Chapter SIXTEEN

A couple of months after the events recorded in the last chapter, Aylmer was dining with his friend Claude Peyton at Wimbledon. During this period, the search for the Quentins had been fruitless. Duberry had to admit, not without considerable chagrin, that it seemed useless to keep his man on, any longer. “If he was on the Continent, I think we should have found him,” he said. “He must have gone further afield, perhaps to Egypt, India or South Africa. He has evidently some strong motive for shunning his old haunts, and hiding himself very thoroughly. For all we know, after that brief stay in Paris, he may have doubled back to England.”

“His bankers would know his address, as a matter of course,” said Aylmer, in his desperation clutching at any straw. “And you know the name of his bank.” He added gloomily: “But, of course, that doesn’t help us a little bit. Whatever plausible tale one might make up, no banker would divulge the address of his client.”

“Quite so,” agreed the detective. “He would offer to forward any letter; but after the way in which Quentin has run away from you, you can’t find any excuse for writing to him. If that wretched Dicks had not gone and got himself killed, we might have tracked them through him. Later on, if you run across Martyn again and find out where he lives, we might keep a watch on him. But I am bound to confess that things at the moment have come to a deadlock. You can’t search the whole world on the chance of finding them in one particular corner of it.”

It cannot be said that the young man’s deep feeling for Eileen had undergone any serious diminution. But time is a great healer, and he was gradually learning to accustom himself to the inevitable, to recognize that his future life must be lived without the presence of the woman who had so greatly touched his heart. For the last few weeks, he had given up the habit of sitting by himself and brooding over the memories of that too brief past. He had gone about amongst his friends and had followed his old occupations.

As a result of this change of attitude, he had begun to resume his previous familiar relations with Peyton. And that astute young man had behaved with considerable tact. He knew well enough that a great change had taken place in his friend, and he was shrewd enough to guess the reason of his low spirits and altered demeanor.

But, he never made the slightest allusion to that visit to Ostend, feeling sure that it was too sore a subject to be touched on. As a matter of fact, the Quentins would long ago have ceased to become even a dim memory to a man who had made and forgotten dozens of similar casual acquaintances, had it not been for the unfortunate part they had played in Aylmer’s life.

Peyton, for his own part, long ago had made up his mind about Quentin, and then practically dismissed him from his thoughts. The man was a plausible and gentlemanly adventurer who tried to get hold of rich people for his own ends. He had learned that Aylmer was well off, that was the reason he had invited him to Hampstead, and dropped him when he found he was not as easy-going as he hoped. For the same reason, he had cottoned on to the American millionaire, Cyrus J. Whitefield.

While not absolutely sure about Eileen, he at first had inclined to the suspicion that this very charming young woman worked in conjunction with her husband. Of course, in her case, he lacked the proper materials necessary for a considered judgment, being in ignorance of the fact that she was not really Quentin’s wife. In her favor it must be remembered that she had warned Aylmer against entertaining any scheme which Quentin might put forward. On the whole, while he would not say he was prepared to give a verdict of not guilty, he would go so far as to admit one of not proved.

The party at dinner was a small one, consisting of Mrs. Peyton, her son and daughter, and a very pretty girl, a Miss Murcheson, who was staying on a short visit. The head of the house was confined to his room with a sharp attack of a very old enemy--his gout.

Miss Murcheson, Aylmer learned later, was a very old friend of the family. She had been at school with Miss Peyton, and her father, a widower, and, Peyton senior had been cronies almost from their boyhood.

Aylmer, as usual on these visits, was staying for the night. The absence of the genial host naturally shed a little dullness over the party. The ladies retired early, and the two young men finished the evening in the smoking-room.

Aylmer had kept his eyes open during the dinner, and had noticed certain things. His young friend, although always very affable to men and women alike, hardly could be described as a very susceptible person. But there was a certain warmth in his manner to the very pretty Miss Murcheson which roused Aylmer’s suspicions. With the freedom of old friendship, he rallied the young man on the subject.

