Introductory material (continued 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER SIX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER SEVEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER EIGHT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite right, my dear boy; stick to it. I wish I had never acquired the habit. Easier to get into than get out of. In fact, after a certain time, you can’t get out of it, hard as you may try.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ten thousand pounds.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER NINE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was silent for a little time before she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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