Introductory material (continued 5)

“Is the deal completed? Have you parted with the actual money?” asked Aylmer presently.

“I gave it him last night in cash. For some reasons of his own he wanted it that way. Of course, I usually give a check in this sort of transaction.”

“And I suppose you got a formal receipt for it?”

“Certainly, he gave me one, at once. He was very punctilious about that. I remember he made some joking remark when he handed it to me, that life was short and he might die within the next few minutes, and in that case there would be nothing to show he was my debtor unless I had it, at once. As a matter of fact, I did not trouble myself much about the matter, not looking upon it as a legitimate business transaction. My motive was to do the poor little woman a good turn. There’s no use beating about the bush. Quentin is a decent sort of chap enough, but I don’t set up for being a philanthropist, and if a man gets into a muddle through his own want of foresight, I don’t, as a rule, feel any imperative obligation to help him out of it. When a sweet and charming woman is involved, the situation assumes an altogether different complexion.”

There was a long pause. Presently the American rubbed his grey head thoughtfully, and spoke again. “I reckon most of my friends would say of me that I’m a pretty ‘ ’cute one’; but since you have been speaking, I’ve an uncomfortable conviction that I have behaved like a darned old fool. Now look here, Aylmer, I have answered all your questions quite frankly, and I have not suggested that any one of them was impertinent. I think it is your turn to be straightforward with me. I don’t ask you to tell me anything it would be wiser to keep secret for a while. But it’s evident you know something of this chap, Quentin. I surmise he has been up to the same trick before. What do you really know or suspect?”

“At the moment I have not the slightest evidence to go upon; in whatever I suspect I am relying upon nothing stronger than the merest intuition,” was the quiet answer. “I may or may not get some convincing evidence in the course of the next twenty-four or, perhaps, forty-eight hours. Should I fail, I rely upon you not to give me away.”

“Of course, of course, I never break a promise. But your intuition, as you call it, must have had something to feed upon. You might tell me a bit. Is he an adventurer, pure and simple, living on his wits, and using that pretty little wife of his as a kind of decoy?”

Whitefield’s voice rose into a high crescendo on the last words. Aylmer knew quite well what was troubling the egotistical American—the thought that a person of his proved capacity, a man who prided himself on his knowledge of men, should be taken in by anybody, especially by a quiet, innocent-looking creature like Quentin.

He had half a mind to tell Whitefield something of what was in his mind, to relate his own experiences at Hampstead when Quentin had tried to get money out of him, but prudence caused him to refrain. The American was an explosive person, and if he knew too much, might blurt it out in a moment of ungovernable impulse, heedless of his promise to keep secrecy.

“Yes, certainly an adventurer,” was Aylmer’s cautious reply. “I cannot tell you if he is something worse until I have completed certain investigations I am on the point of making. I will reveal to you those results when I have obtained them. In the meantime, keep the strictest guard on yourself; don’t let Quentin suspect for a moment that you have the slightest doubt of him.”

It was easy to see the millionaire was greatly perturbed by the conversation, but he paid Aylmer a very handsome compliment. “You have got a very wise head on your young shoulders; there’s not the least doubt about that. To speak quite frankly, I am sure there is a lot more in you than I gave you credit for. You’ve put suspicion in my mind, and you guess I’m the sort of chap to run amuck when I get my dander up, so you’re wise in not telling me too much at once. Well, young Aylmer, I believe in you, and I will follow your advice. Whatever I may be thinking, and you bet I shall be thinking a deuce of a lot, I will do my level best to hide it from Quentin.”

Aylmer smiled grimly. “You will have to exercise all your powers of self-control, I warn you. The man is as clever as they make them, and as sharp as a needle. He will spot the slightest variation in your manner.”

“I know, I know,” said the American hastily. Then he switched off to the subject of Eileen’s departure. “I say, what about Mrs. Quentin’s sudden dash to England? Is there some hidden meaning in it? You heard we three were to meet in Rome later—Martyn is going off somewhere, on his own.”

“What explanation did Quentin give you?”