Peyton looked decidedly conscious, and did not venture to deny the soft impeachment. “There’s no doubt she’s a very charming and pretty girl, and, what is more to the point, she is a good and sensible one, too. Her mother has been dead for a couple of years; but while she was alive she brought her up splendidly. Nothing bold or flighty about her, not one of the cigarette-smoking, cocktail brigade, but lively and full of innocent fun. Just the sort of girl who would make a splendid wife and mother, like her own mother before her. Money, too. Old Murcheson is a very warm man, one of those chaps on the Corn Exchange. There are only the two children, Lily and her brother. He would settle something handsome on her.”

Aylmer could not repress a smile at the last sentence. It was so eminently characteristic of the young man and the atmosphere in which he had been brought up. Neither father nor son would have allowed his fancies to stray in the direction of a dowerless damsel, if she had possessed the beauty of Venus herself.

“What does it all mean, Claude?” asked Aylmer with unusual directness. “Is this a roundabout way of saying you are in love with her?”

Peyton smiled a little sheepishly. “Well, old man, I know that you are a frightfully romantic chap; in your case love would be a burning, devouring flame. I don’t think it will ever be in my nature to feel that sort of thing; there’s too much of the governor and other hard-headed ancestors in me. But I will say I have never come across a girl that I could be as fond of as I am of Lily. She seems to suit me down to the ground, to fit in with all my ideas of womanhood.”

A placid enough affection, thought Aylmer to himself. Though perhaps it was better so. To most people, the storm and turmoil of a great passion would be very devastating. Aloud he said: “Well, as you have got so far, I don’t suppose it will be long before you pop the question. The young lady seems to be your ideal, and from what you say of her good qualities, it would be hard to find a better wife.”

Up to the present, Peyton had seemed rather bashful about the matter; but after his friend’s cheering words, he grew more expansive, and, in consequence, more natural.

“We have exchanged views on this subject more than once,” he said. “And I have always told you what my own inclinations were, to have a few years of liberty before I finally settled down. From school to the office; after all, I have not seen so very much of life. But my father is strongly in favor of early marriages; he says nothing makes a man more energetic and self-reliant than a wife and family; he was married when he was a month or two younger than I am now. I dare say, when one looks at it from an unselfish point of view, there’s a good deal in what he contends. There’s no use blinking the fact that both he and old Murcheson have set their hearts on the match, and, of course, we are being driven a little bit along by that fact. My mother and Kate both adore her, and I think they would break their hearts if it didn’t come off.”

“Well, if her own sex like her,” remarked Aylmer, “that is a great thing to her credit. Women are the best judges of women, as men are of men. I know you don’t lay claim to be a romantic person, but you seem to have found your ideal, and the most ardent lover can desire no more. I take it, you are pretty sure Miss Murcheson reciprocates your sentiments? In other words, you don’t anticipate a refusal when you do make up your mind to throw the handkerchief?”

Peyton answered the question with his usual absence of finesse. “Lily is an awfully straightforward girl, and you may take it she knows as well as I do what the two families want. If the idea of my becoming her husband was distasteful to her, I think she would have taken care to keep out of my way. She’s the apple of her father’s eye, and however strong his wishes in the matter, I am sure he would never force her to act against her own inclinations.”

Aylmer lifted his glass. “I can see it won’t be long before I hear of a formal engagement. Well, here’s all good luck and happiness to yourself and to your very charming Lily.”

“Thanks very much, old man. She is staying here for another week; I don’t suppose it will be longer than then.”

Aylmer put down his glass after drinking the toast, and mused a little over Claude Peyton’s very straightforward love affair, so strangely different from his own. No obstacles here! The families approving the match, a pair of very placid lovers, both born of business-like and hard-headed people, eminently suited to each other and the unemotional life they would lead. Well, there was no reason why they should not find as great happiness as their more romantic brothers and sisters.

Peyton had been quite modest over the matter, but he seemed to be confident that Lily Murcheson would not refuse him. And, if such a catastrophe did occur, it was extremely unlikely that this well-balanced young man would suffer acutely in his health, his appetite, or his sleep. He would comfort himself with the reflection that when he decided again to take the plunge, he would somewhere find a girl quite as suitable as the unappreciative Lily.

