affection, thought Aylmer to himself. Though perhaps
it was better so. To most people, the storm and turmoil of a great
passion would be very devastating. Aloud he said: “Well, as you have
got so far, I don’t suppose it will be long before you pop the
question. The young lady seems to be your ideal, and from what you say
of her good qualities, it would be hard to find a better wife.”

Up to the present, Peyton had seemed rather bashful about the matter;
but after his friend’s cheering words, he grew more expansive, and, in
consequence, more natural.

“We have exchanged views on this subject more than once,” he said.
“And I have always told you what my own inclinations were, to have a
few years of liberty before I finally settled down. From school to the
office; after all, I have not seen so very much of life. But my father
is strongly in favor of early marriages; he says nothing makes a man
more energetic and self-reliant than a wife and family; he was married
when he was a month or two younger than I am now. I dare say, when one
looks at it from an unselfish point of view, there’s a good deal in
what he contends. There’s no use blinking the fact that both he and
old Murcheson have set their hearts on the match, and, of course, we
are being driven a little bit along by that fact. My mother and Kate
both adore her, and I think they would break their hearts if it didn’t
come off.”

“Well, if her own sex like her,” remarked Aylmer, “that is a great
thing to her credit. Women are the best judges of women, as men are of
men. I know you don’t lay claim to be a romantic person, but you seem
to have found your ideal, and the most ardent lover can desire no
more. I take it, you are pretty sure Miss Murcheson reciprocates your
sentiments? In other words, you don’t anticipate a refusal when you do
make up your mind to throw the handkerchief?”

Peyton answered the question with his usual absence of finesse. “Lily
is an awfully straightforward girl, and you may take it she knows as
well as I do what the two families want. If the idea of my becoming
her husband was distasteful to her, I think she would have taken care
to keep out of my way. She’s the apple of her father’s eye, and
however strong his wishes in the matter, I am sure he would never
force her to act against her own inclinations.”

Aylmer lifted his glass. “I can see it won’t be long before I hear of
a formal engagement. Well, here’s all good luck and happiness to
yourself and to your very charming Lily.”

“Thanks very much, old man. She is staying here for another week; I
don’t suppose it will be longer than then.”

Aylmer put down his glass after drinking the toast, and mused a little
over Claude Peyton’s very straightforward love affair, so strangely
different from his own. No obstacles here! The families approving the
match, a pair of very placid lovers, both born of business-like and
hard-headed people, eminently suited to each other and the unemotional
life they would lead. Well, there was no reason why they should not
find as great happiness as their more romantic brothers and sisters.

Peyton had been quite modest over the matter, but he seemed to be
confident that Lily Murcheson would not refuse him. And, if such a
catastrophe did occur, it was extremely unlikely that this
well-balanced young man would suffer acutely in his health, his
appetite, or his sleep. He would comfort himself with the reflection
that when he decided again to take the plunge, he would somewhere find
a girl quite as suitable as the unappreciative Lily.

A few minutes before they separated for the night, the younger man
took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Aylmer. “You remember
our old friend at the Continental, Cyrus J. Whitefield, the man who
was so very much attracted by Mrs. Quentin?”

“Of course,” said Aylmer, who could not help flushing slightly at the
mention of that name. It brought back such bitter-sweet memories.

“You’ll remember I told you he was a client of ours; he invests a lot
of his money in English securities. Well, look at that letter. He
makes an appointment at twelve o’clock to-morrow to consult me about
some investments. Of course, if the governor had been all right, he
would have seen him. So I have written to him to explain the position,
and tell him I shall expect him at the time he names. I have asked him
to come on to lunch at the City Carlton Club. My father always lunches
him on the few occasions he comes to the office.”

Aylmer thought for a moment. “I should rather like to see the old boy
again,” he said presently, “although he did not take much notice of me
at Ostend. I wonder if he knows where the Quentins are?”

All the evening, Peyton had been hesitating as to whether or not he
should show his friend Whitefield’s letter, and when he made up his
mind to do so, he had acted rather on a sudden impulse. When he
perceived Aylmer’s ill-concealed agitation, too late he wished he had
kept silence about the visit of the American. Aylmer wanted to see
Whitefield again, in order that he might find out the whereabouts of
the Quentins. If Whitefield knew, as probably he did--for Quentin was
not likely to put himself out of touch with such a valuable
acquaintance--Aylmer would go after them, and all the trouble would
begin afresh. He stigmatized himself as a fool for having blurted out
the fact, in an impulsive moment. And here was his friend looking at
him rather impatiently for an answer of some sort to his suggestion.

It was an embarrassing moment, for there was something in Aylmer’s
manner which warned Peyton that it might lead to a breach of
friendship if he uttered his real sentiments on the subject, if he
told him frankly that the sooner he dismissed the Quentins from his
thoughts the better it would be for his peace of mind.

“You really want to find out where they are?” he said at length.

Aylmer tried to speak with an air of unconcern which, of course, did
not impose on his companion for a moment.

“As a matter of curiosity, I do. That sudden bolt was so
extraordinary. I am keen on getting at the reason.”

There was no help for it, thought Peyton. He knew he must do what he
would have given a great deal not to do--invite his friend to be of
the party.

“Well, of course, if you are so interested, there is no reason why you
should not meet the old chap. That letter I showed you is dated three
days ago. I wrote at once asking him to lunch after our business was
concluded. This morning I had a note accepting. So all you have got to
do is to walk into the City Carlton about one o’clock, and you will
either find us waiting for you, or we shall join you in a few
minutes.”

“Thanks awfully, old man,” was Aylmer’s grateful response. Hope began
to flow over him once more. It was pretty certain that Quentin would
keep in touch with Whitefield and unless he had taken the precaution
of imposing secrecy on the American--for obvious reasons a very
unlikely procedure on his part--Whitefield was not likely to have any
hesitation in imparting what information he possessed. There also
would be a certain satisfaction in having scored over Duberry.
Although, to do him justice, that consideration did not weigh very
greatly with him.

The young men separated shortly, Peyton ruefully confessing to himself
that he had made a complete fool of himself, and done his friend harm
instead of good.

As he settled himself to that repose which naturally attends a man who
has a clear conscience and a good digestion, he wondered whether he
ought to warn Whitefield of the sort of man Quentin appeared to be.

On second thoughts he decided in the negative. This very sagacious
young man had a strongly developed bump of caution. He was intensely
reluctant to interfere in the private affairs of his friends or
acquaintances. He knew both from experience and tradition that,
however well-meant your intentions, however sound your advice, your
intrusion usually is resented by those whom you wish to benefit.

Whitefield was reputed to possess one of the keenest business brains
in America. However much he might be smitten by Mrs. Quentin, he would
keep his wits, and was old enough and wary enough to take care of
himself. If he did make up his mind to fall in with any suggestions
that the husband might make him, he would do so with his eyes open,
humorously conscious that his ulterior motives were not much more
creditable than those of the obliged party.

Aylmer was in the hall of the City Carlton Club the following morning,
on the stroke of one. They were not there, and he awaited them with
the natural impatience of a man who has one single object in view and
chafes at the slightest delay in reaching it.

The pair came in a quarter of an hour late, no doubt having been
detained by the importance of their business. The millionaire seemed
in a very agreeable mood. At Ostend he had not taken much notice of
either of the two young men; but then there was the disturbing element
of Eileen ever present, and he had stored up all his reserve of
geniality for her. He shook hands heartily with Aylmer, and laid his
hand with a friendly gesture upon Peyton’s shoulder.

“A splendid boy, this; I wish I had a son like him,” he said in his
rather boisterous tones. “A real chip of the old block--has given me
as good advice as his father could have done. If he sticks to it, and
I am sure he will, he will go far.”

They went in to lunch, and undisturbed by the proximity of female
society, Whitefield proved himself a most interesting and
companionable person to his male friends. He told them stories of
great magnates in the business world, told one or two against himself,
and seemed brimming over with vitality and the joy of living. Peyton,
whose intelligence, within its natural limits, fed largely upon that
of others, was absorbed in the racy conversation that showed so much
knowledge of the world and affairs. Aylmer, knowing nothing of finance
and very little about those connected with it, was perhaps a little
less interested than the younger man. But still, he was bound to admit
the mental strength and vigor of the American.

And then, at last, came a brief pause in what had been almost a
monologue, which gave Aylmer the opportunity for which he had been
waiting.

“It seems quite like old times, like the pleasant days at Ostend,” he
said. “We only want the Quentins to make our party complete. By the
way, have you come across them or heard from them?”

Whitefield was frankness itself; it was evident he had nothing to
conceal. “Not come across them; but heard from them, yes. Two
letters--one sent to me in America, the other awaiting me on my
arrival at the Savoy. You know I was to have visited him at his house
at Hampstead. Well, the first letter told me that, as his lease was
running out, he had decided to give up the place, and therefore would
not be able to receive me. He would write later and tell me his
movements.”

“Where did that letter come from?” asked Aylmer eagerly.

“From Hampstead itself. I think he stated he was going over to Paris,
and would be a bird of passage for some weeks. If I answered, I was to
direct my reply to the care of the Pall Mall branch of the
Consolidated Bank, which would be furnished from time to time with his
address. I replied, saying that I should be in London on business
about the present time, and glad to hear of his further movements. A
very charming couple, the Quentins.” He concluded, perhaps a little
irrelevantly: “He was a quite delightful chap, and she could only be
expressed in superlative terms.”

Both the young men were surprised at this eulogistic opinion of
Quentin. He was a pleasant, affable person, but there was not warmth
and color enough in him to make him delightful. But certainly Quentin
had played his cards well with this shrewd millionaire. He had effaced
utterly his own individuality and allowed the other to exhibit his
personality to the utmost possible advantage. No wonder that
Whitefield’s faculties were lulled to sleep by this adroit and subtle
flatterer.

“And the second letter, where did that come from?” queried Aylmer
presently.

Whitefield opened a bulky letter-case. “I have forgotten; but here it
is. I’ll just give you the points of it; it is rather a long screed.
Been roaming about a great deal, both on the Continent and in various
parts of England. Next month will be at the Hôtel Negresco, in Nice.
Hopes I might find my way there, could have a good time together. I
wrote yesterday to say that I would be pleased to join them next month
about the tenth. Where does he write from? Here it is--Rosebank,
Sherehaven, Sussex. The letter is dated a week ago; he says he is
moving on the following day, doesn’t state where, doesn’t seem to know
himself. Letters, as before, to be sent to the bank. You chaps had
better come, too, and we’ll have the good old time over again. I
shan’t be back in America for quite three months.”

Peyton shook his head at the suggestion, had he been a free agent it
would not have attracted him greatly. But then he was not the victim
to the charms of Eileen.

“Tied to Capel Court, you know,” he explained. “One holiday a year has
to do for me.” He looked at his friend. “This chap is different; he
can go when and where he likes.”

Aylmer suddenly became wary, he was not going to say too much. “The
Negresco is a favorite pitch of mine. I can’t say definitely, my plans
are rather in a state of flux at present. I had rather got Spain in my
mind, but I might pop over for a few days.”

Well, that meeting had borne fruit, he was on the track at last. The
irony of it, he thought. All the while that Duberry’s agent had been
scouring the cities of Europe, Eileen had been hidden in the peaceful
little village of Sherehaven.




 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Aylmer saw Peyton a few days later, but very little was said on the
subject of the Quentins. Aylmer had resolved, after very little
reflection, that he would go down to Sherehaven, which was only a
short distance from London. Hardly big enough to be called a town,
just a straggling sort of place full of rather picturesque cottages,
with a few fair-sized houses interspersed, and a long, narrow street
that led down to the shore. He had been there once before, on a motor
tour, and had halted to take tea at the King’s Head, an old-fashioned
hostelry dating back to the fifteenth century, half inn, half hotel.

There could be no confidence, of course, between the two men on the
subject of Eileen, owing to the solemn promise to respect her
confidence which Aylmer had given her. Without doubt Peyton suspected
his feelings for her, and regarded the whole affair with the deepest
disapproval. To a clean-minded fellow like himself, the idea of an
understanding with a married woman was abhorrent, as it would have
been to Aylmer himself.

He could not resist the idea of going down to Sherehaven, although he
felt that the visit would not help him very much. But the urge to see
the house, where his sweetheart so successfully had hidden herself
from him, was irresistible. It could not fail to be with any lover as
steadfast and devoted as he was.

It just might be possible that the Quentins were still there, that the
statement that he was moving on the following day was only a piece of
camouflage, that for some reason or another he did not want anybody to
come down to the place, and had forestalled Whitefield’s intention of
doing so, if the idea had occurred to the American of making an
unannounced visit. But, somehow, Aylmer fancied that Quentin had told
the truth.

Supposing, however, that the Quentins were still in residence at
Rosebank, which he would find out in five minutes’ conversation with
somebody at the King’s Head, how would he act? Would he go boldly to
the house and ask for them, or would he not?

As he got into the train, he did not feel himself able to give a
definite answer to that question. To beard Quentin, to tell him that
he knew the truth, and to tax him with separating Eileen and himself
from his own selfish motives, was an unusually drastic proceeding
which would require a considerable amount of moral courage, more
especially in face of the fact that Eileen herself had acquiesced in
the cruel decision, and besought him never to seek her out.

Well, he could not decide now. He would wait till he got to Sherehaven
itself, and shape his action according to the information he obtained
there. There was a middle course that could be taken. It was a small
place, little more than a big village. If the Quentins were still
there he only had to put up for a night or two at the King’s Head;
and, in the course of his stay, he would be sure to come upon Eileen
alone. She was an open-air sort of woman, she would not shut herself
up in the house for long, and in such a limited area there was not
much chance of their missing each other.

When he got out at the somewhat primitive station and walked down to
the King’s Head, a distance of about three-quarters of a mile, he
found certain changes, from his recollection of the place some three
years ago. The speculative builder had made his appearance on the
scene. Close to the railway station itself, a few roads of modest,
semi-detached houses had come into being, with a small accompanying
colony of shops.

Between here and the beginning of the long, narrow street which led to
the sea, he came upon further signs of building enterprise. It was
evident there was the beginning of a slight boom in the somewhat
sleepy locality. Sherehaven certainly possessed a fine and
invigorating air, and no doubt, as the place grew in favor, the train
service, which was now bad and infrequent, would be improved.

In the high street itself, if it could be called by such an important
name, there were further signs of development, which, to Aylmer’s
rather fastidious taste, did not make for improvement, from either an
architectural or picturesque point of view. There were only a couple
of houses of any pretension in the street--one large and
old-fashioned, standing in a fair-sized garden and having a goodly
portion of land at the back, enclosed by a fairly high wall; the other
a residence of slightly smaller kind with a big forecourt. These were
inhabited, respectively, by a retired solicitor and the local doctor,
and remained untouched by time.

But a great change had taken place in some half a dozen of the small
shops which had been so delightfully in keeping with the old-fashioned
atmosphere of the little coast town. In these the iconoclast had
worked his sacrilegious will. New stories had been added,
new-fashioned kinds of windows had been thrown out, woefully out of
keeping with the old-world surroundings.

The King’s Head itself had fallen a victim to the mania for
development under a new proprietor. A large dining room, which was
very tastefully decorated, had been built out at the back, and the
rather wide hall had been converted into a good-sized lounge by the
taking in of a small room. Aylmer distinctly remembered the former
proprietor, a taciturn and lethargic man, who was quite civil in his
slow way, but not the person to attract custom by any qualities of
good fellowship.

The present Boniface was of a totally different stamp, alert,
obliging, radiating geniality. Aylmer had brought a suitcase with him,
as he intended to pass at least one night in the place, if not more.
The landlord promised him a most comfortable bed and handed him the
refreshment he asked for.

“Some changes have taken place since I was last here, some three years
ago,” remarked the young man as he sipped his drink. “Sherehaven looks
as if it were booming.”

The genial proprietor smiled. “Well, sir, there is a mild sort of
boom. We should go along much faster if we could get a decent train
service. But railway companies are so slow, they won’t do anything to
help us. Still, the place is looking up. I took the King’s Head a
couple of years ago, and in that time I have nearly doubled the trade.
But, mind you, I’ve had to spend a lot of money to do it. That new
dining room and this lounge have cost me a pretty penny. But it has
paid. Most people who come once, come again.”

“The last proprietor was a bit old-fashioned, I should say.”

“More than that, sir, he was terribly slow and conservative. What was
good enough for his father was good enough for him. One of that type,
you know. You want a different kind nowadays to make and keep a
business.”

Aylmer agreed, and there was more talk about Sherehaven, its wants and
its possibilities. Its one great recommendation was its splendid air.
No amusements of any kind, not the place for gay people. You must go
to the big coast towns if you wanted that sort of thing. But an ideal
spot for persons who were a bit run down and wanted rest.

Presently Aylmer inquired if there were any decent lodgings to be had
in the neighborhood. He invented a neat little story of an elderly
relative who was a bit run down and required a quiet place of the
Sherehaven type where she could recuperate. The bustle and noise of an
hotel would be too much for her; she would prefer comfortable lodgings
with a respectable landlady who could cook suitably for an invalid.
Did the landlord know of such? By this harmless subterfuge, he hoped
to learn something about Rosebank.