“It seemed very straightforward,” answered the American. “A telegram received shortly after breakfast, an elderly aunt dying, wanted to see her niece before her death. Mrs. Quentin very much attached to her, the last link with her family, couldn’t resist the appeal, although she feared she would not be in time.”

Aylmer made up his mind he could confide in Whitefield with regard to this particular matter.

“A lie, an absolute lie,” he said emphatically.

“But he showed me the telegram, my dear Aylmer.”

Aylmer could hardly repress a smile at his companion’s simplicity. He might be a superman in dealing with men of business like himself, but he had no idea of the subtle mentality of a plausible rogue.

“Of course, he would do that. I have told you that he is a very clever man, also he is more than ordinarily subtle.”

“I should say you were his match in subtlety,” remarked Whitefield generously.

“Thanks; you are becoming quite appreciative. Well, to return to Quentin. He would never commit the mistake of making a statement that he could not corroborate with fairly strong evidence. Depend upon it, he devised means for the transmission of that telegram through some friend, or acquaintance, in London. Now, I will tell you something very important. Mrs. Quentin has practically no friends in England.”

“But, surely, she has relatives?” interjected the American.

“Yes, plenty of relatives who do not acknowledge her,” said Aylmer calmly. “Her mother made a marriage against the wishes of her family. The family retaliated by ostracizing her, her husband, and her child. Mrs. Quentin has not a single relation in England who would communicate with her under any circumstances, whatever. The elderly aunt is a creation of Quentin’s resourceful imagination.”

Whitefield bent upon him a sharp glance. “You know that, of course, from the fountain-head, from something that has been dropped by either Quentin or his wife?”

“Yes, from the fountain-head,” replied the young man. “At Ostend, Mrs. Quentin confessed to me several things, many of which I am not at liberty to divulge. That was one of them.”

He was pleased to see that Whitefield was considerably chastened by this heart-to-heart talk between himself and a much younger man whom he had rather looked down upon in his pride of commercial success, in his fond belief in the irresistible power of his dollars to subjugate everything, and everybody, to his own wishes and whims.

As the elderly millionaire walked away, Aylmer felt a certain pity for him. Why did he not carry his years gracefully, in consonance with his grey hairs and his unquestionable achievement in the world of commerce? His history was public property. He had led a hard life in his youth and early manhood, that disagreeable training had induced in him a certain hardness, in later life. Perhaps the secret of his existence was this; that denied the natural expansion of youth, he had begun to live when more fortunate men had long ago sown their wild oats. This, surely, was the explanation of his eccentric benefaction, when Quentin had so artfully pleaded on behalf of his wife’s future.

Aylmer went up to the corridor in which his bedroom was situated. He had omitted to ask for his key, but that act was intentional.

As he slowly ascended the stairs, he was conscious of a certain glow of satisfaction in him. The many leisure moments he had devoted to the study of criminology had not been spent in vain. He was sure that he had in him the makings of a better detective than his friend Duberry. He had greater qualities of imagination, of insight, than that very capable member of a very clever profession. Duberry could deal quite brilliantly with hard facts.

But, by virtue of that quality of imagination, Aylmer could do more. He could project himself into the mentality of a criminal, he could anticipate what that criminal would do in a certain given set of circumstances. At the present moment, he was developing that “sixth sense” which always is existent in persons of his temperament. He was reconstructing a tragedy which had happened at the Hôtel du Palais some time ago, which might be repeated here very swiftly, if he did not forestall and prevent it.

He waited in the corridor till he saw the chambermaid coming towards him, a smiling, dark-eyed child of the sunny South. He went up to her with his most ingratiating smile.

“I’m awfully sorry, but I came up without the key of my room. Can you help me?”

Unsuspecting of the ruse of this attractive young Englishman, the girl offered him her pass-key, which opened all the rooms in the corridor.

“Take it with pleasure,” she said simply. “I shall be back again in five minutes. You will let me have it back then? I should get into trouble if it was known that it had passed out of my possession.”

He made the necessary promise, and unlocking the door, went into his own room. During that five minutes he worked very swiftly, taking in wax an impression of the pass-key.

He was a little late for lunch, but neither Quentin nor Whitefield, nor the ever-silent Martyn, commented on his tardy appearance. After the meal was concluded, he went to a locksmith in the town, and had a key fashioned from the wax impression.

