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.