The landlord, who rejoiced in the prosaic name of Smith, was naturally
a mine of information, knowing pretty nearly everything about
everybody in the small township of Sherehaven. He rattled off half a
dozen addresses.

“Of course, here, as in other places, there is accommodation to suit
all purses,” he explained in his genial way. “It can be done very
cheap amongst the fisherfolk and their like. Your friend would not
want anything of that sort; she would like a place fit for
gentlefolks.”

Having paid this tribute to his new customer’s obvious station in
life, he proceeded to explain further. “Any one of these places I can
recommend--cleanliness, attention, and plain cooking. But for
something a little bit better, of a higher quality altogether, I
should suggest Mrs. Robinson, of Rosebank, one of the few houses on
the front, facing the sea.”

Aylmer pricked up his ears. It made things easier that this
pleasant-mannered landlord had come to Rosebank without any prompting.

“Mrs. Robinson is a widow, was cook for many years in a noble family,
by whom she was allowed a liberal pension. So, she has something to
fall back upon, when the times are a bit lean, as they often are in
these seasonal places. Still, she is a very thrifty, managing woman
and she has done well, never had to ask a favor of anybody. Just the
sort of place, I should say, to suit your invalid relative. The house
is never full; she rarely takes more than one set of lodgers at the
time. And, at the moment, she is empty; she had a married couple for
several weeks. They left five or six days ago.”

So Quentin had told the truth in his letter to the American; he had
been on the point of leaving Sherehaven. Aylmer looked at his watch.
A quarter to six, he would not dine till half-past seven. There were
no other visitors staying at the King’s Head, so Mr. Smith had
suggested to him a nice little dinner, a fried sole, and lamb cutlets,
done in egg and bread-crumb in the good old-fashioned English way,
followed by an apple tart. Aylmer agreed; he did not despise the art
of the foreign chef, with his daintiness and his cunning sauces, but
the good plain fare was an agreeable change.

Presently he bade his pleasant landlord a temporary farewell,
announcing his intention of interviewing the worthy Mrs. Robinson and
filling up the time to dinner by renewing his acquaintance with the
beauties of Sherehaven.

It was not difficult to find Rosebank, the very diminutive parade
being limited in extent. There was a small crescent of some twenty
houses, half of which bore cards in the windows intimating that
lodgings were to be let. The other half, presumably, were tenanted by
private persons. At the west end, several yards from the crescent, was
a staring block of unfinished buildings, gaunt and windowless,
evidently the unsuccessful venture of a much too optimistic
speculative builder who had appeared on the scene before Sherehaven
was ready for him.

To the east of the rather picturesque crescent, he found Rosebank, a
pretty little house of two stories, overhung with luxuriant creepers,
its name painted in bold white letters on the green gate. There was an
air of cleanliness and neatness about the place which was decidedly
attractive. The door was in the center, and there were flower boxes in
the windows, on each side. The landlady was evidently a person of
refinement.

Still, pretty and picturesque as it was, it was hardly the place that
the luxury-loving Quentin would have chosen to spend weeks in.
Quentin, who had stayed in the most luxurious hotels in Europe, whose
roomy house at Hampstead was all that the most refined taste could
make it. What had driven a man of his cosmopolitan tastes here? Was
there an imperative necessity to hide himself for a while, or had he
sought Sherehaven simply in order that he might practise retrenchment
till such time as he found himself again in funds?

Mrs. Robinson opened the door in person, but Aylmer had a vision of a
white-capped maid standing in the rear. Obviously, the woman did not
belong to the impecunious order of landladies.

The young man explained the reason of his visit, telling her the same
tale about an invalid relative that he had told to the landlord of the
King’s Head. “Mr. Smith spoke of you in the highest terms, and told me
he knew that, at the moment, you were vacant,” he said in conclusion.

Mrs. Robinson showed him the rooms, very cozy, very clean, but also
very small. She told him that she occasionally let another bedroom, if
there was a very great demand for accommodation, but as a rule she
took only one set of lodgers, reserving the other apartments for her
own use. No doubt, the liberal pension from the noble family enabled
her to jog along in her quiet, thrifty way, without having to fill her
house as full of people as it could hold.

The inspection was over, and Aylmer descended into the tiny little
sitting room. Again he found himself wondering how the Quentins could
have endured even a brief sojourn in such cramped apartments.

His object, of course, was to get her to talk about her previous
lodgers. “I suppose you don’t have many people at this time of the
year? Your business is just confined to the few summer months?” he
remarked.

He had seen at once that she was a genial, talkative sort of woman.
There was no difficulty in engaging her in conversation.

“That is mostly the case, sir, but this year I have been very
fortunate. I had a dear old lady staying with me for some time. And
then, a few weeks ago, when I was thinking it was hardly worth while
keeping the bill in the window, a very delightful couple came along, a
Mr. and Mrs. Quentin.”

She was fairly started now, a very little encouragement would keep her
going. “I have met a Mr. and Mrs. Quentin abroad. I wonder if they are
the same? Would you mind describing them to me?” said Aylmer.

She did so, at once. “Mr. Quentin was a dark man, very quiet and
rather reserved, I should say about forty years of age, or perhaps a
little over. The wife was a beautiful young woman, little more than a
girl. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.”

Aylmer drew a deep breath. “Ah! they were not a very happy couple, in
your opinion?”

“How could they be, sir, when there was such a disparity in age
between them--she a mere girl, and he a middle-aged man, and so quiet
and grave? Take my word for it, May and December ought never to mate.”

“Hardly December in his case, was it? You could scarcely describe a
man in the forties as in his Autumn much less his Winter,” said
Aylmer, suddenly conscious of his own ten years’ seniority.

“Well, perhaps you couldn’t, sir,” replied the garrulous landlady.
“But, to my thinking, it’s wrong. Youth should go to youth, not to
middle age. There was always a sad, dissatisfied look on her pretty
face all the time she was here. Many a time have I gone into her room
of a morning--she always had her breakfast in bed--and seen her eyes
swollen with crying. She slept over here; Mr. Quentin’s bedroom was on
the other side of the passage.”

“Did they quarrel at all?”

“No, I am quite sure they did not; they could not have kept it from me
in a small place like this where you can hear every sound. To do him
justice, I must say he seemed most attentive and considerate towards
her, rather gave me the impression that he was trying his best to make
up to her for the injury he had done her by persuading her to such a
marriage. But he could never chase that sad look away.”

“How did they amuse themselves while they were here? Sherehaven
doesn’t appear to me to be a very gay place.”

Mrs. Robinson smiled. “It’s never that, sir, in the height of the
season, and out of it, it is as dull as ditch water. Well, they got
through the time somehow. Mr. Quentin stopped in the house a great
deal, reading, and writing long letters which he always took to the
post himself; I think that was really the only exercise he got. She
used to take long walks in the morning and afternoon; one of her
favorite excursions was to Ockham Glen, about a mile and a half from
here, a very pretty and romantic spot. But I have often seen her come
back looking more unhappy than when she went out. She had such a
sweet, charming way with her, you couldn’t help getting fond of her.
But you have met her, you say?”

“Yes, abroad. I stayed in the same hotel with them for some little
time,” was Aylmer’s reply. “I did not notice any signs of depression
about her then. She seemed to be in good spirits and ready to take her
share in any gaiety that was going forward.”

Mrs. Robinson reflected a few seconds before she spoke again. “It may
be that the quiet life here made her melancholy. There was another
thing, although perhaps I ought not to mention it. Mr. Quentin was a
good lover of the pleasures of the table; he spent a lot of money on
food. Well, there’s no harm in that, but he was also a heavy drinker.
In the daytime, the whisky decanter was never far from his elbow, and
at dinner he used to consume a great deal of wine. Considering the
quantity he got through, he carried it fairly well; but there was
hardly a night that he did not get pretty mellow. When he was like
that, he grew jocular and not a little foolish. Many a time when the
maid was out and I have been into the room to clear the things, I have
seen him in that condition. I think this weakness of his disgusted
her, and that in those moods she hated and despised him.”

Aylmer had heard as much as he wanted, and he thought it time to bring
the interview to a close. It was clear that Eileen was very miserable,
and, no doubt, on his account. She had not been sad at Ostend. Her
altered demeanor must be due to what had happened since.

He felt he had gained the kindly woman’s confidences under false
pretenses with that story of an invalid relative. He must make her
some amends.

“Well, Mrs. Robinson, about these rooms. They are just the sort of
thing that would suit me under similar circumstances; but, as you
know, ladies have a knack of suddenly altering their plans. I think
the best thing for me to do will be to pay you now a week’s rent in
advance for the option on them. Before the week is up I will send you
a telegram saying yes or no.”

After a little polite reluctance, the landlady accepted this very
gracious offer, and Aylmer went away with the agreeable reflection
that he had not wasted his time. In a few days he would send her a
wire from London stating his regret that other arrangements had been
made.

He stayed the night at the King’s Head, and next morning walked about
Sherehaven before he returned to London by the midday train. His
journey had not been a failure. He had derived a certain melancholy
satisfaction in getting into touch with somebody who had so recently
seen and spoken to his dear sweetheart.

There was also a certain sad pleasure in following in the wake of her
footsteps in the solitary rambles she had taken to divert her unhappy
thoughts. He could picture her walking about that pretty and
picturesque road to Ockham Glen, her favorite excursion according to
Mrs. Robinson. He could imagine her gazing on the romantic prospect
with feelings as miserable as his own, mourning bitterly over the
past, chafing at the bonds which, for some inscrutable reason, bound
her so firmly to a man she could neither love nor respect, for whom
her only feeling could be one of gratitude for the compassion he had
shown her in one of the saddest hours of her life.




 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Aylmer was due at the Savoy, the day after his return to London, to
keep an appointment with the American millionaire. Mr. Whitefield
never accepted hospitality without giving a more than adequate return.
And before leaving the City Carlton Club, he had given an invitation
to the two young men to lunch with him at the Savoy.

Peyton and Aylmer arrived there within a few seconds of each other;
the host had not yet put in an appearance. When ten minutes had
passed, the younger man began to show signs of impatience. His father
used to make a proud boast that never in his life had he been late for
an appointment. His son had the same scrupulous regard for time, and
voiced his annoyance.

“A typical business man in so many ways, and yet always unpunctual,”
he remarked to his friend. “A remarkable kink, I can’t understand it
myself. He’s so full of energy that he’s always trying to cram the
work of two hours into one, with the result--that he gets a bit
behindhand in the process. Bet you he gives us a magnificent spread;
he always likes to make his dollars felt, does Cyrus J. He’ll make my
modest club lunch look a mean thing. Personally, I hate these heavy
meals in the middle of the day; you’re not fit for any work in the
afternoon. If we had many clients like him, they would kill us with
kindness.”

During the next few minutes, Peyton volunteered the announcement that
he had fixed matters up with Miss Murcheson the evening before, and
was now an engaged man. He received his friend’s congratulations with
his usual _sang froid_. He certainly did not seem unduly elated that
the charming Lily had consented to be his wife. They were to be
married in six months.

As Aylmer’s glance rested on that placid, contented face, he could not
repress a certain feeling of admiration for a man who conducted his
life on such well-ordered lines. Claude Peyton was perfectly satisfied
with himself and his lot. He was not asking for any more out of
existence than it was giving him--a handsome income at an early age,
increasing as the years rolled on, the reversion of his father’s share
of the business when that worthy gentleman, in the fullness of time,
would be gathered unto his fathers. A very pretty and quite charming
young woman for a fiancée, who would make an ideal wife and mother
and never give him a moment’s uneasiness.

Yes, Claude Peyton was an admirable specimen in many ways--honest,
capable, and practical--of the type that had made England great in the
past. If there were many more like him, young men who had responded
instinctively to their early training, England would be great and
prosperous in the future.

Of course, there were certain things lacking in this estimable young
man. You could not say that he was a fine spirit touched to fine
issues. If he had been in the same unhappy position as his friend, you
could not picture him following in the footsteps of Miss Murcheson,
and visualizing the presence of his lost sweetheart as she tripped
daintily along.

Aylmer even felt a certain sense of humility as he contrasted himself
with his friend, so limited, yet so blissfully unconscious of his
limitations. He felt that he was the thrall of his own romantic
temperament, and was ready to admit such a temperament was more of a
curse than a blessing. Whatever he adventured upon would never be
undertaken with the same sound common sense, the same calm detachment
which characterized this youngster, so much his junior. Was not Peyton
much the happier of the two? Did he, Aylmer, rather lose than gain by
his deeper insight into the subtleties of life, by the fact that his
emotions were more easily stirred, more deeply touched?

That insight enabled him to gauge Peyton very thoroughly, to
anticipate the ordinary thoughts and feelings of his commonplace
personality. On the other hand, Peyton, even in moments of supreme
illumination, could only glimpse a very little of his friend’s
temperament. Yes, surely, this prosperous young stockbroker was to be
envied. And, in every situation, he always would acquit himself well.
He would make an excellent fiancé, escorting Lily to dances and
theatres, attentive but not ardent. He would make an exemplary
husband; there never would be the faintest cloud on the domestic
horizon. On the other hand, he would miss something, he would never
thrill to a word or a kiss from sweetheart or wife. The Peytons of
this world are not thrilled by such unsubstantial things. Perhaps,
after all, he would not change temperaments with his friend.

Any further reflections were arrested by the entrance of the host, a
quarter of an hour behind time, full of boisterous apology, a figure
of remarkable vitality and vigor. It was difficult for ordinary people
not to feel a certain insignificance in the presence of this dominant,
overpowering man whose sixty years sat so lightly upon him, and who
expressed so eloquently the immense energy of his strenuous nation. He
shepherded them into the dining room as if they were a couple of
schoolboys.

He appeared to be in the best of spirits, and talked unceasingly
during the progress of the very profuse lunch. Peyton remarked later
on to his friend, with a sarcasm he did not often indulge in: “The old
boy was at the top of his form, wasn’t he? I expect he had brought off
a big _coup_ and ruined half a dozen people. That’s the cheerful sort
of sport in which these chaps delight.”

Presently Whitefield turned to Aylmer. “What about Nice? Have you made
up your mind yet?”

Aylmer spoke with just a shade of hesitation: he was conscious that
Peyton’s disapproving eye was fixed on him. “Yes, I think I will run
over for a few days. I might as well go there as anywhere else.”

“Good,” cried Whitefield heartily. “Well, what do you say to our going
together and springing a surprise on good old Quentin? He won’t expect
to see you in my company.”

Aylmer was delighted with the suggestion; such a proposition suited
him very well. Considering what had happened, he would have felt a
certain embarrassment in entering the Hôtel Negresco by himself. Now
he would have a very natural explanation of his visit. He had met
Whitefield in London and he had pressed him to be his companion. A
third party would remove the awkwardness inseparable from the
situation.

Eileen in her letter of renunciation had given him no details of what
had passed between herself and the man she called her husband. But
Aylmer had imagination enough to reconstruct them for himself. When
Martyn had revealed the fact of his having seen them come out together
from the Soho restaurant, Quentin would naturally demand an
explanation of their clandestine meeting. Eileen, in self-defense,
would have to confess the truth, that they were in love with each
other. She hardly could go so far without going farther, without
admitting that she had given away the secret of her not being
Quentin’s wife. The meeting between the two men, were they alone,
could not fail to be a very awkward one. Whitefield would certainly
prove a most convenient third party.

“Yes, I shall be awfully pleased to accompany you,” Aylmer answered.
“By the way, it would be a good idea that of springing it upon them as
a surprise. So, if you are writing to them again, perhaps you would
not say anything about me.”

Whitefield promised. “I may write them a brief note, stating the time
of my arrival; but as regards yourself--mum’s the word, you can rely
upon me.”

Peyton left soon after lunch, pleading, with absolute truth, a
pressure of business. As he went along to his office, he had
considerable food for reflection. First and foremost, he was heartily
sorry that Aylmer had succumbed to temptation, and, to use his rather
confused imagery, was again going to put his head in the lion’s mouth.

Then, he fell to wondering why Whitefield had pressed Aylmer so
heartily to go to Nice. There was no doubt, Mrs. Quentin was the
attraction for the millionaire. Why did he want to take an attractive
young man with him? Was Whitefield such a supreme egotist that he
considered himself irresistible, in spite of his sixty years and grey
hair, so irresistible that he thought nobody else had a chance against
him and his dollars? There was no telling. He was a shrewd and very
clever man, but the cleverest men are often blinded by their own
overpowering vanity.

After Peyton had left them, the other two went into the lounge and
stayed there, talking and smoking, for the best part of an hour, and
Aylmer found the millionaire a much more genial and companionable
person than that for which he had given him credit. He certainly had
not shown the best side of himself at Ostend; but, that might be
accounted for by the fact that he was too greatly engaged with Mrs.
Quentin to take much notice of anybody else.

From the Savoy, Aylmer went on to Duberry’s office. It was only an act
of common courtesy to let him know that he had discovered the
whereabouts of the Quentins. Not a twitch of the eyelid showed that
the detective was deeply chagrined to learn that the young man had
succeeded where he and his satellite had failed.