It was at the beginning of the dinner hour that he resumed his mysterious investigations. The corridor was quite empty, all the guests were in the dining room. A few doors below his own bedroom was the chamber in which Quentin slept. There was not a servant in sight. It was an ideal moment for him to carry out the campaign he had been preparing.

Unobserved, he drew from his pocket the duplicate key which had been made for him that afternoon, and he entered Quentin’s room.

Shutting the door carefully behind him, he crossed over the room to the wash-stand, on the glass shelf of which stood a tumbler. This he carefully polished with a silk handkerchief, and after having performed this curious action, he went down to dinner. That evening he strolled again into the town, and purchased a tumbler exactly resembling the one he had left in Quentin’s room. This was the first act in his investigations, the second took place some time just before breakfast the next morning.

Unobserved, he had watched Quentin leave his room and slip downstairs. The chambermaid would not appear on the scene for some little time. The coast being clear, he slipped into the room. The tumbler he had polished the previous evening stood upon the wash-stand half full of water. Pouring the contents of it into the glass he had purchased, he took the other one to his own apartment, holding it very carefully as he made the short journey.

The next proceedings were the work of a few moments. He produced a finger-print outfit, and having carefully dusted the telltale tumbler with white powder, which he removed presently with a small camel-hair brush, found distinct finger-prints left on the glass.

He drew from the bag which had been sent him by his valet a sheet of thin green paper upon which were some faint prints.

He compared them, and gave a long sigh of satisfaction. They were exact. The finger-prints on the tumbler coincided in every detail with the finger-prints on the bag which had belonged to Sir Charles Reeks.

“My intuition led me right,” he said softly to himself. “And Quentin, that smooth-spoken, oily hypocrite, is more than a mere adventurer. If I read the man aright, he will move very quickly, not later than to-night. There is no time to be lost. I would wire to Duberry to come out and help me, but that would mean delay. I must act on my own.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Aylmer waited for some time before he went down to breakfast. His loathing for Quentin was now so great that he shrank from a meeting, feeling doubtful if his powers of self-control were strong enough to prevent him from showing in his altered demeanor the hatred that possessed him. Both Quentin and Martyn were men of remarkable punctuality, never late at meals, and they did not stay long at table. If he waited another half an hour, the chances were he would find them gone.

When, at length, he went down to the dining room, he was relieved to find there was nobody at their usual table but Whitefield. As he seated himself, the American looked up, and nodded a cheerful good-morning.

“I notice you have come in late to meals on one or two occasions,” he remarked in a low voice. “I was late on purpose myself this morning. I suppose the same motive has actuated both. You are of a calmer temperament than I, but you find it difficult to sit cheek by jowl with such a pair of skunks and keep on talking and smiling as if there was nothing at the back of your mind. Think how much more difficult it is for me, who am ready to explode over the most trifling thing. I have been thinking a lot over what you told me. In fact I haven’t thought of much else since, and I am sure, when you do make up your mind to speak, I shall hear some astounding revelations.”

As a matter of course, Aylmer was now in a position to give the American some information of the utmost importance. Yesterday he had entertained only the strongest suspicions; this morning he was absolutely sure of certain facts. The American’s shrewd eyes were fixed on him, their intense regard seemed to intimate pretty plainly that he guessed something had occurred since that long conversation between them.

“I take it you have not been idle since we talked together,” he said. “You have been pursuing those investigations to which you referred. Has there been any result? When there was, you will remember you promised to take me into your confidence. I don’t want to force you in any way, but you can guess I am eaten up with a very natural curiosity. I have parted with ten thousand pounds, and your discouraging attitude compels me to think I might as well have thrown it in the gutter.”

There was an intensity in Whitefield’s manner as he uttered those last words, an almost childish eagerness which made it difficult for Aylmer to refrain from confiding in him to some limited extent. But, though very impulsive in many things, there was a certain vein of caution in the young man’s temperament when he was engaged in serious matters, more especially when they were concerned with other people. Therefore, knowing the character of the man, he resolved not to trust him till he could trust him fully—till he was so positive that there was no longer any reason for secrecy. His case against Quentin was complete in certain particulars; but he felt convinced it would attain fuller completion in the course of the next twenty-four hours.

