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.”