“Well, that was a bit of luck your coming across Whitefield,” he said
in a cheerful voice. “So the old fox doubled back to England after
all; you will remember I hinted at that possibility. I don’t suppose,
considering the slender material we had to work upon, we should ever
have located him at an obscure place like Sherehaven, if we had put a
dozen men on his track. You are a student of criminology yourself; you
know what a great part mere chance plays in so many of these
discoveries, that to the public appear so wonderful.”

Aylmer agreed ungrudgingly that it was so. If he had not, by the
merest good luck, come across the American millionaire, he would have
been as much in the dark, as ever. Before leaving, he paid Duberry a
handsome compliment on what he had done for him in finding out so much
about the two men, Ramon and Dicks, and assured him that he did not
begrudge a penny of the money he had laid out on the business. They
parted the best of friends.

It was with the greatest difficulty that he could possess his soul in
patience during the weary time of waiting. The days seemed
interminable. But, at last, the hour came when he and Whitefield were
speeding towards Nice, as fast as express could carry them. Would his
journey bear fruit? He wondered. Would he be able to extract from
Eileen the nature of that insuperable barrier to which she had alluded
in her brief letter of farewell?

The two men entered the lounge of the Negresco, together. There were
only two people seated in it, Eileen and Quentin. The girl’s face
paled, and then flushed deeply, as she recognized Aylmer. Quentin made
a slight gesture of surprise as he rose to greet the newcomers, one of
whom he certainly did not expect, but his self-control was wonderful.
Of the two, he appeared much less embarrassed than Aylmer.

Whitefield explained matters in his usual loud, boisterous style. “You
didn’t bargain for two old acquaintances, eh? I ran across Claude
Peyton--you remember Peyton at Ostend, of course--told him I was
coming here and suggested he should join me. So here we are. If Peyton
were here, the old party would be complete. By the way, is your friend
Martyn with you?”

Quentin replied in a rather cold voice that Martyn was with them, but
out at the present moment; they would see him at dinner. It was
evident that he was considerably taken aback by the unexpected
encounter, although he did his best to mask his feelings under the
guise of indifference.

Presently Quentin drew Whitefield a little apart, and engaged him in a
conversation which presently became animated. No doubt, like Aylmer
himself, he found it impossible to maintain easy relations with a man
who knew so much about him and his real relations with his supposed
wife. The young man addressed himself to Eileen, with whom, for the
moment, he felt almost as embarrassed as with Quentin himself.

“It is a very small world, Mrs. Quentin. But as you travel so much and
I am a confirmed globe-trotter myself, we should have been bound to
meet some day.”

She motioned to him to sit beside her where they were out of earshot
of the two men. “Why did you come, after what I told you in my
letter?” she asked in a low voice. “In a way, I am glad to see you, to
speak to you once more; yet I am miserable that you are here,
because--because----” Her voice broke in a smothered sob.

“I came because I had to, as soon as I knew where you were to be
found,” was the fervent answer. “If you had been at the ends of the
earth, instead of this trifling distance, I should have had to come,
to implore you to tell me the whole truth, to learn what it is that
stands in the way of our happiness.”

“Hush!” she said, sending a nervous glance in the direction of
Quentin. “We cannot talk here.”

“Where and when can we talk, then?” he asked doggedly.

“Oh, my dear, so much better that we should talk nowhere. But if you
insist, to-morrow morning, here, as soon as you find me alone. It must
not be to-night, even if we get the opportunity. I am too miserable,
too unstrung. You were always so gentle and considerate, you will not
press me, you will make allowance for my weakness.”

A diversion was created by the arrival of Martyn, who had been taking
one of his solitary rambles. He greeted Whitefield first, and then
crossed over to Aylmer. He held out his hand, as in politeness bound,
but there was no affability in his manner. Apparently, he was as
little pleased to see him as Quentin himself.

Whitefield and Aylmer had rooms on the same floor. A little time
before dinner they went up together. Evidently the American had
noticed the cool demeanor of the two men towards his companion. “Old
Quentin was all right with me,” he remarked, “but he didn’t appear to
give you a very warm welcome. Of course, Martyn’s manner doesn’t
count; he was always a surly sort of chap.”

If it had not been for Whitefield, who was in one of his most genial
moods, dinner and the evening that followed would have been very dull
indeed. Eileen spoke hardly a word and only smiled faintly in response
to some of the American’s sallies. Martyn was never a talker at the
best of times. And, although Quentin drank liberally, he did not
become mellow under the influence of the generous wines as was his
wont. There was a curious constraint about the man; and, as a matter
of course, Aylmer knew that it was due to his presence. A similar
constraint was upon him, himself.

Finding that the party was such a dull one, Whitefield devoted his
attention to Eileen for the rest of the evening. He was always
accustomed to blurt out his thoughts without much consideration for
the feelings of others, so he had no hesitation in imparting his
opinion of the situation to his companion.

“Seems as if I had made a bit of a mistake asking young Aylmer along.
Your husband doesn’t appear to want him at all, would rather he had
stayed away. Can’t make it out; he was such pals with him at Ostend.”

Eileen made some evasive reply to the effect that Quentin had been
upset by some unpleasant news from England. Whitefield, all
unconscious of the silent drama that was being carried on before his
eyes, little guessed that she could have given him the true reason of
this changed attitude.

It was some little time after breakfast the next morning before Aylmer
could get Eileen alone. It showed that either Quentin or Martyn was
keeping guard over her, and then the American was perpetually buzzing
about. But at last, after half a dozen futile attempts, he found the
opportunity he wanted.

“You must be very quick,” she said, as she beckoned him to a seat
beside her. “Richard is terribly upset at your following me here; you
could see that for yourself last night; his manner to you was almost
rude. He won’t give us many chances of being together.”

“I got your letter, of course, but it told me no details, only
stressed the fact that there was an insuperable barrier between us,”
said Aylmer, speaking rapidly. “Now, I should like to know something
of what passed between Quentin and yourself after he received that
information from that spying Martyn. Did you tell him the whole truth
of our relations, or only a portion of that truth?”

“I told him the whole truth,” she answered, speaking quickly, in her
turn. She knew that at any moment their interview might be
interrupted. “I told him that we had fallen in love with each other,
and reminded him of his promise to let me go if I found some one I
really cared for.”

He paused for a moment, then said:

“Did you tell him you had confessed to me that the supposed marriage
to him was a pretense, a sham, a mere compact entered into in a
foolish moment for the sake of keeping up appearances?”

“Of course. That was almost the first thing I did tell him.”

“And what attitude did he take up then?”

She answered him almost in a whisper, and as she spoke, her eyes
seemed ever on the watch for the interruption she felt sure would
come. “He was not so disturbed at that as I thought he would be. He
spoke very gravely, said there was something he was bound to tell me,
and after he had done so, he would leave it to my own judgment to
decide whether I would or would not marry you. He told me, and when he
had finished, I knew that I must give up all hope of becoming your
wife.”

In his eagerness, the agitated lover drew closer to her. “And what is
the nature of that barrier that you say divides us?”

The answer came in a faltering voice. “That I cannot tell you; I don’t
think I shall ever be able to tell you.” Suddenly she made a slight
movement of the hand. “Hush! I hear his footsteps coming down the
staircase. For pity’s sake, do not ask me the question again; my
answer will always be the same. Believe me, there is no hope of its
ever being different.”

Quentin was upon them almost as soon as she had spoken the last
sentence. For a moment the two men gazed at each other with that hard
look in their eyes which two duellists might wear before they crossed
swords. The next instant, they both relaxed--the man who was supposed
to be Eileen’s husband, the man who wanted her for his wife. Quentin
spoke in a cool, indifferent voice.

“Many times as I have been to Nice, I always find in it a fresh charm.
If I were compelled to choose one place for a perpetual residence, I
think my choice would fall here.”

Aylmer, imitating his mood of well-bred indifference, was rather
disposed to agree.

When he had said a few laudatory words in favor of the place, Eileen
joined in the conversation, although the short scene between Aylmer
and her had so tired her that she could hardly keep her voice steady.

“I am very fond of Nice, but if I had to make a choice, I think I
should select Biarritz. I don’t think I ever enjoyed myself as much at
any place as there, when we stayed at the Hôtel du Palais.”

Aylmer looked up quickly. “You have stayed at the Hôtel du Palais?
When were you last there?”

She gave him the date, in a voice that had grown more assured, now
that they were fairly launched on impersonal topics.

“Ah, then you were there at the same time as my relative Sir Charles
Reeks. He died suddenly of heart disease, according to the medical
verdict. I dare say you remember the occurrence.”

“Certainly, it was a very sudden death, and cast a gloom over the
hotel.” She turned to Quentin: “You remember it, of course, Richard;
you and he were rather by way of being friends.”

Quentin rose, somewhat to Aylmer’s surprise; he had expected him to
mount guard over Eileen. “Perfectly, my dear; Sir Charles was one of
the most agreeable, well-bred men I ever met. Well, I think I will
take a short stroll. I can trust to Mr. Aylmer to take charge of you
in my absence.”




 CHAPTER NINETEEN

There was silence between them for a little time after Quentin had
made that sudden exit. Aylmer was a man of very acute sensibility; he
knew exactly what his companion was feeling--a very real distress that
they were alone, that he had an opportunity of re-opening the previous
discussion. All the chivalry in him rose to the mute appeal in that
white, miserable face.

“Since you will not break the silence, it seems I have had my journey
for nothing,” he said sadly. “I did hope, when we were face to face,
the promptings of your own heart would compel you to speak. I am sure
that you underrate the strength of my love. What could you confess to
me that I would not pardon, that I would not make excuses for?”

“You are torturing me,” she said in a stifled voice. “If it were my
own secret only, I might tell you. What am I saying? Oh, please,
please, take pity on me and press me no further. It is not like you to
be indifferent to a woman’s pleading.”

These last words touched him deeply. He laid his hand gently upon
hers. “So be it, then, I must accept what you have said as final. But,
Eileen, you have broken my heart.”

What she might have replied to this he did not know, for at that
moment Whitefield crossed the lounge and came up to them. With a
careless smile to Aylmer, he attached himself at once to his
companion.

“Mrs. Quentin, you don’t appear to be in your usual spirits. Let an
old man try to cheer you up. Let us take a brisk walk together.”

She rose with alacrity. Aylmer could feel that she was relieved by the
advent of this breezy and not overdelicate-minded millionaire, who had
arrived in the nick of time to extricate her from an intolerable
situation. The two went out together. Whitefield evidently wanted the
lady to himself and did not pay the young man the compliment of asking
him to make a third. In his present mood, half-angry, half-despairing,
Aylmer stigmatized the American as a silly old philanderer, forcing
his attention on a woman young enough to be his daughter.

He sat there by himself, ruminating over what had taken place between
them, over the abrupt departure of Quentin after that allusion to
Biarritz. And, suddenly, a strange thought flashed into his mind and
began to assume a very definite and persistent shape. Little by
little, he began to piece certain things together--the almost
desperate attempt of Quentin to get from him that large sum of money,
his studious cultivation of Whitefield, the persistency with which he
had followed the millionaire up, taking advantage of his _penchant_
for Eileen to lure him to Nice. He was disturbed in his absorbing
reverie by the approach of Martyn.

That usually taciturn person seemed in an unusually expansive mood
this morning: he sat down beside the young man and entered at once
into conversation by asking him if he intended to make a long stay in
Nice.

At the end of that interview with Eileen, Aylmer almost definitely had
made up his mind to return to England in a day or two, but that long
reverie had altered his plans. He was not going till he had found out
something he wanted to know. His reply to Martyn was to the effect
that he thought he would stay quite a week, perhaps a little longer.

After this brief interchange of remarks, there was silence for some
time between the two men. Aylmer broke it with the sudden question:
“By the way, I suppose you read in the papers that strange affair of
Quentin’s butler--the fight between him and another man in a common
lodging-house in Soho, the result of which was that they both killed
each other?”

Martyn always had a shifty expression. Aylmer noticed it was more
shifty than usual as he made a somewhat hesitating answer. “No, I did
not see it myself; Quentin told me about it quite recently. Queer sort
of affair, certainly. He must have been mixed up with a questionable
lot. Most surprising. He always seemed the very embodiment of
respectability. Quentin had the most wonderful testimonials from his
last place. It shows how easy it is for a man to lead a double life.”

Aylmer made a few more remarks, but it was obvious that Martyn was not
inclined to discuss the matter. After a little while, the young man
went out and dispatched a long telegram to his valet, whom he had left
in London. It contained very minute instructions concerning the
dispatch of a certain parcel to the Hôtel Negresco, and it was to be
forwarded to him with as little delay as possible.

When he got back, he found Whitefield in the lounge. He had returned
from his walk with Eileen, who at once had left him and gone to her
own room. The American seemed a little dissatisfied with the state of
things.

“Old Quentin’s all right with me,” he remarked. “Don’t find any
difference in him. But somehow we don’t seem to have reproduced the
atmosphere of Ostend. Mrs. Quentin could never be anything but
charming, but she seems a bit off color. To use the old expression,
there seems to be a fly in the ointment.”

Aylmer guessed accurately what was passing in the other’s mind, and
had no hesitation in voicing it. “I expect that fly is my very humble
self. You yourself noticed that he didn’t seem very overjoyed to see
me. I expect he thinks it rather a piece of impertinence that I
presumed to follow him here.”

Whitefield nodded his head. “Mind you, he hasn’t said a word to me on
the subject, but I have the same idea. Of course, I shouldn’t have
said so, if you had not seen it for yourself. What are you going to
do? Stick it, or sheer off?”

Aylmer could not tell his companion the truth, that he was proposing
to remain until he had finished certain investigations which he
intended to make. He passed the subject off as lightly as he could.

“I certainly shan’t sheer off until I am quite ready. I shall give
Quentin a pretty wide berth except at meals, when we must meet for the
sake of keeping up appearances. As he seems to have taken such a
dislike to me, he will be grateful to me for withholding my company.”

The American looked as he felt, puzzled and curious, and as usual, he
had no hesitation in expressing his feelings.

“Deuced rum a chap should change suddenly like that. Do you know of
any cause yourself for the alteration?”

It was, of course, a very awkward question for a man who particularly
disliked deception. But then it was impossible to tell Whitefield the
actual truth. Aylmer dissembled as best he could.

“I have certainly given him no cause for offense, so far as I am
aware. But there is something peculiar about him, I mean he’s the sort
of man you never would get to the bottom of, and he may have taken
offense where none was intended.”

“You don’t find Mrs. Quentin’s attitude at all changed, I suppose?”
persisted Whitefield, his curiosity still unslaked.

“She and I are still good friends,” was Aylmer’s answer. “But she
certainly seems a little more staid than when we met at Ostend.”

Although delicacy was not a distinguishing characteristic of the
American, he was well-bred enough not to pursue the subject further.
But it was easy to see that he was not at all satisfied with the
replies his companion had given him.

It was true, in a general way, that Aylmer had made up his mind to
have as little to do with Quentin as possible, but he had resolved to
have one perfectly frank interview with the man, as soon as he could
get the opportunity.

It came two days later. Quentin was alone, and Aylmer addressed him
without any preliminary beating about the bush.

“I think the time has come for some plain speaking between us, Mr.
Quentin,” he said gravely. “We are on quite equal terms, you know what
I know, and I am equally cognizant of what you know.”

There was just a little quiver on Quentin’s face. But, he did not at
once seek to avoid the issue. He spoke in a voice as grave as Aylmer’s
own. “If you think it will serve any useful purpose, pray speak what
is in your mind, Mr. Aylmer. Eileen, of course, is to be the subject
of the discussion.”

“Certainly,” answered the young man firmly. “You know that, in a
moment of confidence, she imported to me the strange secret of your
pretended relations; you know that she told me, further, that when you
induced her to enter into this compact with you, you gave her your
solemn promise that you would never stand in the way of her happiness
if, later on, she should meet with a man whom she could love.”

Quentin inclined his head. “She has given you a perfectly accurate
account of the circumstances. I did make that promise.”

“And now you have withdrawn it.”

“Pardon me, that is not quite the correct word to use,” replied
Quentin in the same level, restrained tones. “When she told me you
loved each other, that she wished to become your wife, I was
confronted with a very painful situation. It was my duty to tell her
certain things which I had concealed from her for her own good, things
which, in all probability, would have still been concealed from her,
but for the fact of what I must call your unfortunate intervention.”

“She speaks of an insuperable barrier between us. I maintain that I
have a right to know the nature of that barrier, in order that I may
judge if it is as insuperable, as she believes it to be.”

“Hardly a right, I think, Mr. Aylmer. The whole circumstances are so
very peculiar, that it is difficult to apply ordinary canons of right
and wrong to them. But I do not think you are in a position to demand
what you ask from either of us. No doubt, you have questioned Eileen
on the subject?”

“I have, and she refuses to enlighten me. That is why I come to you.”

There was a long pause, and then Quentin’s manner suddenly seemed to
alter. From the grave, self-contained man of the world, he seemed to
change into a friendly and sympathetic being. There was extreme
kindliness in his tones, in the rather melancholy glance with which he
surveyed the unhappy young lover.

“Mr. Aylmer, I have more sympathy than you are likely to credit me
with, and I am very sorry for you both in this unhappy _impasse_ in
which you find yourselves. I loved Eileen’s mother with a passionate
love, and Eileen is very dear to me for that mother’s sake. I have
always liked you very much. I still like you; and, moreover, I have a
very great respect for you as a man of steadfast and unblemished
character.”