He therefore kept Whitefield’s impatience in check by a reply that was neither frank nor evasive. “I have found out something, certainly; but you must forgive me for not wishing to make any disclosures at the moment. I have got to go a good deal further before I can speak. When I do, you will not have to complain of my lack of candor.”

There was nothing for Whitefield to do except to acquiesce in the young man’s resolute attitude, which he did, not perhaps with a very good grace. Having been used to dominate for the best part of his life, he was never ready to submit to the domination of others. Still, he was a sportsman, and after a moment or two of private resentment, he was compelled to recognize a strength of character which matched his own.

“I think you are carrying your policy of reticence to a rather ridiculous extent, and I admit I find it difficult to keep my temper,” he said. “Still, I can’t help admiring you for the dogged way in which you keep to the course you have planned out. Well, you’re not going to tell me anything till you’re quite ready. It seems I have no option but to accept that. However, I’ll be more frank with you. I overheard something last night which it may interest you to know, something which may or may not be of use to you. I came upon Quentin and Martyn suddenly. They were sitting close together and talking in very low tones. They didn’t know I was so close upon them, and when they saw me, they both looked a bit confused.”

Aylmer pricked up his ears. “I should certainly like you to tell me, Mr. Whitefield. It may be that it is important, but from their air of confusion it was evidently something they did not wish you to overhear.”

“I don’t pretend to be physically the man I was, say, ten years ago; mentally, I think I may boast without vanity I am quite as good, perhaps a shade better, because I have ten years’ additional experience which I have made good use of. But to return to the physical side; there is one faculty I have preserved unimpaired, a very acute sense of hearing. They were talking together so very quietly that most people would not have caught anything. But I did manage to pick up a few words spoken by Martyn to his companion. He appeared to be talking very emphatically at that particular moment, and I think unconsciously he raised his voice a trifle. These were the words: ‘I tell you I am not going to take part or lot in it. I never have approved of this kind of thing. I shall clear out to-morrow.’ Can you make anything out of that?”

Aylmer nodded. “Yes, I think it does help me up to a certain point, so far as regards Martyn. So he is going to clear out, is he?”

“Not a doubt of it,” was Whitefield’s answer. “I got down this morning just as they were on the point of finishing their breakfast; I had hoped to escape them altogether, but I had mistimed myself a bit. You managed it better than I did; but I can see you’re a very calculating chap, you’re not handicapped by any impatience. Well, we were not together at the table for more than five minutes. But, during that time Martyn took the opportunity of telling me he was leaving before lunch.”

“Did he say where he was going? Did he give any explanation of his sudden departure?”

“He certainly didn’t say where he was going. He did mumble something about being fed up with Nice, said it was a place he had never cared much for.”

“You didn’t notice anything particular about Quentin, while Martyn was giving you this explanation.”

“I thought both he and Martyn looked at me rather hard. It crossed my mind they were wondering if I had overheard them the previous night and watching my expression. I flatter myself I showed nothing; I can put on a mask, when I like. Well, you say the little incident helps you, somewhat. There is something in which Martyn doesn’t want to join. I expect you have a shrewd guess as to what it is.”

Aylmer could not repress a slight smile at the American’s persistent efforts to draw him. “Yes, Mr. Whitefield, I will not deny that I have a certain suspicion, but at present it is nothing more than a suspicion. You really mustn’t try to entrap me with these unexpected questions. Just now you gave me a sort of promise to possess your soul in patience. If my intuitions are right, I do not think you will have to wait very long before you know as much as I do.”

But the American found it a very hard matter to keep his promise. “How much longer are you going to keep me on the rack, Aylmer? Shall I know anything to-night, to-morrow morning?”

Aylmer hesitated before he answered the impatient man. He had made up his mind that Quentin would strike quickly; but, he could not forecast his action to within a few hours. Would the departure of Martyn precipitate, or delay, his plans? On the whole, he was inclined to think it would make no difference.

“Hardly to-night, Mr. Whitefield; very possibly some time to-morrow,” was the young man’s guarded reply.