A few minutes before they separated for the night, the younger man took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Aylmer. “You remember our old friend at the Continental, Cyrus J. Whitefield, the man who was so very much attracted by Mrs. Quentin?”

“Of course,” said Aylmer, who could not help flushing slightly at the mention of that name. It brought back such bitter-sweet memories.

“You’ll remember I told you he was a client of ours; he invests a lot of his money in English securities. Well, look at that letter. He makes an appointment at twelve o’clock to-morrow to consult me about some investments. Of course, if the governor had been all right, he would have seen him. So I have written to him to explain the position, and tell him I shall expect him at the time he names. I have asked him to come on to lunch at the City Carlton Club. My father always lunches him on the few occasions he comes to the office.”

Aylmer thought for a moment. “I should rather like to see the old boy again,” he said presently, “although he did not take much notice of me at Ostend. I wonder if he knows where the Quentins are?”

All the evening, Peyton had been hesitating as to whether or not he should show his friend Whitefield’s letter, and when he made up his mind to do so, he had acted rather on a sudden impulse. When he perceived Aylmer’s ill-concealed agitation, too late he wished he had kept silence about the visit of the American. Aylmer wanted to see Whitefield again, in order that he might find out the whereabouts of the Quentins. If Whitefield knew, as probably he did--for Quentin was not likely to put himself out of touch with such a valuable acquaintance--Aylmer would go after them, and all the trouble would begin afresh. He stigmatized himself as a fool for having blurted out the fact, in an impulsive moment. And here was his friend looking at him rather impatiently for an answer of some sort to his suggestion.

It was an embarrassing moment, for there was something in Aylmer’s manner which warned Peyton that it might lead to a breach of friendship if he uttered his real sentiments on the subject, if he told him frankly that the sooner he dismissed the Quentins from his thoughts the better it would be for his peace of mind.

“You really want to find out where they are?” he said at length.

Aylmer tried to speak with an air of unconcern which, of course, did not impose on his companion for a moment.

“As a matter of curiosity, I do. That sudden bolt was so extraordinary. I am keen on getting at the reason.”

There was no help for it, thought Peyton. He knew he must do what he would have given a great deal not to do--invite his friend to be of the party.

“Well, of course, if you are so interested, there is no reason why you should not meet the old chap. That letter I showed you is dated three days ago. I wrote at once asking him to lunch after our business was concluded. This morning I had a note accepting. So all you have got to do is to walk into the City Carlton about one o’clock, and you will either find us waiting for you, or we shall join you in a few minutes.”

“Thanks awfully, old man,” was Aylmer’s grateful response. Hope began to flow over him once more. It was pretty certain that Quentin would keep in touch with Whitefield and unless he had taken the precaution of imposing secrecy on the American--for obvious reasons a very unlikely procedure on his part--Whitefield was not likely to have any hesitation in imparting what information he possessed. There also would be a certain satisfaction in having scored over Duberry. Although, to do him justice, that consideration did not weigh very greatly with him.

The young men separated shortly, Peyton ruefully confessing to himself that he had made a complete fool of himself, and done his friend harm instead of good.

As he settled himself to that repose which naturally attends a man who has a clear conscience and a good digestion, he wondered whether he ought to warn Whitefield of the sort of man Quentin appeared to be.

On second thoughts he decided in the negative. This very sagacious young man had a strongly developed bump of caution. He was intensely reluctant to interfere in the private affairs of his friends or acquaintances. He knew both from experience and tradition that, however well-meant your intentions, however sound your advice, your intrusion usually is resented by those whom you wish to benefit.

Whitefield was reputed to possess one of the keenest business brains in America. However much he might be smitten by Mrs. Quentin, he would keep his wits, and was old enough and wary enough to take care of himself. If he did make up his mind to fall in with any suggestions that the husband might make him, he would do so with his eyes open, humorously conscious that his ulterior motives were not much more creditable than those of the obliged party.

Aylmer was in the hall of the City Carlton Club the following morning, on the stroke of one. They were not there, and he awaited them with the natural impatience of a man who has one single object in view and chafes at the slightest delay in reaching it.