“Pardon me if I speak quite frankly,” interrupted Aylmer, “but you
have not displayed any marked liking for me during my brief stay at
the Negresco. Even Whitefield has remarked upon your almost
ostentatious coldness.”

“I cannot help feeling deeply chagrined at your following us here,
after the explicit letter Eileen wrote you; and, I dare say, I have
shown that feeling pretty plainly.”

“You dictated that letter, perhaps.”

“Certainly not,” answered Quentin with a dignity that rather repressed
Aylmer’s impetuosity. “I left it to her to say what she pleased, and
of her own free will she told me the contents. She told you there was
an insuperable barrier between you. I tell you the same. She refuses
to give you any further explanation. I am sorry to say that I must
follow her example. You have sought this interview, Mr. Aylmer, not I;
and if it leaves you with any sense of grievance against either of us,
or both, you will forgive me for saying you have acted very unwisely
in following us here. I go further and say I think you have acted with
a want of consideration for Eileen herself, in not taking that very
explicit letter she wrote you, as final.”

There was such a calm and forceful dignity about Quentin’s attitude
that, though the young man’s heart was hot and angry within him, he
kept his temper in check.

“You will give me no other answer, then?” he said, speaking as quietly
as he could.

“No other, not if you asked me till doomsday,” replied Quentin firmly.
Then he spoke very gently, and it seemed there was genuine feeling,
not only in his words, but in the tone in which they were spoken.

“I have told you that I sympathize with you both, and it is the
literal truth. I am an older man than you, and I have known the
bitterness of disappointed love. But time brings solace, and also
healing, to the deepest wound. The world, perhaps, is never what it
might have been if one’s early dreams had been fulfilled, but it is
possible to find a tranquil happiness. If I may presume to give you
advice, you may resent it at the moment, but I am sure you will admit
the wisdom of it later. Leave this place as soon as possible. Accustom
yourself to look at the future with Eileen dismissed from the
foreground. Mix as before with your own circle of friends, your
relations, till in time you forget that you ever came across such
birds of passage as ourselves, people not the least in touch with your
own world. Do this, and surely you will forget.”

“I shall never forget,” said the young man bitterly. “You have hinted
that you have suffered as I am suffering now. Have you forgotten?”

“Not forgotten, certainly,” answered Quentin in the same gentle tones.
“But the memories are no longer painful. The years have brought to me
the anodyne, as they will to you.”

Aylmer rose. He felt there was no use in prolonging the interview; he
would get nothing more out of this calm, inscrutable man who had
revealed a strain of feeling that he had not given him credit for. He
had very dark suspicions about him, and he looked at him with a long,
searching gaze that sought to penetrate behind the reserve in which he
always seemed to wrap himself. But Quentin endured the scrutiny
without flinching. On his calm face was still that smile,
half-melancholy, half-kindly, that seemed to express an infinite
compassion for the impetuosity, the warm, reckless temperament of the
other man.

“I cannot say whether or not I shall take your advice, Mr. Quentin. Of
one thing you may be sure, I shall not intrude my company upon you
more than is absolutely necessary. If it were not for Whitefield, I
would not burden you with my presence at meals. But it would be hardly
politic to let him into the secret that there is a serious
disagreement between us. He is curious enough as it is.”

Quentin lifted a warning finger. He had caught sight of the
millionaire entering the lounge.

Whitefield fortunately, however, had not caught any portion of what
Aylmer was saying. He came up to them in his loud, breezy way, and
addressed the older man. “Now then, Quentin, it is quite early; I
don’t suppose your wife will show herself yet, and Martyn has gone off
on one of his solitary walks as usual. Good opportunity for us to take
a little stroll together. You can give me full details of that
business you broached last night.”

The two men went out together, and Aylmer stood looking after their
retreating figures, an expression of deep thought on his face. So
there was going to be a business talk between them, and the subject of
it had been broached the previous night. Quentin must have been sorry
that Whitefield had blurted out the matter so openly.

A few days later the parcel arrived from London. Aylmer untied it in
his bedroom, and satisfied himself that everything he wanted was
there. When he went down to breakfast the next morning, he learned
that Whitefield was leaving for Rome a few days later. He gathered
that there had been arranged, between him and Quentin, a meeting in
that city on a subsequent date; and, he further understood that, on
this occasion, Martyn was not to be one of the party.

He had spoken very little to Eileen since that unsatisfactory
interview with Quentin. He was beginning to accept his fate with some
sort of resignation, and he was conscious that the girl felt unhappy
and ill at ease in his society. He would have left ere this but for
his resolve to test certain very strong suspicions which had suddenly
arisen in him out of some random remarks dropped by Eileen.

After breakfast he took a stroll round the town, and on his return was
surprised to find her standing in the hall equipped for traveling.

“I am going back to England at once,” she explained hurriedly. “I am
waiting for Richard to take me to the station. A telegram arrived
about an hour ago; it is in consequence of that I am going.”

He looked at her steadily till the telltale color rose to her face.
She might have had a telegram; but, if so, its transmission had been
arranged by Quentin to get her out of the way. Of that he was
confident.

“That is the official explanation,” he said quietly. “It may be good
enough for some people--Whitefield, for instance, whom you will see
later on in Rome--but it is not good enough for me. You are going away
because you want to avoid me.”

She did not attempt to refute him. He could see that she was very near
to tears when she spoke.

“Cannot you see it is better for us both, dearest?” she said in a low
voice. “It breaks my heart to part from you so soon after our brief
reunion, which made me happy in a way, at the same time that it made
me miserable. But it is best, for you as well as for me.”

“It is Quentin who has engineered this sudden _coup_, who has forced
you to go,” he cried jealously.

She shook her head. “I believe he is glad I am going, but he has not
insisted on it. I want to go myself, because I know it is the best
thing I can do. I should leave of my own free will without his
intervention.”

“And you will not tell me where you are going?”

“No,” she said firmly. “Because, if I did, we should have all this
miserable business over again. You would follow me to England as you
followed me here.”

“It is all finished, then,” he said gloomily. “Do you remember the
beginning of our ill-starred love was when you asked me at Ostend to
be your friend?”

“Am I ever likely to forget it?”

“Does it mean that, under no circumstances, will you ever call upon my
friendship?”

“No, dearest, it does not mean that. If ever a day comes when I can be
frank with you, I may remind you of that promise. Strange that on that
day I had an overpowering presentiment of impending disaster, and it
was a false alarm. I feel the same to-day in even greater measure. I
inherit a strong vein of superstition from my dear mother. Though we
say good-by now, we may meet sooner than we think.”

They were the last words she said to him for, a few seconds later,
Quentin joined her and hurried her into the taxi that was to convey
her to the station.




 CHAPTER TWENTY

An hour later Aylmer came across Whitefield. There was a question he
had wanted to put to Eileen. But, the interview was so brief, he had
not had the time to put it. The information he desired he could get
out of the American if he could screw up his courage to tackle him.
For, Whitefield was a somewhat formidable personage, and his moods
were capricious. At one moment he would not trouble to resent the
grossest impertinence, at the next, he would flare up at the most
trivial thing.

Aylmer made up his mind to take his chance. “Excuse me, Mr.
Whitefield--I am going to take a great liberty; I am not sure you
won’t think it a piece of the grossest impertinence. I intend to take
the risk of that. A few mornings ago, I heard you invite Quentin to
take a walk, for the purpose of discussing with you some business that
he had broached to you on the previous evening.”

The millionaire spoke in a gruff voice. “Quite true, sir. He had
spoken to me about certain business matters. As you and I are nothing
more than the merest acquaintances, I confess your allusion to the
fact does savor a little of impertinence. Unless, of course, you have
some very justifiable motive in making it.”

“I have a very strong motive; if I could tell you all the reasons that
impel me to approach you, I think you would admit a justifiable one,”
answered the young man gravely. “At the present moment, I am forced to
be very reticent; I am acting only upon certain suspicions which have
formed in my mind. But I can only assure you I am acting with the
fullest sense of responsibility in regard to the course I am taking,
that I am not endeavoring to obtain your confidence from any motive of
idle curiosity.”

The American bent his bushy brows upon him. “You are speaking in
riddles, my good young friend. Say what you want to say, and I will
then tell you whether or not I consider you are impertinent.”

It was not, perhaps, very great encouragement, but it emboldened the
young man to proceed. “In as few words as possible, then, has Quentin
approached you with a view to either borrowing money or inducing you
to put money into some plausible scheme?”

Whitefield gave a start, but did not answer the question directly.
“And what is your reason for asking me this?”

“You must forgive me if I keep silence as to that for the moment; I
have the most cogent reasons for doing so, which I may be able to
explain later. I would ask you, further, to preserve absolute secrecy
with regard to our conversation. That is absolutely essential before I
can say another word.”

There was a different expression on Whitefield’s face now. Aylmer’s
intense gravity certainly had made a deep impression on him. The long
and searching scrutiny to which he had subjected him, impelled him to
a more considered estimate of his character and possibilities. Up to
the present, he had regarded him as a young man of agreeable address,
born to good fortune, contented to lounge away his life in the pursuit
of quite harmless amusement, rather above the average, perhaps, in
intelligence, but not possessing abilities of any outstanding kind.
There now seemed in him a quiet strength denoting qualities which were
not immediately apparent to the ordinary observer.

“I will keep absolute secrecy as you request. And now in answer to the
question which you say you have a quite justifiable motive in putting,
Quentin asked me to lend him money to invest in a certain scheme in
which he is greatly interested. The details of it would not interest
you; for my part, it recommended itself to me, of course upon
Quentin’s slightly optimistic explanations, as a fair business risk. I
don’t know that these considerations would have had much weight with
me; I have so many irons in the fire, have so many interests in big
undertakings, that small things like this venture don’t appeal to me.
But he added a personal note.”

“Ah,” cried the young man. “I can guess that he brought Mrs. Quentin
into it.”

There was just a shade of confusion in the millionaire’s manner. “You
seem to be endowed with a good deal of insight. He confessed that he
had been living up to a great rate for some years, had made serious
inroads on his capital. He was getting anxious about his wife when
anything happened to him. This speculation would return profit enough
to enable him to make handsome provision for her.”

He smiled in a rather shamefaced way, as he added: “So now, young man,
you have got the whole truth out of me. I let him have the money
because I thought it was doing a good turn to his wife. Otherwise, I
don’t suppose I should have entertained the idea for a minute.”

It was as Aylmer had thought; the artful schemer had got at this
worldly-wise man, this astute financier who had made his fortune by
picking out the good schemes that were presented to him and rejecting
the doubtful ones, through the innocent Eileen.

“Is the deal completed? Have you parted with the actual money?” asked
Aylmer presently.

“I gave it him last night in cash. For some reasons of his own he
wanted it that way. Of course, I usually give a check in this sort of
transaction.”

“And I suppose you got a formal receipt for it?”

“Certainly, he gave me one, at once. He was very punctilious about
that. I remember he made some joking remark when he handed it to me,
that life was short and he might die within the next few minutes, and
in that case there would be nothing to show he was my debtor unless I
had it, at once. As a matter of fact, I did not trouble myself much
about the matter, not looking upon it as a legitimate business
transaction. My motive was to do the poor little woman a good turn.
There’s no use beating about the bush. Quentin is a decent sort of
chap enough, but I don’t set up for being a philanthropist, and if a
man gets into a muddle through his own want of foresight, I don’t, as
a rule, feel any imperative obligation to help him out of it. When a
sweet and charming woman is involved, the situation assumes an
altogether different complexion.”

There was a long pause. Presently the American rubbed his grey head
thoughtfully, and spoke again. “I reckon most of my friends would say
of me that I’m a pretty ‘’cute one’; but since you have been speaking,
I’ve an uncomfortable conviction that I have behaved like a darned old
fool. Now look here, Aylmer, I have answered all your questions quite
frankly, and I have not suggested that any one of them was
impertinent. I think it is your turn to be straightforward with me. I
don’t ask you to tell me anything it would be wiser to keep secret for
a while. But it’s evident you know something of this chap, Quentin. I
surmise he has been up to the same trick before. What do you really
know or suspect?”

“At the moment I have not the slightest evidence to go upon; in
whatever I suspect I am relying upon nothing stronger than the merest
intuition,” was the quiet answer. “I may or may not get some
convincing evidence in the course of the next twenty-four or, perhaps,
forty-eight hours. Should I fail, I rely upon you not to give me
away.”

“Of course, of course, I never break a promise. But your intuition, as
you call it, must have had something to feed upon. You might tell me a
bit. Is he an adventurer, pure and simple, living on his wits, and
using that pretty little wife of his as a kind of decoy?”

Whitefield’s voice rose into a high crescendo on the last words.
Aylmer knew quite well what was troubling the egotistical
American--the thought that a person of his proved capacity, a man who
prided himself on his knowledge of men, should be taken in by anybody,
especially by a quiet, innocent-looking creature like Quentin.

He had half a mind to tell Whitefield something of what was in his
mind, to relate his own experiences at Hampstead when Quentin had
tried to get money out of him, but prudence caused him to refrain. The
American was an explosive person, and if he knew too much, might blurt
it out in a moment of ungovernable impulse, heedless of his promise to
keep secrecy.

“Yes, certainly an adventurer,” was Aylmer’s cautious reply. “I cannot
tell you if he is something worse until I have completed certain
investigations I am on the point of making. I will reveal to you those
results when I have obtained them. In the meantime, keep the strictest
guard on yourself; don’t let Quentin suspect for a moment that you
have the slightest doubt of him.”

It was easy to see the millionaire was greatly perturbed by the
conversation, but he paid Aylmer a very handsome compliment. “You have
got a very wise head on your young shoulders; there’s not the least
doubt about that. To speak quite frankly, I am sure there is a lot
more in you than I gave you credit for. You’ve put suspicion in my
mind, and you guess I’m the sort of chap to run amuck when I get my
dander up, so you’re wise in not telling me too much at once. Well,
young Aylmer, I believe in you, and I will follow your advice.
Whatever I may be thinking, and you bet I shall be thinking a deuce of
a lot, I will do my level best to hide it from Quentin.”

Aylmer smiled grimly. “You will have to exercise all your powers of
self-control, I warn you. The man is as clever as they make them, and
as sharp as a needle. He will spot the slightest variation in your
manner.”

“I know, I know,” said the American hastily. Then he switched off to
the subject of Eileen’s departure. “I say, what about Mrs. Quentin’s
sudden dash to England? Is there some hidden meaning in it? You heard
we three were to meet in Rome later--Martyn is going off somewhere, on
his own.”

“What explanation did Quentin give you?”

“It seemed very straightforward,” answered the American. “A telegram
received shortly after breakfast, an elderly aunt dying, wanted to see
her niece before her death. Mrs. Quentin very much attached to her,
the last link with her family, couldn’t resist the appeal, although
she feared she would not be in time.”

Aylmer made up his mind he could confide in Whitefield with regard to
this particular matter.

“A lie, an absolute lie,” he said emphatically.

“But he showed me the telegram, my dear Aylmer.”

Aylmer could hardly repress a smile at his companion’s simplicity. He
might be a superman in dealing with men of business like himself, but
he had no idea of the subtle mentality of a plausible rogue.

“Of course, he would do that. I have told you that he is a very clever
man, also he is more than ordinarily subtle.”

“I should say you were his match in subtlety,” remarked Whitefield
generously.

“Thanks; you are becoming quite appreciative. Well, to return to
Quentin. He would never commit the mistake of making a statement that
he could not corroborate with fairly strong evidence. Depend upon it,
he devised means for the transmission of that telegram through some
friend, or acquaintance, in London. Now, I will tell you something
very important. Mrs. Quentin has practically no friends in England.”

“But, surely, she has relatives?” interjected the American.

“Yes, plenty of relatives who do not acknowledge her,” said Aylmer
calmly. “Her mother made a marriage against the wishes of her family.
The family retaliated by ostracizing her, her husband, and her child.
Mrs. Quentin has not a single relation in England who would
communicate with her under any circumstances, whatever. The elderly
aunt is a creation of Quentin’s resourceful imagination.”

Whitefield bent upon him a sharp glance. “You know that, of course,
from the fountain-head, from something that has been dropped by either
Quentin or his wife?”

“Yes, from the fountain-head,” replied the young man. “At Ostend, Mrs.
Quentin confessed to me several things, many of which I am not at
liberty to divulge. That was one of them.”

He was pleased to see that Whitefield was considerably chastened by
this heart-to-heart talk between himself and a much younger man whom
he had rather looked down upon in his pride of commercial success, in
his fond belief in the irresistible power of his dollars to subjugate
everything, and everybody, to his own wishes and whims.

As the elderly millionaire walked away, Aylmer felt a certain pity for
him. Why did he not carry his years gracefully, in consonance with his
grey hairs and his unquestionable achievement in the world of
commerce? His history was public property. He had led a hard life in
his youth and early manhood, that disagreeable training had induced in
him a certain hardness, in later life. Perhaps the secret of his
existence was this; that denied the natural expansion of youth, he had
begun to live when more fortunate men had long ago sown their wild
oats. This, surely, was the explanation of his eccentric benefaction,
when Quentin had so artfully pleaded on behalf of his wife’s future.