The three men met round the lunch table. Quentin talked the most during the progress of the meal. But, to Aylmer’s watchful eyes it seemed that he was not his usual self, that his thoughts were continually wandering to some inner subject of contemplation.

“You have heard we have lost our friend Martyn?” he said, in one of his rather spasmodic attempts at conversation. “He charged me with his farewells to you, Mr. Aylmer; he had previously said good-by to Mr. Whitefield at breakfast. By the way, we did not see you at that meal. You are usually such a very punctual person—the first to put in an appearance, as a general rule.”

Was there suspicion in the glance that Quentin bent on him? After a moment’s hesitation, Aylmer decided in the negative. He had made a remark on a very trivial incident, simply for the want of something to say, with the object of keeping up a flagging conversation, in which he was not greatly assisted by his two companions.

No, the young man felt quite easy in his mind. Quentin might be a very clever man in his own sinister way, but he could have no idea that at the present juncture he was confronted with one whose intelligence was equal in subtlety to his own. The only thing that could make him uneasy was the suspicion that Whitefield had overheard those mysterious words uttered by Martyn. But the American was behaving very circumspectly. His manner did not, in the least, give him away to the wary and watchful observer who sat opposite to him.

“Our party has suffered a serious reduction,” went on Quentin presently, in his desire to keep the ball of conversation rolling. “The unfortunate necessity of Eileen’s going to England, and now the unexpected defection of Martyn. I feel a bit aggrieved by his making such a sudden bolt of it. But he was always that sort of chap; you could never place any reliance on him. If he gave his promise to stay a month with you, as likely as not he would make some excuse to be off at the end of the first week.”

That afternoon Aylmer paid another visit to the town and made some purchases, amongst them being a pillow-case exactly resembling in quality and appearance the ones that were in use at the hotel.

This he took away with him, but before he returned to the Negresco, he paid a visit to a certain Monsieur Dumont, who resided at Nice the greater part of the year, and whose acquaintance he had first made in Paris. They had been attracted to each other by their mutual interest in criminology.

Monsieur Dumont was a well-set-up, clear-complexioned man of about fifty-five years of age. He was supposed to be one of the greatest toxicologists in Europe, and was constantly consulted by the police of different countries in baffling and mysterious cases.

They had met some dozen times since their first fore-gathering in Paris; and, of course, like all men with a hobby in common, they usually talked about crime and criminals.

Monsieur Dumont welcomed his young friend with the utmost cordiality, and very soon the talk between them flowed into the old familiar channels. There had been some half a dozen outstanding cases of crime since they had last seen each other, and they discussed the details of them with the gusto of experts.

Then presently, when this topic was exhausted, Aylmer disclosed the reasons which had induced him to seek his old acquaintance.

“I am doing a little detective business on my own account and may shortly want your assistance. I cannot be sure at the moment. The intuitions which I have so strongly at the present time may be all wrong, the outcome of a too vivid imagination, of a too great faculty of reconstructing. You remember my discussing with you the death of my relative, Sir Charles Reeks, shortly after it took place?”

“Perfectly,” was the answer of the great toxicologist whose reputation was European. “The medical verdict was that he died suddenly from heart disease. Against that you had the knowledge that he had never suffered from his heart, that he had passed different Insurance offices as a first-class life. Further, that a sum of several thousands, which he had drawn in cash shortly before his death, was missing, and there was no trace of anybody to whom the money had been paid. You deduced from these facts a very probable theory of foul play, and I was disposed to consider your theory a perfectly feasible one.”

Aylmer smiled. “I see your memory is as good as ever it was. Well, now I am going to tell you a very strange story.”

For half an hour the eminent scientist listened to a lucid relation of important facts, on which had been built a certain logical set of inferences. When the recital was finished, Monsieur Dumont spoke.

“My young friend, I congratulate you on possessing the analytical faculty in a quite remarkable degree. You would not blush to find yourself in the company of some of the best professional detectives of crime. If history is going to repeat itself—and you are quite justified in envisaging the possibility that it will—you will find in Mr. Whitefield’s room what you suspect. In that case, you will want my assistance, which, of course, I shall be most pleased to give you. There is, naturally, the chance that you may draw a blank, in which case I shall not be needed. But from what you have told me, bearing in mind the positive identification of the finger-prints, I believe you will find your suspicions corroborated.”