The pair came in a quarter of an hour late, no doubt having been detained by the importance of their business. The millionaire seemed in a very agreeable mood. At Ostend he had not taken much notice of either of the two young men; but then there was the disturbing element of Eileen ever present, and he had stored up all his reserve of geniality for her. He shook hands heartily with Aylmer, and laid his hand with a friendly gesture upon Peyton’s shoulder.

“A splendid boy, this; I wish I had a son like him,” he said in his rather boisterous tones. “A real chip of the old block--has given me as good advice as his father could have done. If he sticks to it, and I am sure he will, he will go far.”

They went in to lunch, and undisturbed by the proximity of female society, Whitefield proved himself a most interesting and companionable person to his male friends. He told them stories of great magnates in the business world, told one or two against himself, and seemed brimming over with vitality and the joy of living. Peyton, whose intelligence, within its natural limits, fed largely upon that of others, was absorbed in the racy conversation that showed so much knowledge of the world and affairs. Aylmer, knowing nothing of finance and very little about those connected with it, was perhaps a little less interested than the younger man. But still, he was bound to admit the mental strength and vigor of the American.

And then, at last, came a brief pause in what had been almost a monologue, which gave Aylmer the opportunity for which he had been waiting.

“It seems quite like old times, like the pleasant days at Ostend,” he said. “We only want the Quentins to make our party complete. By the way, have you come across them or heard from them?”

Whitefield was frankness itself; it was evident he had nothing to conceal. “Not come across them; but heard from them, yes. Two letters--one sent to me in America, the other awaiting me on my arrival at the Savoy. You know I was to have visited him at his house at Hampstead. Well, the first letter told me that, as his lease was running out, he had decided to give up the place, and therefore would not be able to receive me. He would write later and tell me his movements.”

“Where did that letter come from?” asked Aylmer eagerly.

“From Hampstead itself. I think he stated he was going over to Paris, and would be a bird of passage for some weeks. If I answered, I was to direct my reply to the care of the Pall Mall branch of the Consolidated Bank, which would be furnished from time to time with his address. I replied, saying that I should be in London on business about the present time, and glad to hear of his further movements. A very charming couple, the Quentins.” He concluded, perhaps a little irrelevantly: “He was a quite delightful chap, and she could only be expressed in superlative terms.”

Both the young men were surprised at this eulogistic opinion of Quentin. He was a pleasant, affable person, but there was not warmth and color enough in him to make him delightful. But certainly Quentin had played his cards well with this shrewd millionaire. He had effaced utterly his own individuality and allowed the other to exhibit his personality to the utmost possible advantage. No wonder that Whitefield’s faculties were lulled to sleep by this adroit and subtle flatterer.

“And the second letter, where did that come from?” queried Aylmer presently.

Whitefield opened a bulky letter-case. “I have forgotten; but here it is. I’ll just give you the points of it; it is rather a long screed. Been roaming about a great deal, both on the Continent and in various parts of England. Next month will be at the Hôtel Negresco, in Nice. Hopes I might find my way there, could have a good time together. I wrote yesterday to say that I would be pleased to join them next month about the tenth. Where does he write from? Here it is--Rosebank, Sherehaven, Sussex. The letter is dated a week ago; he says he is moving on the following day, doesn’t state where, doesn’t seem to know himself. Letters, as before, to be sent to the bank. You chaps had better come, too, and we’ll have the good old time over again. I shan’t be back in America for quite three months.”

Peyton shook his head at the suggestion, had he been a free agent it would not have attracted him greatly. But then he was not the victim to the charms of Eileen.

“Tied to Capel Court, you know,” he explained. “One holiday a year has to do for me.” He looked at his friend. “This chap is different; he can go when and where he likes.”

Aylmer suddenly became wary, he was not going to say too much. “The Negresco is a favorite pitch of mine. I can’t say definitely, my plans are rather in a state of flux at present. I had rather got Spain in my mind, but I might pop over for a few days.”

Well, that meeting had borne fruit, he was on the track at last. The irony of it, he thought. All the while that Duberry’s agent had been scouring the cities of Europe, Eileen had been hidden in the peaceful little village of Sherehaven.