Aylmer went up to the corridor in which his bedroom was situated. He
had omitted to ask for his key, but that act was intentional.

As he slowly ascended the stairs, he was conscious of a certain glow
of satisfaction in him. The many leisure moments he had devoted to the
study of criminology had not been spent in vain. He was sure that he
had in him the makings of a better detective than his friend Duberry.
He had greater qualities of imagination, of insight, than that very
capable member of a very clever profession. Duberry could deal quite
brilliantly with hard facts.

But, by virtue of that quality of imagination, Aylmer could do more.
He could project himself into the mentality of a criminal, he could
anticipate what that criminal would do in a certain given set of
circumstances. At the present moment, he was developing that “sixth
sense” which always is existent in persons of his temperament. He was
reconstructing a tragedy which had happened at the Hôtel du Palais
some time ago, which might be repeated here very swiftly, if he did
not forestall and prevent it.

He waited in the corridor till he saw the chambermaid coming towards
him, a smiling, dark-eyed child of the sunny South. He went up to her
with his most ingratiating smile.

“I’m awfully sorry, but I came up without the key of my room. Can you
help me?”

Unsuspecting of the ruse of this attractive young Englishman, the girl
offered him her pass-key, which opened all the rooms in the corridor.

“Take it with pleasure,” she said simply. “I shall be back again in
five minutes. You will let me have it back then? I should get into
trouble if it was known that it had passed out of my possession.”

He made the necessary promise, and unlocking the door, went into his
own room. During that five minutes he worked very swiftly, taking in
wax an impression of the pass-key.

He was a little late for lunch, but neither Quentin nor Whitefield,
nor the ever-silent Martyn, commented on his tardy appearance. After
the meal was concluded, he went to a locksmith in the town, and had a
key fashioned from the wax impression.

It was at the beginning of the dinner hour that he resumed his
mysterious investigations. The corridor was quite empty, all the
guests were in the dining room. A few doors below his own bedroom was
the chamber in which Quentin slept. There was not a servant in sight.
It was an ideal moment for him to carry out the campaign he had been
preparing.

Unobserved, he drew from his pocket the duplicate key which had been
made for him that afternoon, and he entered Quentin’s room.

Shutting the door carefully behind him, he crossed over the room to
the wash-stand, on the glass shelf of which stood a tumbler. This he
carefully polished with a silk handkerchief, and after having
performed this curious action, he went down to dinner. That evening he
strolled again into the town, and purchased a tumbler exactly
resembling the one he had left in Quentin’s room. This was the first
act in his investigations, the second took place some time just before
breakfast the next morning.

Unobserved, he had watched Quentin leave his room and slip downstairs.
The chambermaid would not appear on the scene for some little time.
The coast being clear, he slipped into the room. The tumbler he had
polished the previous evening stood upon the wash-stand half full of
water. Pouring the contents of it into the glass he had purchased, he
took the other one to his own apartment, holding it very carefully as
he made the short journey.

The next proceedings were the work of a few moments. He produced a
finger-print outfit, and having carefully dusted the telltale tumbler
with white powder, which he removed presently with a small camel-hair
brush, found distinct finger-prints left on the glass.

He drew from the bag which had been sent him by his valet a sheet of
thin green paper upon which were some faint prints.

He compared them, and gave a long sigh of satisfaction. They were
exact. The finger-prints on the tumbler coincided in every detail with
the finger-prints on the bag which had belonged to Sir Charles Reeks.

“My intuition led me right,” he said softly to himself. “And Quentin,
that smooth-spoken, oily hypocrite, is more than a mere adventurer. If
I read the man aright, he will move very quickly, not later than
to-night. There is no time to be lost. I would wire to Duberry to come
out and help me, but that would mean delay. I must act on my own.”




 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Aylmer waited for some time before he went down to breakfast. His
loathing for Quentin was now so great that he shrank from a meeting,
feeling doubtful if his powers of self-control were strong enough to
prevent him from showing in his altered demeanor the hatred that
possessed him. Both Quentin and Martyn were men of remarkable
punctuality, never late at meals, and they did not stay long at table.
If he waited another half an hour, the chances were he would find them
gone.

When, at length, he went down to the dining room, he was relieved to
find there was nobody at their usual table but Whitefield. As he
seated himself, the American looked up, and nodded a cheerful
good-morning.

“I notice you have come in late to meals on one or two occasions,” he
remarked in a low voice. “I was late on purpose myself this morning. I
suppose the same motive has actuated both. You are of a calmer
temperament than I, but you find it difficult to sit cheek by jowl
with such a pair of skunks and keep on talking and smiling as if there
was nothing at the back of your mind. Think how much more difficult it
is for me, who am ready to explode over the most trifling thing. I
have been thinking a lot over what you told me. In fact I haven’t
thought of much else since, and I am sure, when you do make up your
mind to speak, I shall hear some astounding revelations.”

As a matter of course, Aylmer was now in a position to give the
American some information of the utmost importance. Yesterday he had
entertained only the strongest suspicions; this morning he was
absolutely sure of certain facts. The American’s shrewd eyes were
fixed on him, their intense regard seemed to intimate pretty plainly
that he guessed something had occurred since that long conversation
between them.

“I take it you have not been idle since we talked together,” he said.
“You have been pursuing those investigations to which you referred.
Has there been any result? When there was, you will remember you
promised to take me into your confidence. I don’t want to force you in
any way, but you can guess I am eaten up with a very natural
curiosity. I have parted with ten thousand pounds, and your
discouraging attitude compels me to think I might as well have thrown
it in the gutter.”

There was an intensity in Whitefield’s manner as he uttered those last
words, an almost childish eagerness which made it difficult for Aylmer
to refrain from confiding in him to some limited extent. But, though
very impulsive in many things, there was a certain vein of caution in
the young man’s temperament when he was engaged in serious matters,
more especially when they were concerned with other people. Therefore,
knowing the character of the man, he resolved not to trust him till he
could trust him fully--till he was so positive that there was no
longer any reason for secrecy. His case against Quentin was complete
in certain particulars; but he felt convinced it would attain fuller
completion in the course of the next twenty-four hours.

He therefore kept Whitefield’s impatience in check by a reply that was
neither frank nor evasive. “I have found out something, certainly; but
you must forgive me for not wishing to make any disclosures at the
moment. I have got to go a good deal further before I can speak. When
I do, you will not have to complain of my lack of candor.”

There was nothing for Whitefield to do except to acquiesce in the
young man’s resolute attitude, which he did, not perhaps with a very
good grace. Having been used to dominate for the best part of his
life, he was never ready to submit to the domination of others. Still,
he was a sportsman, and after a moment or two of private resentment,
he was compelled to recognize a strength of character which matched
his own.

“I think you are carrying your policy of reticence to a rather
ridiculous extent, and I admit I find it difficult to keep my temper,”
he said. “Still, I can’t help admiring you for the dogged way in which
you keep to the course you have planned out. Well, you’re not going to
tell me anything till you’re quite ready. It seems I have no option
but to accept that. However, I’ll be more frank with you. I overheard
something last night which it may interest you to know, something
which may or may not be of use to you. I came upon Quentin and Martyn
suddenly. They were sitting close together and talking in very low
tones. They didn’t know I was so close upon them, and when they saw
me, they both looked a bit confused.”

Aylmer pricked up his ears. “I should certainly like you to tell me,
Mr. Whitefield. It may be that it is important, but from their air of
confusion it was evidently something they did not wish you to
overhear.”

“I don’t pretend to be physically the man I was, say, ten years ago;
mentally, I think I may boast without vanity I am quite as good,
perhaps a shade better, because I have ten years’ additional
experience which I have made good use of. But to return to the
physical side; there is one faculty I have preserved unimpaired, a
very acute sense of hearing. They were talking together so very
quietly that most people would not have caught anything. But I did
manage to pick up a few words spoken by Martyn to his companion. He
appeared to be talking very emphatically at that particular moment,
and I think unconsciously he raised his voice a trifle. These were the
words: ‘I tell you I am not going to take part or lot in it. I never
have approved of this kind of thing. I shall clear out to-morrow.’ Can
you make anything out of that?”

Aylmer nodded. “Yes, I think it does help me up to a certain point, so
far as regards Martyn. So he is going to clear out, is he?”

“Not a doubt of it,” was Whitefield’s answer. “I got down this morning
just as they were on the point of finishing their breakfast; I had
hoped to escape them altogether, but I had mistimed myself a bit. You
managed it better than I did; but I can see you’re a very calculating
chap, you’re not handicapped by any impatience. Well, we were not
together at the table for more than five minutes. But, during that
time Martyn took the opportunity of telling me he was leaving before
lunch.”

“Did he say where he was going? Did he give any explanation of his
sudden departure?”

“He certainly didn’t say where he was going. He did mumble something
about being fed up with Nice, said it was a place he had never cared
much for.”

“You didn’t notice anything particular about Quentin, while Martyn was
giving you this explanation.”

“I thought both he and Martyn looked at me rather hard. It crossed my
mind they were wondering if I had overheard them the previous night
and watching my expression. I flatter myself I showed nothing; I can
put on a mask, when I like. Well, you say the little incident helps
you, somewhat. There is something in which Martyn doesn’t want to
join. I expect you have a shrewd guess as to what it is.”

Aylmer could not repress a slight smile at the American’s persistent
efforts to draw him. “Yes, Mr. Whitefield, I will not deny that I have
a certain suspicion, but at present it is nothing more than a
suspicion. You really mustn’t try to entrap me with these unexpected
questions. Just now you gave me a sort of promise to possess your soul
in patience. If my intuitions are right, I do not think you will have
to wait very long before you know as much as I do.”

But the American found it a very hard matter to keep his promise. “How
much longer are you going to keep me on the rack, Aylmer? Shall I know
anything to-night, to-morrow morning?”

Aylmer hesitated before he answered the impatient man. He had made up
his mind that Quentin would strike quickly; but, he could not forecast
his action to within a few hours. Would the departure of Martyn
precipitate, or delay, his plans? On the whole, he was inclined to
think it would make no difference.

“Hardly to-night, Mr. Whitefield; very possibly some time to-morrow,”
was the young man’s guarded reply.

The three men met round the lunch table. Quentin talked the most
during the progress of the meal. But, to Aylmer’s watchful eyes it
seemed that he was not his usual self, that his thoughts were
continually wandering to some inner subject of contemplation.

“You have heard we have lost our friend Martyn?” he said, in one of
his rather spasmodic attempts at conversation. “He charged me with his
farewells to you, Mr. Aylmer; he had previously said good-by to Mr.
Whitefield at breakfast. By the way, we did not see you at that meal.
You are usually such a very punctual person--the first to put in an
appearance, as a general rule.”

Was there suspicion in the glance that Quentin bent on him? After a
moment’s hesitation, Aylmer decided in the negative. He had made a
remark on a very trivial incident, simply for the want of something to
say, with the object of keeping up a flagging conversation, in which
he was not greatly assisted by his two companions.

No, the young man felt quite easy in his mind. Quentin might be a very
clever man in his own sinister way, but he could have no idea that at
the present juncture he was confronted with one whose intelligence was
equal in subtlety to his own. The only thing that could make him
uneasy was the suspicion that Whitefield had overheard those
mysterious words uttered by Martyn. But the American was behaving very
circumspectly. His manner did not, in the least, give him away to the
wary and watchful observer who sat opposite to him.

“Our party has suffered a serious reduction,” went on Quentin
presently, in his desire to keep the ball of conversation rolling.
“The unfortunate necessity of Eileen’s going to England, and now the
unexpected defection of Martyn. I feel a bit aggrieved by his making
such a sudden bolt of it. But he was always that sort of chap; you
could never place any reliance on him. If he gave his promise to stay
a month with you, as likely as not he would make some excuse to be off
at the end of the first week.”

That afternoon Aylmer paid another visit to the town and made some
purchases, amongst them being a pillow-case exactly resembling in
quality and appearance the ones that were in use at the hotel.

This he took away with him, but before he returned to the Negresco, he
paid a visit to a certain Monsieur Dumont, who resided at Nice the
greater part of the year, and whose acquaintance he had first made in
Paris. They had been attracted to each other by their mutual interest
in criminology.

Monsieur Dumont was a well-set-up, clear-complexioned man of about
fifty-five years of age. He was supposed to be one of the greatest
toxicologists in Europe, and was constantly consulted by the police of
different countries in baffling and mysterious cases.

They had met some dozen times since their first fore-gathering in
Paris; and, of course, like all men with a hobby in common, they
usually talked about crime and criminals.

Monsieur Dumont welcomed his young friend with the utmost cordiality,
and very soon the talk between them flowed into the old familiar
channels. There had been some half a dozen outstanding cases of crime
since they had last seen each other, and they discussed the details of
them with the gusto of experts.

Then presently, when this topic was exhausted, Aylmer disclosed the
reasons which had induced him to seek his old acquaintance.

“I am doing a little detective business on my own account and may
shortly want your assistance. I cannot be sure at the moment. The
intuitions which I have so strongly at the present time may be all
wrong, the outcome of a too vivid imagination, of a too great faculty
of reconstructing. You remember my discussing with you the death of my
relative, Sir Charles Reeks, shortly after it took place?”

“Perfectly,” was the answer of the great toxicologist whose reputation
was European. “The medical verdict was that he died suddenly from
heart disease. Against that you had the knowledge that he had never
suffered from his heart, that he had passed different Insurance
offices as a first-class life. Further, that a sum of several
thousands, which he had drawn in cash shortly before his death, was
missing, and there was no trace of anybody to whom the money had been
paid. You deduced from these facts a very probable theory of foul
play, and I was disposed to consider your theory a perfectly feasible
one.”

Aylmer smiled. “I see your memory is as good as ever it was. Well, now
I am going to tell you a very strange story.”

For half an hour the eminent scientist listened to a lucid relation of
important facts, on which had been built a certain logical set of
inferences. When the recital was finished, Monsieur Dumont spoke.

“My young friend, I congratulate you on possessing the analytical
faculty in a quite remarkable degree. You would not blush to find
yourself in the company of some of the best professional detectives of
crime. If history is going to repeat itself--and you are quite
justified in envisaging the possibility that it will--you will find in
Mr. Whitefield’s room what you suspect. In that case, you will want my
assistance, which, of course, I shall be most pleased to give you.
There is, naturally, the chance that you may draw a blank, in which
case I shall not be needed. But from what you have told me, bearing in
mind the positive identification of the finger-prints, I believe you
will find your suspicions corroborated.”

“I think the best thing will be for me to ’phone you up either way,
whether I find something or nothing. So expect a call any time between
eight and nine,” said Aylmer as the two men shook hands at parting.

“Right,” replied Monsieur Dumont. “Now, I will just run through it
again to make quite sure that we understand the arrangement. If you
ring me up to say you have drawn a blank, of course I don’t come into
the thing at all--at any rate, for the present. If the contrary, I
send round my messenger to the Negresco for a parcel. In that case,
you shall have my analysis as soon as possible. But I cannot give any
guarantee as to the length of time it will take. It may be a matter of
an hour or two, or of several hours.”

“And as soon as you have anything to communicate, you will ring me up
in my own room at any hour convenient to yourself. Good-by,” were
Aylmer’s last words to Monsieur Dumont.

That night, at dinner, Quentin was late; he did not put in an
appearance till the other two were half through the meal. “It is my
turn to be late this time, Mr. Aylmer; I am afraid your unpunctuality
is becoming infectious.”

He smiled as he indulged in this little joke; but there seemed a hard
glitter in the man’s eyes, a somber expression on his face which
betokened some agitating thoughts. A quick suspicion of the reason of
Quentin’s long delay darted through Aylmer’s mind.

When they went into the lounge after dinner, the young man drew
Whitefield aside, out of earshot of Quentin.

“Now, I want you to hold him in conversation for the next half hour.
Get him on the subject of American railways, he will listen forever;
you know how the topic interests him. I’m going to do a little
investigation, and I want to make sure he isn’t spying after me. Mind
you, I don’t believe he has any suspicion of what I am about to do;
but he’s frightfully artful, and he may be treasuring something up
that his wife let out the other day.”

Whitefield looked at him keenly, but he did not ask him any questions.
He knew the young man by now, that he would keep his own counsel as
long as he chose.

The American indulged in his usual habit, when perplexed, of rubbing
his grey hair. “I think I can improve on your suggestion. He may be a
bit tired of railways now, and beat a hasty retreat, with the result
that he will run across you just at the moment when you don’t want
him. I’ll get him on to billiards, we’re both a pair of duffers and
our game will spin out the time comfortably. Well, good luck to you;
the sooner you find something that enables you to unlock your tongue,
the better I shall be pleased.”

Aylmer greeted this petulant little sally with a smile, and mounted
the staircase which led to the various bedrooms.




 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

First of all he paid a visit to his own room, as he wanted to get
from there certain things which were necessary for the carrying out of
his investigations.

A few minutes later he found himself in the millionaire’s bedroom,
where he went swiftly to work.

One look at the pillow was sufficient to show him he had rightly
diagnosed the workings of Quentin’s mind, that he was only just in
time to avert a repetition of the tragedy which had happened some time
ago in the Hôtel du Palais at Biarritz.