“I think the best thing will be for me to ’phone you up either way, whether I find something or nothing. So expect a call any time between eight and nine,” said Aylmer as the two men shook hands at parting.

“Right,” replied Monsieur Dumont. “Now, I will just run through it again to make quite sure that we understand the arrangement. If you ring me up to say you have drawn a blank, of course I don’t come into the thing at all—at any rate, for the present. If the contrary, I send round my messenger to the Negresco for a parcel. In that case, you shall have my analysis as soon as possible. But I cannot give any guarantee as to the length of time it will take. It may be a matter of an hour or two, or of several hours.”

“And as soon as you have anything to communicate, you will ring me up in my own room at any hour convenient to yourself. Good-by,” were Aylmer’s last words to Monsieur Dumont.

That night, at dinner, Quentin was late; he did not put in an appearance till the other two were half through the meal. “It is my turn to be late this time, Mr. Aylmer; I am afraid your unpunctuality is becoming infectious.”

He smiled as he indulged in this little joke; but there seemed a hard glitter in the man’s eyes, a somber expression on his face which betokened some agitating thoughts. A quick suspicion of the reason of Quentin’s long delay darted through Aylmer’s mind.

When they went into the lounge after dinner, the young man drew Whitefield aside, out of earshot of Quentin.

“Now, I want you to hold him in conversation for the next half hour. Get him on the subject of American railways, he will listen forever; you know how the topic interests him. I’m going to do a little investigation, and I want to make sure he isn’t spying after me. Mind you, I don’t believe he has any suspicion of what I am about to do; but he’s frightfully artful, and he may be treasuring something up that his wife let out the other day.”

Whitefield looked at him keenly, but he did not ask him any questions. He knew the young man by now, that he would keep his own counsel as long as he chose.

The American indulged in his usual habit, when perplexed, of rubbing his grey hair. “I think I can improve on your suggestion. He may be a bit tired of railways now, and beat a hasty retreat, with the result that he will run across you just at the moment when you don’t want him. I’ll get him on to billiards, we’re both a pair of duffers and our game will spin out the time comfortably. Well, good luck to you; the sooner you find something that enables you to unlock your tongue, the better I shall be pleased.”

Aylmer greeted this petulant little sally with a smile, and mounted the staircase which led to the various bedrooms.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

First of all he paid a visit to his own room, as he wanted to get from there certain things which were necessary for the carrying out of his investigations.

A few minutes later he found himself in the millionaire’s bedroom, where he went swiftly to work.

One look at the pillow was sufficient to show him he had rightly diagnosed the workings of Quentin’s mind, that he was only just in time to avert a repetition of the tragedy which had happened some time ago in the Hôtel du Palais at Biarritz.

He produced from his pocket a sheet of oiled paper: then putting on a glass mask, he approached the pillow. His next procedure was to slip on a pair of thin rubber gloves. Then, very carefully, he removed the pillow-slip, replacing it with the one he had purchased that afternoon, and wrapped the one he had removed in the oiled paper.

This he carried to his own room, which he reached without encountering anybody. He packed up the precious parcel in a stout cardboard box and addressed it to Monsieur Dumont. Then he rang up the latter.

The well-known scientist answered the summons himself. “What is your news?” he asked briefly.

Aylmer explained to him the result of his researches in Whitefield’s room, concluding with the information that he had packed the pillow-slip in a box and would take it down to the hall-porter to await Dumont’s messenger.

“Good,” was Dumont’s reply through the telephone. “I will send at once. I will make an analysis directly it comes into my hands, and let you know the result as soon as I know it myself.”

Aylmer carried the box down to the hall-porter, and waited about until Dumont’s messenger appeared and took the parcel away. The young man looked at his watch; he was well within the limit he had suggested to Whitefield, the half hour in which the American was to keep watch over the smooth-faced criminal who had laid his plans with such devilish cunning.

