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.