He produced from his pocket a sheet of oiled paper: then putting on a
glass mask, he approached the pillow. His next procedure was to slip
on a pair of thin rubber gloves. Then, very carefully, he removed the
pillow-slip, replacing it with the one he had purchased that
afternoon, and wrapped the one he had removed in the oiled paper.

This he carried to his own room, which he reached without encountering
anybody. He packed up the precious parcel in a stout cardboard box and
addressed it to Monsieur Dumont. Then he rang up the latter.

The well-known scientist answered the summons himself. “What is your
news?” he asked briefly.

Aylmer explained to him the result of his researches in Whitefield’s
room, concluding with the information that he had packed the
pillow-slip in a box and would take it down to the hall-porter to
await Dumont’s messenger.

“Good,” was Dumont’s reply through the telephone. “I will send at
once. I will make an analysis directly it comes into my hands, and let
you know the result as soon as I know it myself.”

Aylmer carried the box down to the hall-porter, and waited about until
Dumont’s messenger appeared and took the parcel away. The young man
looked at his watch; he was well within the limit he had suggested to
Whitefield, the half hour in which the American was to keep watch over
the smooth-faced criminal who had laid his plans with such devilish
cunning.

Much as he had read about crime and its perpetrators, Aylmer, never
yet to his knowledge, had been at close quarters with an actual
criminal. Now he had talked with one in careless intimacy, sat at
table opposite to him, partaken of his hospitality.

One by one, the various incidents of the past went in a slow
procession through his mind. The first meeting at Ostend, when he had
taken Quentin for a cultivated man of means and leisure--the swift
growth of his interest in Eileen, her impulsive confession of the real
relations between herself and her supposed husband--the first visit to
Hampstead, the mysterious and sinister figure of Ramon, escorted to
the garden-gate by the two men long after the rest of the household
had retired to rest--his meetings with Eileen in London, Quentin’s
persistent attempts to get money out of him, a shudder ran through him
as he thought what his fate might have been if he had fallen in with
his host’s suggestion--the sudden departure from Hampstead, Eileen’s
brief and cryptic letter of farewell--the researches of Duberry,
establishing very little in relation to Quentin, except the fact that
he was the associate of very sinister people and therefore himself
suspect--the accidental meeting with Whitefield resulting in his visit
to Nice.

And here, in this charming town, this respectable hotel full of
clean-living people who little suspected that they harbored amongst
them a cold-blooded and callous criminal, the last scene of the drama
was on the point of being played. By now Dumont was beginning to
prepare the deadly evidence that would prove this smooth-spoken man to
be a murderer of a singularly ruthless and calculating type.

He strolled into the billiard-room; there was nobody in it but the two
players, they had dispensed with the services of the marker as they
scored so slowly that his presence rather embarrassed them. Quentin’s
face was greatly flushed; it was easy to see he had been drinking even
more heavily than was his wont. He seemed in an almost excited state
for a man of his usually calm mood, cracking rather silly jokes at his
own bad playing, clapping Whitefield when he missed an easy stroke,
and ever and anon lifting the tumbler to his lips, and ringing for a
fresh supply of drink.

Painfully interested in this new field of psychology that had just
been opened to him, Aylmer found himself wondering whether a miscreant
of this type had any conscience at all. And if he had, was he trying
to drown its still, small voice with these copious draughts of
alcohol?

For he felt quite sure of his facts now. Dumont’s evidence was
necessary, but he had not the slightest doubt of what the great
scientist’s evidence would be. On that pillow-case had been sprinkled
a deadly mixture which would send the American into a sleep from which
he would never wake.

They stayed in the billiard-room till it was past eleven o’clock,
playing game after game. Stifling his loathing, Aylmer played once
with Quentin, who by now had drunk pretty nearly as much as he could
carry. Whitefield began to yawn, and refused Quentin’s invitation to a
last trial of strength.

“I begin to feel a bit sleepy, I think I shall toddle off.” And having
said this the American rose to go.

“The night is still young,” cried Quentin a little boisterously; his
voice was still steady but his gait seemed a bit uncertain. “Aylmer,
you’re only a boy. You don’t want to go to bed yet. Let you and I have
a fifty up.”

But Aylmer declined. He had stood Quentin’s company in the presence of
a third party, but he felt it would be nauseating to be alone with
him.

“No, I am going to follow Mr. Whitefield’s example. Come along, sir.”
He tucked his arm in that of the millionaire, and they left the room
together, leaving Quentin at the table, playing idly with the balls.

“Seems to me that our friend has indulged a bit too much,” remarked
Whitefield as they went up the staircase together. “He was quite
boisterous to-night. He takes his lotion pretty freely always, but I
have never seen him so far advanced as to-night. I suppose he is
making merry over my ten thousand pounds,” he added with a grim laugh.

“More than likely,” agreed Aylmer with a grimness equal to his own.
Whitefield’s room was at the further end of the corridor in which the
young man’s was situated. Aylmer accompanied him to the door, and as
they shook hands, addressed him.

“Mr. Whitefield, you have a bolt on your door?”

The American looked his surprise at the question.

“Of course I have. Why do you ask?”

As usual, Aylmer did not directly answer the question.

“I don’t know whether you habitually make use of it; it is always
safer to do so in hotels. You have said you believe in me. Will you
kindly oblige me by bolting your door to-night?”

Whitefield stared at him, hard. “Do you mean to say this fellow would
have the audacity to come into my room in the dead of night to rob me
of more than he has done already. Besides, how could he get a key?”

Aylmer smiled at his companion’s simplicity, and drawing from his
pocket his pass-key which he had become possessed of through the
instrumentality of the obliging chambermaid, inserted it into the lock
and threw open the door, much to Whitefield’s astonishment.

“You see I can enter your room; I am an honest man who is on the side
of law and order. It only requires a very little ingenuity. If I can
do it, how much easier for a professional rogue. No, I don’t think
Quentin will want any more money from you, but he might pay you a
visit from other motives.”

And then, suddenly, Whitefield’s sorely tried powers of self-control
gave way, and he indulged in one of his explosive fits; when it came,
Aylmer was not in the least surprised; he could only marvel that the
American had been able to keep himself in check so long.

“Look here, young Aylmer, I’m not sure you are acting in quite a
friendly way with me. You fill my mind with all sorts of horrible
suspicions, and still you keep up that irritating reticence. Surely,
you can drop a word, a hint to relieve my anxiety.”

The young man laid his hand upon his companion’s arm, and spoke in a
soothing voice. “I can quite understand you are very angry with me.
Well, give me just a bit more rope--say, till after breakfast
to-morrow morning, and I promise you that then you shall know exactly
what I know myself. When I do take you into my confidence, I want to
do it fully, to reveal to you absolute facts, not mere suspicions. And
now, good-night, and don’t forget to bolt that door.”

He left the millionaire still fuming a little, but more comfortable in
his mind. According to Aylmer’s promise, he had only to wait a few
hours longer for the mystery to be cleared up.

The young man went into his own room, but he did not at once proceed
to undress. The exciting nature of the situation made him very
wakeful. He sat in an easy chair, absorbed in thought. Then, after a
quarter of an hour’s interval, he heard the telephone bell ring. In a
few strides he was at the instrument and listening to the voice of
Dumont.

“Well, my friend, I have made the analysis; it did not take me so very
long, after all. I say, can you put yourself in a taxi and come round
to my place? It is better to talk over these things privately.”

In spite of the hour, of course Aylmer would go. In a few moments he
was closeted with the well-known scientist in his cozy study.

“You were absolutely right in your suspicions,” said Monsieur Dumont.
“This scoundrel is evidently a toxicologist of some pretensions. That
pillow-case was sprinkled with a little-known but most powerful
poison. It is prepared by the Malays from the plant Cheraka, with
datura seeds; he must have picked up the recipe in his wanderings.
Quite a little of it sprinkled upon a pillow and inhaled during sleep,
would produce symptoms so exactly resembling heart disease that a
post-mortem would fail to discover the true cause of death. There can
be no doubt now as to the way in which your relative came to his end.
Equally certain that this miscreant intended to remove Whitefield, by
the same means.”

Aylmer returned to the hotel and got straightway into bed. He had
imagined it would be a long time before he would get any sleep. But in
this supposition he was mistaken. The strenuousness and excitement of
the day had produced the inevitable reaction. He fell into a profound
and dreamless slumber from which he was aroused by the entrance of the
chambermaid.

He rose, had his bath, and dressed himself quickly. Then he went out
into the corridor and made his way to Whitefield’s room. On his way he
passed Quentin’s apartment, and paused a moment to listen. This
cold-blooded murderer was habitually an early riser; the chances were
he was already astir. He could hear no sound of movements within. But,
as the door was shut, he concluded Quentin was still inside. He was
curious to know if anything had happened in the night. He had intended
to keep awake, but sleep suddenly had overcome him.

He rapped at Whitefield’s door. A gruff voice called out: “Who is it?”

“It is I. Frank Aylmer,” was the answer. The head of the millionaire
appeared in the doorway; he was fully dressed save for his coat and
waistcoat. In his deep-set eyes was a watchful look. When he
recognized the young man, his expression lightened.

“Come in, you’re an early bird. I didn’t expect to see you before
breakfast. Sit down. I can tell by your manner something has
happened.”

Aylmer sat down on the proffered chair. Now that he felt justified in
breaking the long silence he had imposed on himself, his excitement
was almost equal to that of the American. He felt as eager to tell
everything now as before he had been reluctant to open his lips.

“Yes, a great deal has happened, and in a few moments you will know
everything,” he said. “But first tell me, did Quentin try to enter
your room, any time, in the night?”

“I can’t be sure one way or the other,” was Whitefield’s answer. “I
was awfully drowsy when I went up to bed. But what you said at the
last minute seemed to drive the drowsiness away, and, when I got
between the sheets, I felt as wide awake as it was possible for a man
to be. I’ll swear I didn’t close my eyes for some hours; then, I
suppose, I must have dropped off. All the time I was awake I was
listening for the sound of a key in my door; I had bolted it as you
urged me. I had an ugly dream that he was trying to force his way in,
and it was as vivid as it could be. So, as I have said, I can’t tell
you one way or the other. For all I know to the contrary, he might
have made an attempt in the middle of the night and been baffled. And
now you say you are going to make a clean breast of it. But first tell
me why he should want to get into my room. You say he was not after
more money. What, then, would be his object?”

“Simply to get hold of the receipt he had given you, and destroy it.”

Whitefield considered a moment. “I think I see. There would then be no
evidence that I had lent him the money. I suppose he then would have
shuffled off and hidden himself somewhere, so that I couldn’t get at
him.”

It was evident the American was not yet near the point of suspecting
the whole of the ghastly design which Quentin had worked out with such
devilish cunning.

“He is a thorough criminal, Mr. Whitefield. His main object in coming
to your room in the dead of night would be to get hold of the receipt.
But I think he had another motive--the desire to make sure that his
plans in another direction had not miscarried.”

A swift flash of intelligence showed itself in Whitefield’s deep-set
eyes. “There is no mistaking your meaning, Aylmer. In addition to
swindling me out of ten thousand pounds, this infernal miscreant
intended to purloin the receipt, and in order to make assurance doubly
sure, close my mouth for ever.”

“You have guessed aright, sir,” was Aylmer’s answer. “Now I will tell
you a few things which will enable you to understand how I became
involved in the matter, how I have, fortunately, been able to rescue
you from a terrible end. I shall make my story as brief as I can, and
I may say that I owe my action to the merest accident. But for a few
words that Mrs. Quentin let drop, I should never have been able to
piece things together as I have done.”

“Was that charming little woman in it?” asked Whitefield eagerly.

“I will stake my life on it she was not,” said Aylmer firmly. “She may
lately have had some suspicions that he was a crook, but she never
dreamed him to be the vile criminal he is. If she had been his
accomplice, she would never have given me the clue she did.”

He then proceeded to tell the American of the sudden death of Sir
Charles Reeks at Biarritz, how the medical evidence was that he had
died of heart disease, and his own suspicions of foul play.

“Now, to tell you how a sudden inspiration came to me which enabled me
to piece things together. Mrs. Quentin happened to let drop that they
had stayed at the Hôtel du Palais at the time of Sir Charles’s death.
She appealed to Quentin for confirmation, and after a few brief words,
he rose and walked away, although I happen to know that, at that
particular time, he had every reason for not letting her out of his
sight. This action of his set me thinking. I expect you have heard of
the expression ‘reconstructing the crime’.”

“Often,” replied Whitefield. “I believe it is a method greatly favored
on the Continent.”

“I did this with regard to the incident at Biarritz. I knew that Sir
Charles Reeks had parted with a large sum of money to somebody shortly
before his death. In all probability, he got from that unknown
somebody a formal receipt. But when his belongings were examined, no
receipt was found. A dispatch-case came into my possession on which
were certain unidentified finger-prints. At once, by one of those
flashes of intuition for which it is impossible to account, I
connected Quentin with the Biarritz mystery.”

“But there must have been certain data on which to build your theory,”
Whitefield interjected.

“Quite true. A certain similarity of circumstances. Quentin had tried
to borrow money from me, and had been refused. He had succeeded in
borrowing money from you, and given you a receipt. It was therefore on
the cards that he was the unknown somebody who had been paid that
large sum of money by Reeks.”

“I follow you so far, but it was nothing more than a shrewd guess. Any
one of a hundred people staying at the Palais at the same time might
have been the unknown somebody,” objected Whitefield.

“Perfectly true. At its best it was nothing but a guess instigated by
the fact that I had made some inquiries about Quentin, and while
finding practically nothing against him, I had discovered that he was
the close associate of a notorious evil-doer. Of course, I wanted
proof. If I could get Quentin’s finger-prints, I could compare them
with those on the dispatch-case. With a little ingenuity, I contrived
to get them, and found them exact. I therefore established the fact
that Quentin had tampered with the dispatch-case for his own ends.
From that point, the process of reconstruction was comparatively
easy.”

Whitefield nodded his grey head. “Yes, I think I see the process by
which you arrived at it, but please give me more details. I am
intensely interested.”

“I felt convinced in my own mind that Quentin had got that money from
Sir Charles, had stolen the receipt and put him out of the way, so
that the transaction would not be revealed to any human being and he
would never be called upon to refund the amount. I guessed that, to
effect his diabolical purpose, he had made use of some subtle and
little-known poison. With criminals of his type a knowledge of
unfamiliar poisons is a part of their stock-in-trade. I do not suppose
for a moment that Sir Charles was his only victim.”

“And he was going to practice on me the same methods that he used on
your relative,” cried the American with a shudder he could not
repress.

“As soon as I learned from you that you had lent him that ten thousand
pounds, and the very remarkable fact that he had stipulated he should
receive it in cash, I at once jumped to the conclusion that the
chances were a hundred to one the previous gruesome history would be
repeated. I went into your room last night, removed your pillow-case,
which I replaced with one similar in appearance, and sent it to my
friend Dumont, one of the greatest toxicologists in Europe, for
analysis. Until I received his report I could hardly make any positive
affirmation, however sure I was in my own mind. That report I received
some little time after you had gone to bed. The pillow-case had been
impregnated with a powerful poison, prepared by the Malays, the
symptoms it produces in the victim being so similar to heart disease
that a post-mortem would never detect the real cause of death.”

There was a long pause after Aylmer’s circumstantial narrative. The
American was a man of grit and nerve, and although he must have been
terribly shaken by the knowledge of how near he had been to death, he
soon resumed his normal demeanor.

“Well, Aylmer, what can I say to express my thanks for what you have
done? Any form of words I can think of would be inadequate to convey
my gratitude. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, don’t forget
you have made a friend for life. I know from that vile creature, who,
I expect, is at the present moment gloating over my supposed end, that
you are a young man born to fortune, otherwise I would charge myself
with your future welfare. Well, I cannot now express a tenth of what I
would like to say; perhaps, later on, I shall be able to say it
better.”

He paused a moment, and then spoke briskly. “And now, I presume our
next step is to inform the police.”

Aylmer agreed. He looked at his watch. “Our talk has taken a little
time. I should say that Quentin is half-way through his breakfast. I
propose we wait another quarter of an hour before we go down; he will
have cleared out by then. As soon as possible we will go round to the
police.”

Whitefield had been thinking rapidly over things. “I suppose there is
evidence enough,” he said presently. “You know, young man, I am quite
willing to admit you are very clever; but I think you would have acted
more wisely if you had taken me a bit earlier into your confidence.
If, for instance, we had gone together into my room when you took that
pillow-slip away, my evidence would have been rather important. Now
there is only your bare word for it. You see what I mean?”

“Quite,” said Aylmer. “But I don’t think you need worry about that. I
told Dumont all my suspicions, and advised him that I was going to
abstract that pillow-case for his analysis.”

“I dare say you are right. I can’t help wondering about that little
woman, if she is altogether as innocent as you think her.”

“As I said before, I would stake my life on it that she is,” was
Aylmer’s answer. “I feel convinced in my own mind that Quentin did all
he could to expedite her departure. It seems absurd to speak of
conscience in the case of such a hardened ruffian, but I expect he was
glad to get her out of the way before the expected _dénouement_ took
place. If he has the slightest consideration for any human being, it
would be for her.”