Much as he had read about crime and its perpetrators, Aylmer, never yet to his knowledge, had been at close quarters with an actual criminal. Now he had talked with one in careless intimacy, sat at table opposite to him, partaken of his hospitality.

One by one, the various incidents of the past went in a slow procession through his mind. The first meeting at Ostend, when he had taken Quentin for a cultivated man of means and leisure—the swift growth of his interest in Eileen, her impulsive confession of the real relations between herself and her supposed husband—the first visit to Hampstead, the mysterious and sinister figure of Ramon, escorted to the garden-gate by the two men long after the rest of the household had retired to rest—his meetings with Eileen in London, Quentin’s persistent attempts to get money out of him, a shudder ran through him as he thought what his fate might have been if he had fallen in with his host’s suggestion—the sudden departure from Hampstead, Eileen’s brief and cryptic letter of farewell—the researches of Duberry, establishing very little in relation to Quentin, except the fact that he was the associate of very sinister people and therefore himself suspect—the accidental meeting with Whitefield resulting in his visit to Nice.

And here, in this charming town, this respectable hotel full of clean-living people who little suspected that they harbored amongst them a cold-blooded and callous criminal, the last scene of the drama was on the point of being played. By now Dumont was beginning to prepare the deadly evidence that would prove this smooth-spoken man to be a murderer of a singularly ruthless and calculating type.

He strolled into the billiard-room; there was nobody in it but the two players, they had dispensed with the services of the marker as they scored so slowly that his presence rather embarrassed them. Quentin’s face was greatly flushed; it was easy to see he had been drinking even more heavily than was his wont. He seemed in an almost excited state for a man of his usually calm mood, cracking rather silly jokes at his own bad playing, clapping Whitefield when he missed an easy stroke, and ever and anon lifting the tumbler to his lips, and ringing for a fresh supply of drink.

Painfully interested in this new field of psychology that had just been opened to him, Aylmer found himself wondering whether a miscreant of this type had any conscience at all. And if he had, was he trying to drown its still, small voice with these copious draughts of alcohol?

For he felt quite sure of his facts now. Dumont’s evidence was necessary, but he had not the slightest doubt of what the great scientist’s evidence would be. On that pillow-case had been sprinkled a deadly mixture which would send the American into a sleep from which he would never wake.

They stayed in the billiard-room till it was past eleven o’clock, playing game after game. Stifling his loathing, Aylmer played once with Quentin, who by now had drunk pretty nearly as much as he could carry. Whitefield began to yawn, and refused Quentin’s invitation to a last trial of strength.

“I begin to feel a bit sleepy, I think I shall toddle off.” And having said this the American rose to go.

“The night is still young,” cried Quentin a little boisterously; his voice was still steady but his gait seemed a bit uncertain. “Aylmer, you’re only a boy. You don’t want to go to bed yet. Let you and I have a fifty up.”

But Aylmer declined. He had stood Quentin’s company in the presence of a third party, but he felt it would be nauseating to be alone with him.

“No, I am going to follow Mr. Whitefield’s example. Come along, sir.” He tucked his arm in that of the millionaire, and they left the room together, leaving Quentin at the table, playing idly with the balls.

“Seems to me that our friend has indulged a bit too much,” remarked Whitefield as they went up the staircase together. “He was quite boisterous to-night. He takes his lotion pretty freely always, but I have never seen him so far advanced as to-night. I suppose he is making merry over my ten thousand pounds,” he added with a grim laugh.

“More than likely,” agreed Aylmer with a grimness equal to his own. Whitefield’s room was at the further end of the corridor in which the young man’s was situated. Aylmer accompanied him to the door, and as they shook hands, addressed him.

“Mr. Whitefield, you have a bolt on your door?”

The American looked his surprise at the question.

“Of course I have. Why do you ask?”

As usual, Aylmer did not directly answer the question.

“I don’t know whether you habitually make use of it; it is always safer to do so in hotels. You have said you believe in me. Will you kindly oblige me by bolting your door to-night?”

Whitefield stared at him, hard. “Do you mean to say this fellow would have the audacity to come into my room in the dead of night to rob me of more than he has done already. Besides, how could he get a key?”