Whitefield looked at him keenly, but made no comment. He was not very
observant in the small things of life, but it did begin to dawn upon
this somewhat egotistical American that Aylmer had been on terms of
very close friendship with Eileen and knew a great deal more about her
than he did himself.

They went down to breakfast, and to their intense relief, found nobody
at their table. The waiter volunteered the explanation that Monsieur
Quentin had finished his meal some little time ago, and had gone out.

He evidently had gone out for only a short while, for they were not
more than half-way through their meal when Aylmer saw him standing in
the doorway looking in the direction of their table, and noticed his
swift change of expression as he caught sight of Whitefield and
recognized that his deadly plans had miscarried. As his glance met
that of Aylmer, his face went livid, and with a hasty movement he
turned away from the dining room.

Two minutes later, the sound of scuffling feet resounded from the
direction of the big hall into which the apartment opened, and the
bark of a pistol rang out.

“Something has happened,” cried Aylmer, and the two men rose
simultaneously and made for the place whence those sounds had
proceeded, followed by some of the waiters and others who were
breakfasting.

A strange sight met their eyes. Half a dozen men were clustered round
and stooping over an inert figure stretched on the floor.

One glance enabled them to establish its identity. That inert figure
was the dead body of Quentin, still clutching in his stiffening
fingers the weapon with which he had ended his evil life.




 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Whitefield was one of those dominating men who instinctively push
themselves forward at critical moments. He did so now, addressing the
leader of the group clustered round the body of the dead man.

“I am an American; my name is Whitefield--Cyrus J. Whitefield; you may
have heard of me. I have been on terms of intimacy with this person
both here and some time ago at Ostend. He was just an hotel
acquaintance, you understand; I know nothing of him except that he was
an agreeable companion. What does it mean?”

The good-looking Frenchman, an agent of police in plain-clothes, bowed
courteously, and spoke in excellent English.

“Everybody, I think, must have heard of Mr. Cyrus J. Whitefield. Under
what name did you know him at Ostend, monsieur?”

“The same as here, the name of Quentin.”

“Quite so, monsieur. He has gone by that name more frequently than any
other; he has always used it when staying in big hotels and towns. But
his real name is Sanderson, he was a man of good education, and, I
believe, of decent family. At one time he was a doctor in Singapore,
but left there on account of some financial trouble. We, with others
of the continental police, have had our eye on him for some years; but
he was very cunning, and it is only lately that we have been able to
get sufficient evidence to justify an arrest.”

“And what was the offence for which you were able to arrest him?”
queried the American.

Monsieur Paillot, such was the police agent’s name, embarked on a
brief narrative. “Quentin, or Sanderson, to give him his proper
appellation, was what is known on the Continent as a _rat d’hôtel_,
one of the chiefs of a big gang who carried on their depredations in
the various capitals of Europe. His rôle was to stay at different
large hotels in the guise of a man of means and leisure, to ingratiate
himself with his fellow-visitors, find out all about them, and
indicate to the working members of the gang the most likely victims.
He had never been known to engage in actual robberies himself, he left
that particular branch to his subordinates; but there was no doubt he
was one of the controlling brains of the organization. They had got on
his track through the confession of one of the gang who had turned
traitor for the sake of a substantial reward.

“Of course, we have had suspicions of him for some time,” said Paillot
in conclusion. “For it was very seldom he stayed at an hotel but there
was a robbery, either while he was there or soon after he left,
engineered in consequence of the information he was able to give to
his confederates. But he kept himself so cleverly in the background
that, until just now, we could never manage to bring anything home to
him.”

Whitefield looked at Aylmer, and the young man nodded to show that he
knew the thought that had occurred to the American.

“There has so far been no robbery during his sojourn here,” Whitefield
explained to the police agent. “But there certainly was one at the
hotel in Ostend where we were last staying together.”

“No doubt he has put one in train here, monsieur; but, of course, it
may not come off in consequence of what has just happened. I expect
the gang will be a bit scared when they hear the news,” said the
good-looking, courteous official.

“Perhaps you would give me a short description of what happened
between you,” suggested the American.

“Willingly, monsieur. When I entered the hall with my men, he was
standing at the door of the dining room, his back was towards me and
he was looking into the apartment. Then, very swiftly, he turned round
and came in my direction. He seemed very agitated before he caught
sight of me, but when we met face to face, his countenance had a
dreadful look. You see, we had met a few times in the course of the
last few years, on occasions when I had charge of the investigations
relating to certain robberies, and he knew me perfectly well. I am
sure he had long guessed that I suspected him, although I was not able
to put my suspicions into words. As I say, he recognized me, and
besides, he saw my men, that was enough to tell him the game was up.
He came to a dead halt, and cried out, as I thought, in a voice of
fear--‘Ah, you here, Monsieur Paillot! What do you want in this
hotel?’ I told him it was him I wanted, and here, Monsieur Whitefield,
I blame myself that I was not quick enough. I ought not to have
answered him but closed with him at once. That half minute of
hesitation was enough for him. Quick as lightning he whipped out the
pistol, put the muzzle to his head, and fired with instantaneous and
fatal effect.”

“I suppose he always carried a weapon about with him as a precaution
in the event of being taken.”

“I presume so,” said the police agent. “From what little I know of
him, I should never have taken him for one of those robust criminals
who would rather kill themselves than face a prison. He was so quiet
and smooth-spoken--just a bit effeminate, I thought. I should never
have credited him with the courage to take his own life. There was
another bird we were after named Martyn, a man who generally hunted
with him in couples. But we are too late for him; he slipped through
our hands yesterday. But I hope we shall have him before long, unless
he cheats us as his friend has done.”

Having learned all that mattered from the polite agent of police,
Whitefield drew Aylmer aside. “Let us get out of this,” he said; “a
breath of fresh air will do us good after such a nauseous experience.”

Together they went out, and walked along in silence for some little
time. Presently Whitefield voiced his thoughts.

“A cunning devil if ever there was one. I was thinking of that robbery
at Ostend, which we may be sure he engineered. That was a clever touch
of his, having some of his wife’s jewellery stolen at the same time,
not the best of her collection, you remember. It was done, of course,
to avert suspicion from himself.” Then his thoughts reverted to Mrs.
Quentin. “I can’t help feeling sorry for that poor little woman, if,
as you seem so confident, she has simply been the dupe of a callous
criminal.”

They walked on again in silence, and presently Aylmer remarked: “I
suppose you will go to the police later on. There seems a good chance
of getting back your ten thousand pounds, unless he put it in some
place of safety as soon as he received it. But one would hardly think
he had time for that, you gave it him so recently.”

Whitefield answered in a rather confused manner. “Yes, I have been
thinking over that, Aylmer, and I have come to the conclusion it will
be wiser to let sleeping dogs lie. I should say an old hand like that
would put it away without a moment’s unnecessary delay. But supposing
he has not done so, and it is found amongst his effects, think of the
delay that would ensue before I could get hold of it. Thanks to you,
he didn’t steal the receipt, although I expect he had a try for it in
the dead of night. No, Aylmer, I shall let that ten thousand pounds go
to the deuce.” He laughed harshly. “I shall try my best to forget it;
but when I do remember it, it will be a bracing reminder of an old
man’s folly.”

Aylmer could easily read between the lines of these words, of this
rather magnificent disregard of money. The millionaire was looking at
it from a point of view the young man could quite appreciate. The
suicide of a _rat d’hôtel_ at the moment of his arrest was not an
event that would excite much attention. The news might never filter
through to England or America.

But if a prominent man like the American millionaire were brought into
the affair, every newspaper in Europe, as well as the American
journals, would scent delightful “copy.” The story of an eminent
financier, well known for his ’cuteness in all the world markets,
being swindled by a commonplace adventurer, would furnish delicious
reading. And Eileen’s name would come into it sooner or later, and
people would draw their own conclusions, that the elderly gentleman’s
generosity was prompted by his admiration of the adventurer’s supposed
wife. Whitefield had powerful business friends who had the greatest
respect for him. In New York he also had a wife and family whom he did
not always take on these little jaunts.

On the whole, Aylmer came to the conclusion the old man was acting
wisely, and told him so. In his position, it was worth more than the
loss of ten thousand pounds, a mere bagatelle to a man of his wealth,
to avoid the risk of a very serious scandal.

“I shall be off this afternoon and get on to Rome earlier than I
intended,” said the American presently. “I suppose you won’t be very
long before you make tracks.”

“No,” was Aylmer’s answer. “I shall wire my man to-night that I am
returning, and start to-morrow morning. Don’t you think we had better
lunch out somewhere? I don’t seem to want to sit in that hotel for a
little while. It’s a morbid feeling, I know, and it will pass soon;
but at the moment, I can’t get that staring dead face out of my mind.”

They lunched at one of the best restaurants in the town, and in the
afternoon Aylmer saw the American off at the station. Whitefield again
expressed his warm gratitude, and repeated his assurance that if
Aylmer ever wanted a friend he knew where to look for one.

The millionaire’s last words were of Mrs. Quentin, who had made such a
deep impression on him.

“I wonder if you will ever come across the little woman again,” he
said. “I can’t help thinking of her. You seem so positive she knew
next to nothing of her husband’s evil courses that I find myself
sharing your belief. An awful shock for her, poor thing, when she
learns what has happened. I wonder if any provision was made for her.
Of course, he may have been telling the truth, or, at any rate, a
portion of it. He may really have wanted to get hold of that ten
thousand pounds as a nest-egg for her. Well, if that is the case, I
don’t know that I shall begrudge it. I suppose she had to look to him
for everything, hadn’t a penny of her own.”

“Very little, so far as I understood,” answered Aylmer. “She told me
once she had been left a very small income by her mother, a matter of
something like fifty pounds a year. Unless he has put that ten
thousand pounds of yours safely away for her, I doubt if Quentin ever
made any provision. My inquiries pointed to the fact that he was a man
of no substance, living, as it were, from hand to mouth. I expect he
spent his ill-gotten money as fast as he raked it in.”

The train was moving off as Aylmer said these last words. Whitefield
waved him a final adieu, and called out a last injunction. “You will
go and see your friend before you leave, you know whom I mean.”

The friend alluded to was Monsieur Dumont, the eminent scientist. He
was the only man besides Whitefield and Aylmer who knew of the
attempted murder. It had been arranged at lunch, after the American
had reiterated his intention of hushing the matter up, that his young
friend should call on Dumont and get from him a promise to keep the
secret.

Dumont was not only a scientist, he was also a keen man of the world,
and Aylmer had no difficulty in making him see the American’s point of
view.

He readily gave the required promise. “Rely upon it, my friend, that,
so far as I am concerned, the incident will be forgotten. Considering
how things have turned out, I think this wealthy person, who seems to
part with his money so liberally under certain influences, has taken a
very wise course. If the scoundrel had lived, I suppose he could have
hardly repressed his natural desire to procure him the punishment he
merited. But now that he is out of the reach of justice, _ma foi_, it
is much the best thing to hush the matter up. It will, I should think,
be a lesson to your Mr. Whitefield in the future; he will think twice
before he mixes himself up with plausible people of whom he knows
nothing.”

When Aylmer arrived in London, the first visit he paid was to Duberry.
He had been thinking things over on his journey, and had come to the
conclusion that it would be the wisest policy to tell him and also
Peyton some portion of what had happened at Nice, that part relating
to one side of Quentin’s criminal career. The other part, relating to
the murder of Sir Charles Reeks and the attempted murder of
Whitefield, he intended to keep to himself for the sake of Eileen,
who, he was resolved, should never know through his instrumentality
that the man who had befriended her was a criminal of the deepest dye.

There was just the chance that the English papers would not get hold
of the news of Quentin’s tragic end, more especially as he appeared to
be better known to the continental police under his real name of
Sanderson. But, if they did, it would be very difficult for him to
justify his silence. Peyton knew he had gone to Nice for the express
purpose of meeting the Quentins, and he would be sure to make some
inquiries about them when they next saw each other.

Duberry was, of course, deeply interested in the story of the sudden
arrest and suicide. “My old friend Webber could find out nothing about
Quentin here,” he remarked. “He evidently confined his malpractices to
foreign countries. But, of course, the mere fact of his association
with Ramon suggested that he was of the criminal type. Every day I
live I confirm the truth of the old saying that a man is known by the
company he keeps. That very respectable butler, Dicks, was, no doubt,
another member of the gang, at any rate acted for Quentin in some
useful capacity.” He added presently: “And what has become of the lady
who passed as Mrs. Quentin? She was on the scene when the tragedy
occurred, I suppose?”

“No, she left a day or two before.”

Duberry looked at him sharply. “Do you know where she went?”

Aylmer answered truthfully that he had not the slightest idea.

“Do you want to trace her?” was the detective’s next question. “I
might be more fortunate this time.”

Aylmer shook his head. “I think not, as my feelings are at present,”
he answered, and the reply gave Duberry the greatest pleasure.

As a matter of fact, the dearest wish of Aylmer’s heart was to find
Eileen, and for that purpose he might shortly avail himself of the
services of a detective. But he resolved to go warily until he had
thought over things very carefully. And he had fully made up his mind
that, in any case, he would not employ Duberry on such a mission. He
would go to some stranger.

With Peyton he had a fairly easy time. That energetic young man was
very busy, his head full of his various business affairs, and he did
not seem to take more than a somewhat languid interest in the story
which Aylmer unfolded to him. His comments were very brief.

“Well, I pretty soon tumbled to the suspicion that he was a wrong ’un,
after that little incident of his trying to fleece you. It was so
obvious he had cultivated you with that end in view. But I had no idea
he was such a high-class artist as he appears to have been. What a
nerve the chap must have had, one can hardly help admiring him for it.
Swanking about in swagger hotels, living on the fat of the land, and
marking down the likely victims for his pals to operate on. And that
fine house at Hampstead, too. I’m glad he didn’t take it into his head
to invite me. I suppose he chose his customers. He knew a poor devil
of a junior partner wasn’t worth wasting his time on. If he could have
got hold of the governor, wouldn’t he have been all over him? Not that
he would have caught him, he’s too wary a bird.”

In spite of his very serious thoughts, Aylmer smiled at Peyton’s
rather flippant reference to his hard-headed parent.

“I think either you or your father would be a match for a dozen
Quentins, my dear Claude.”

“Thanks for the compliment, old man; but without boasting, I think
either of us would be a tough proposition. By the way, talking of
crooks, do you remember a fellow you met one day in our place, named
Ramon? You asked me about him, had a notion you had met him before in
some place or another.”

“I remember him perfectly,” answered Aylmer shortly.

“Well, I don’t know if you saw it in the papers. He was a crook, of
the financial sort, swindling companies, worthless shares, that kind
of thing. The police went to arrest him in some common lodging-house,
found him dead on the floor, and another man, gasping out his last
breath, another crook like himself, of course. They had had a dust up
over some division of the spoil most likely and did each other in,
ridding the world of a couple of pretty rogues.”

“Yes, I think I did see it,” was Aylmer’s cautious answer; he was
resolved not to let Peyton know too much. “But it passed from my mind
till you mentioned it.”

“A client of ours, you know. Not a very big one, perhaps, but from
first to last he invested a pretty tidy sum. They never found the
wife, I expect she had got the ‘oof’ in safe custody. The governor was
awfully annoyed about it. He’s very sensitive in business matters; he
seemed to take it as a slur on himself that he had a swindler for a
client. I comforted him by prophesying that we might have a good many
more before we had finished, although they might not have the bad luck
to be found out. Well, good-by, old man. So the curtain is rung down
on the Quentins. How did the little woman take it?”

Aylmer returned the same answer he had made to Duberry, that Mrs.
Quentin had left before the tragedy took place and had not revealed
where she was going.

And, as Claude Peyton now disappears from this story, it may be
narrated that, in due course, he married his pretty sweetheart, and
proved a most exemplary husband to an equally exemplary wife.

Aylmer now had been back in England a week, and was making up his mind
to take steps for the discovery of Eileen. But he was forestalled in
his intention by the receipt of a brief telegram from her.


 “Please come to me at Rosebank, Sherehaven.--Eileen.”




 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Eileen was waiting for Aylmer at the little countryfied station the
next morning. Her telegram had been dispatched late on the previous
evening. There was no late train to this out-of-the-way place or he
would have started off there and then. As it was, he took an early one
on the next day and arrived at a few minutes past noon. From the
London station he had dispatched a wire informing her of the time at
which she might expect him.

His heart ached as he looked at her and saw the inexpressible sadness
on her face, the pathetic droop of the slender figure. Heedless of the
few passengers who had alighted at the same time as himself, he took
her arm, and led her out of the station in silence.

When they were in the road leading to the little town, she spoke,
turning her sombre eyes upon him. “You know why I sent for you?”

“I can guess,” was the answer. Then he added briefly: “You have heard.
When did you hear?”

“Three days ago. I had received no communication from--from him since
I left Nice. But that did not worry me; he was always an indifferent
correspondent. We had been separated before, and I never got more than
an occasional letter, always of the briefest.”

“And who was it who informed you?”

“An envelope was addressed to me in an unfamiliar handwriting. I had a
presage of evil tidings when I opened it; you know almost my last
words to you were that I had a presentiment something disastrous was
about to happen. Inside was a hastily scrawled note in pencil, I at
once recognized Martyn’s handwriting. There was no address, no date,
no signature. I can tell you the exact words, for they are graven on
my memory. ‘You will get this through the medium of one I can trust, I
dare not let you know where I am. The police came to the hotel, I had
left the day before for the purpose of arresting Richard. Before they
could effect their object, he shot himself. He had always told me that
if such a thing came about, he would never suffer himself to be taken
alive. Aylmer was there at the time. I believe Richard has made some
provision for you, of which you will hear later.’”

News, no doubt, traveled quickly in the underworld, was Aylmer’s
reflection. A further thought was that the criminals, whose hands were
against everybody, were very staunch to each other. Here was Martyn,
in deadly peril himself--by now he might have been taken--doing a good
service to a woman in whom his late confederate was interested.

Aylmer pressed her arm gently. “It must have been a ghastly blow to
you, poor child. I suppose you are going to take me to Rosebank. You
must have much to tell me, much that it will cause you inexpressible
pain to relate. Let us postpone any further talk on this horrible
subject till we get there. I have been to Rosebank before, you know.”

Eileen looked at him with a wan smile. “Yes, I found that out. Mrs.
Robinson told me somebody had called who said he had known us abroad,
and described you to me. Whitefield had a letter from here; I guessed
at once you had got the address from him.”

In the hall they met the pleasant landlady, who bestowed a cheerful
smile on Aylmer. “Glad to see you, sir. I hope you will cheer Mrs.
Quentin up; she has been in very poor spirits since she has been
here.”

They sat down in the tiny sitting room, and Eileen was the first to
speak. “I sent for you for two reasons, perhaps three. First, I wanted
to talk this awful thing over; then, now that my lips are unsealed, I
wished to tell you the reasons which decided me not to become your
wife. There is a third. You will remember in the last part of his
brief letter, Martyn stated that provision had been made for me, and
that I should hear about it later. Well, yesterday morning, about this
time, I had a visitor, a strange man who had come from London to see
me.”

“Let us talk about the strange man first. What was the object of his
visit? What was he like?”

“There was something about him which repelled me, which gave me the
impression of a sinister personality, although he appeared to be a
person of some education, expressed himself well, and, in a way, was
sympathetic and polite. He told me that he was an old and very
confidential friend of Richard’s although, in all probability, I had
never heard of him. Some time ago, Richard had entrusted him with a
certain sum of money which was to be handed over to me if anything
happened to him. He had heard from reliable sources that Richard had
committed suicide; he was careful not to enter into any details, and
that, under the circumstances, he wished to discharge his trust. He
had brought down the money with him, five thousand pounds, and would
be pleased to hand it over to me. He added it would be a transaction
entirely between our two selves, that he would require no receipt.”

Another and a stronger instance of the fidelity of the criminal
classes to one another, thought Aylmer. He felt certain that the sum
mentioned, five thousand pounds, was part of the ten thousand which
Quentin had extracted from the American, and which he, no doubt, had
dispatched to his faithful confederate a few hours after he had
received it. In all probability this sum represented Quentin’s own
share, the other portion had to be divided amongst others. If that
supposition were correct, no part of the money would be found amongst
the dead man’s effects, and if Whitefield had made any efforts to
regain it, they would have been doomed to failure.

“And what was your answer, Eileen?” asked the young man when he had
thought over the situation for a few seconds.

“When I recovered my astonishment at the honesty of this man, who
found himself in possession of a large sum of money which I have no
doubt he could easily have retained himself without anybody being the
wiser, I began to think. In face of his self-inflicted death I could
not bring myself to believe that any money belonging to Richard could
be acquired honestly, and that I should be tainted myself if I touched
it. He begged me to reconsider my decision. How was I going to live if
I refused? I told him that I had inherited a very tiny income from my
mother, and that I could supplement it by some sort of work.”

“Bravo, Eileen, and what did he say to that?”

“He seemed frankly incapable of understanding my attitude. To get rid
of him, I said that if he would leave me his name and address, I would
communicate with him in the event of my altering my mind.”

“And what did he say to that?”

There was a faint smile on Eileen’s face as she answered the question.
“He was much too wary to be caught by such a simple proposition; I
suppose men of his calling are very chary of trusting outsiders. If I
changed my mind, I was to put an advertisement, the wording of which
he made me write down, a week hence in _The Times_. After he had read
it, he would take measures that the money should reach me safely. He
was careful not to say that he would himself pay another visit to
Sherehaven.”

“You were quite right in refusing the money,” said Aylmer. “Let him
look in _The Times_, he must never find that advertisement there. And
now tell me your reasons for refusing to be my wife, although I am
quite sure I know what they were.”

And Eileen told him, the tears falling from time to time as she did
so. “You know that Martyn saw us that day in Soho. Later on, he told
Richard, who taxed me with meeting you clandestinely. I admitted it,
and told him that we were in love with each other and wanted to marry,
at the same time I reminded him of his promise when we entered into
our strange compact. He was very grave, he admitted his promise, but
added that before I could become the wife of any decent man, there was
something of the utmost importance he had to impart to me. But before
doing so, he must exact from me a solemn pledge to preserve secrecy;
that pledge I gave him.”

“And he revealed to you that he was not the man of means and leisure
you had thought him, but simply an adventurer and a crook.”

A deep flush of shame mounted to the unhappy girl’s cheek as she bowed
her head. “That is what it amounted to, really. He camouflaged it as
well as he could, made it out that he was an adventurer of the
financial type, that he borrowed money from anybody weak enough to
lend it to him without the slightest intention of repayment. He went
on to say that, although he exercised the utmost precautions in these
transactions, there might come a day when he would overstep the
border-line and be pilloried to the world. You can understand what a
terrible shock this was to me, as I had never had the least suspicion
that anything of the kind was hanging over his head.”

“You were all along under the impression that he was a man of
considerable means, of assured income?”

There was absolute truth in the girl’s voice and gaze as she made
answer. “Certainly. After he made this revelation, I recalled one or
two things I had noticed, but which made little impression on me at
the time. He never ventured any details of his actual resources, never
dropped a hint as to the nature of his investments and securities, but
I explained this by the fact of his being a singularly reticent man. I
did know that he had borrowed money from Sir Charles Reeks, for I
overheard him say so to Martyn one day after we had returned from
Biarritz. But he was very lavish in his expenditure, and at times he
openly admitted that he was short of funds and must retrench for a
short while. I concluded he had borrowed just to tide him over an
uncomfortable period. That was why I warned you, because I did not
wish you to risk your money, although at the time I did not believe
him to be dishonest as well as extravagant. And now tell me, for I had
a certain feeling when he and I did have that fateful talk that he was
not revealing the whole truth, for what offense did the police arrest
him? Please give me all the details; I would rather know them.”

Yes, he would let her know that; the one thing he was resolved to keep
from her was that the man had stained his hands with murder. He told
of how he and Whitefield had been sitting at breakfast when they heard
a commotion in the hall, of the ringing out of the pistol shot, how
they had rushed out to find Quentin lying dead on the floor surrounded
by the police who had come to arrest him, of Monsieur Paillot’s
revelations that he was one of the heads of an international gang of
crooks who specialized in robberies from hotels, that Martyn was one
of his confederates.

She listened with downcast eyes, and now and again he could see her
half-averted face convulsed with a spasm of pain, but on the whole,
she bore the ordeal with commendable composure.

When he had finished, she lifted her tear-stained eyes to his. “You
see, dearest, how wise it was for me to write you that letter. When he
had finished telling me what was only a half-truth, he uttered some
very weighty words; I have never seen him in a graver mood than he was
then. ‘You see, Eileen, how impossible it would be for you to link
your fate with that of an honest young fellow like Aylmer. Anything
that smirched me would smirch you, and through you him. I know you
have far too much nobility of nature to run the risk.’”

Aylmer mused a little after she had told him this. “A strange, complex
sort of creature,” he said presently. “One would not have credited him
with any consideration for the feelings of others. I should have
thought he would have been glad to get you off his hands, into safe
harbor, as it were, without thinking about any after-consequences.”

“He was exceedingly complex, and though I suppose you may rather
resent praise from such a source, he took an excessively strong fancy
to you, and spoke in the highest terms of you, though, for a time, he
was bitter against you just after you refused to lend him the money. I
don’t think he said much about you to Martyn, but to me he has said
more than once that you were a perfect type of an honorable,
straightforward young Englishman.”

At this moment the maid came in to lay the cloth for lunch, and a few
minutes later the meal was served. Intimate conversation was arrested
until they were alone again and safe from interruption.

“Do you know anything of a man named Ramon?” he asked her presently.

She answered him without the slightest hesitation. “A rather
refined-looking man, always dressed in the shabbiest of clothes. I saw
him only once or twice, but he always paid a visit to The Laurels when
we were in London. The explanation given to me was that he was a
destitute relation whom Richard helped from time to time. He used to
enter the house by the kitchen entrance, and Richard used to see him
in his study, he was never brought into the other rooms. Why do you
ask?”

He told her of his first visit to Hampstead, and how, long after the
household had gone to bed, he had seen Quentin and Dicks escorting the
shabbily-dressed man to the gate, and how his suspicions of Quentin
had arisen from that moment. He found that she had heard nothing of
the tragic end of Ramon and Dicks. There could be little doubt that
Quentin was a many-sided criminal and belonged to more than one
organization; he did not confine his energies to one branch of crime.

There were still a few questions he wished to put to her. “Will you
carry your mind back, dear, to our first intimate conversation at
Ostend, when I promised to be your friend?”

“Yes, I remember every word of it,” she said in a low voice. “That was
when I first knew I was in love with you.”

“You had some sort of presentiment of coming misfortune then. What
grounds had you for that premonition?”

“I can hardly give any satisfactory explanation. But all the time we
were together, I always felt I was living in an unreal world, that one
day I should wake up to something totally different. Our strange
nomadic life--we were so seldom in London that I often wondered why he
kept on that house at Hampstead.”

“He had some business in London, you may be sure, business in which
Dicks and Ramon were closely associated with him, something quite
apart from his continental activities,” interjected Aylmer.

She was quick enough to see the point at once. “Of course, that must
have been the reason. Then the absence of any proper friends, the
isolation in which we lived when we were in London, weighed upon my
spirits. As I told you, there were a few men who came to the house;
they paid very short visits, and were generally closeted with Richard
in his study, I rarely saw anything of them. Then there was the
occasional shortage of money which puzzled me. Altogether I was
conscious of a peculiar mystery. And that borrowing from Sir Charles
troubled me. I was afraid that was not the only time he had borrowed;
I suspected he had made up his mind to ask you and Whitefield to
Hampstead for the same purpose, and it showed me the uncertain state
of his finances, that a crash might come at any moment.”

“Not many more questions, dear, and I think I shall have done. Why
were you so agitated that morning when I surprised you and Martyn
together?”

“I had been very upset by something he had told me, that Richard was
very short of money, that he knew you were a rich young man and that
in all probability you would be useful to him. He asked me--oh, I am
ashamed to tell you--he asked me to cultivate you as much as possible
so as to make you more easy to approach. I answered him indignantly,
told him that I refused to play the part of decoy, and we had a sort
of battle royal which left me in tears.”

“Did Martyn really not know of these peculiar relations with Quentin?”

“I always used to believe he did not. Richard always swore that nobody
but our two selves were in possession of the secret. But I latterly
had a suspicion--mind you, it was nothing more--that Martyn _did_
know.”

“And now for my last question. That sudden flight from Hampstead. The
object of that, I take it, was to remove you from my influence?”

Eileen thought a moment. “It was a contributory cause, no doubt, but
his financial condition was the strongest motive. I could tell he had
been very hard-up since we left Ostend, and your refusal to let him
have money put him, I believe, into dire straits. The sale of the
furniture gave him a fair sum in ready cash. We went off to Paris, and
for a little time lived in the usual luxurious way. But he soon found
that retrenchment was necessary, so he brought me to Sherehaven, where
he was able to exist economically, for him. Then I suppose he got
funds again, and we went off to Nice to meet Whitefield. He had
designs, of course, upon him?”

“Yes,” replied Aylmer, who did not wish to dwell upon this topic at
any great length. “He did get money out of Whitefield. That five
thousand you refused was part of the plunder.”

The girl covered her face with her hands. “Oh, how terrible!” Then a
sudden thought struck her: “Would it not be a good thing if I put the
advertisement in as that man suggested, got the money, and sent it to
Whitefield?”

“It’s a splendid idea,” said Aylmer. “Do this, my dear; it will show
him you had no complicity in Quentin’s schemes. Ten thousand pounds
was the sum got out of him; the other five has gone into quarters
where you cannot recover it.”

It may be mentioned here that in due course this was done. Eileen
received the money in a somewhat roundabout way and sent it to the
millionaire with a very humble note in which she explained her
inability to make good the whole of his loss. And by return she
received from the millionaire a graceful and appreciative reply.

There was a long silence before Aylmer approached what to him was the
most important object of his visit. He leaned forward and took both
her hands in his. “And have you thought of what you are going to do as
regards your future?”

She answered him very bravely, although she could not keep back the
tears. “I have my little income; one can say this to his credit, he
never tried to touch that, and I can work. I am afraid I am not
educated enough to be a governess, but I could go into a shop. I might
get a place as a mannequin; I have always been told I have a good
figure.”

And then this staunch lover burst out into impetuous speech. “You are
going to do nothing of the sort. You are going to marry me with as
little delay as possible.”

A rosy flush dyed the pale cheeks. “Oh, my dear, is there another man
in the world like you, so brave, so true? But it can never be, even
_he_ saw that. And if it was impossible then, it is equally so now. I
am innocent enough, Heaven knows; I have never been guilty of a
dishonest action in my life. But you cannot touch pitch and not be
defiled. I will not defile you.”

“I am the best judge of that, Eileen,” replied the young man firmly.
“I can see as clearly as you do all the objections you would like to
urge. They weigh nothing with me.”

“But your relatives, your friends, Peyton and others,” she cried
piteously. “It is true there has been no report in the English papers
of that awful thing; I have scanned dozens of them, and found nothing.
But there were people at the hotel when it happened. We made no
friends, it is true; but we made passing acquaintances when we went
abroad who would remember me as Mrs. Quentin.”

His grasp upon her hands tightened. “My darling, have I not told you I
know all this, and that it does not in the least alter my purpose?
Listen to me! I spent the first twelve years, the most impressionable
portion of my early life, in Spain. I have no deep roots in England,
no ties, no friendships that it would give me pain to sever. Put
Peyton into the scale, a hundred Peytons, and you will outweigh them
all. The world is wide; there are yet places where you, the innocent
victim of a desperate criminal, have never been. We will go to these
places, my darling, and I shall think the world well lost for love.”

For a long time they argued, his insistence growing stronger, her
resistance feebler, till, at length, the more resolute will prevailed,
and at last, for the first time, their lips met in a long, fervent
kiss, a kiss of betrothal.

“I have got it all cut and dried,” he said presently when they had
recovered from their emotion. “You will stay here for another week, or
a little longer, in order to get through that little matter of
Whitefield’s. Then you will come up to London; I will find you some
pleasant apartments, and we will be married as soon as possible.”

She was crying unrestrainedly now, but with happiness, not sorrow.
“But some day you will repent,” she whispered through her tears.

“Never,” was the fervent answer.

 THE END




 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. clearcut/clear-cut,
smoking-room/smoking room, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Formatting: abandon the use of drop-caps.

Punctuation: fix some quotation mark pairings/nestings.

Add ToC.

Change five instances of _Alymer_ to _Aylmer_.

[Chapter Two]

Change “she had one accomplishment; she was a _spendid_ dancer” to
_splendid_.

[Chapter Three]

“He felt it would have have been a serious reflection” delete one
_have_.

“He’s neither one thing nor the other neither a ladies’ man nor a
man’s man.” add a comma after _other_.

[Chapter Five]

“very _plaintly_ had hinted that she was not indifferent to him” to
_plainly_.

[Chapter Six]

“when he had suggested the _Berkley_ or the Savoy” to _Berkeley_.

[Chapter Seven]

“One shuts _onself_ up like a recluse, excludes commonplace persons”
to _oneself_.

[Chapter Nine]

“with the one exception of the ungenial _Martin_” to _Martyn_.

[Chapter Ten]

(“No he had not taken her into his confidence.) add a comma after
_No_.

[Chapter Twelve]

(through the swinging doors “Our quick-change artist is going) add a
comma after _doors_.

[Chapter Fourteen]

“the clue was _to_ slight to be of any use” to _too_.

[Chapter Eighteen]

“A third party would remove the _awkardness_ inseparable from the” to
_awkwardness_.

(“Hush! I hear his _footstep_ coming down the staircase.) to
_footsteps_.

[Chapter Twenty]

“my friends would say of me that I’m a pretty ‘_cute_ one’" to
_’cute_.

“The finger-prints on the tumbler _co-incided_ in every detail” to
_coincided_.

[Chapter Twenty-One]

(“When I do, you will not have to complain of my lack candor.”)
add _of_ after _lack_.

“I had hoped to escape them _altogther_, but I had mistimed” to
_altogether_.

 [End of text]






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