Aylmer smiled at his companion’s simplicity, and drawing from his pocket his pass-key which he had become possessed of through the instrumentality of the obliging chambermaid, inserted it into the lock and threw open the door, much to Whitefield’s astonishment.

“You see I can enter your room; I am an honest man who is on the side of law and order. It only requires a very little ingenuity. If I can do it, how much easier for a professional rogue. No, I don’t think Quentin will want any more money from you, but he might pay you a visit from other motives.”

And then, suddenly, Whitefield’s sorely tried powers of self-control gave way, and he indulged in one of his explosive fits; when it came, Aylmer was not in the least surprised; he could only marvel that the American had been able to keep himself in check so long.

“Look here, young Aylmer, I’m not sure you are acting in quite a friendly way with me. You fill my mind with all sorts of horrible suspicions, and still you keep up that irritating reticence. Surely, you can drop a word, a hint to relieve my anxiety.”

The young man laid his hand upon his companion’s arm, and spoke in a soothing voice. “I can quite understand you are very angry with me. Well, give me just a bit more rope—say, till after breakfast to-morrow morning, and I promise you that then you shall know exactly what I know myself. When I do take you into my confidence, I want to do it fully, to reveal to you absolute facts, not mere suspicions. And now, good-night, and don’t forget to bolt that door.”

He left the millionaire still fuming a little, but more comfortable in his mind. According to Aylmer’s promise, he had only to wait a few hours longer for the mystery to be cleared up.

The young man went into his own room, but he did not at once proceed to undress. The exciting nature of the situation made him very wakeful. He sat in an easy chair, absorbed in thought. Then, after a quarter of an hour’s interval, he heard the telephone bell ring. In a few strides he was at the instrument and listening to the voice of Dumont.

“Well, my friend, I have made the analysis; it did not take me so very long, after all. I say, can you put yourself in a taxi and come round to my place? It is better to talk over these things privately.”

In spite of the hour, of course Aylmer would go. In a few moments he was closeted with the well-known scientist in his cozy study.

“You were absolutely right in your suspicions,” said Monsieur Dumont. “This scoundrel is evidently a toxicologist of some pretensions. That pillow-case was sprinkled with a little-known but most powerful poison. It is prepared by the Malays from the plant Cheraka, with datura seeds; he must have picked up the recipe in his wanderings. Quite a little of it sprinkled upon a pillow and inhaled during sleep, would produce symptoms so exactly resembling heart disease that a post-mortem would fail to discover the true cause of death. There can be no doubt now as to the way in which your relative came to his end. Equally certain that this miscreant intended to remove Whitefield, by the same means.”

Aylmer returned to the hotel and got straightway into bed. He had imagined it would be a long time before he would get any sleep. But in this supposition he was mistaken. The strenuousness and excitement of the day had produced the inevitable reaction. He fell into a profound and dreamless slumber from which he was aroused by the entrance of the chambermaid.

He rose, had his bath, and dressed himself quickly. Then he went out into the corridor and made his way to Whitefield’s room. On his way he passed Quentin’s apartment, and paused a moment to listen. This cold-blooded murderer was habitually an early riser; the chances were he was already astir. He could hear no sound of movements within. But, as the door was shut, he concluded Quentin was still inside. He was curious to know if anything had happened in the night. He had intended to keep awake, but sleep suddenly had overcome him.

He rapped at Whitefield’s door. A gruff voice called out: “Who is it?”

“It is I. Frank Aylmer,” was the answer. The head of the millionaire appeared in the doorway; he was fully dressed save for his coat and waistcoat. In his deep-set eyes was a watchful look. When he recognized the young man, his expression lightened.

“Come in, you’re an early bird. I didn’t expect to see you before breakfast. Sit down. I can tell by your manner something has happened.”

Aylmer sat down on the proffered chair. Now that he felt justified in breaking the long silence he had imposed on himself, his excitement was almost equal to that of the American. He felt as eager to tell everything now as before he had been reluctant to open his lips.

“Yes, a great deal has happened, and in a few moments you will know everything,” he said. “But first tell me, did Quentin try to enter your room, any time, in the night?”

“I can’t be sure one way or the other,” was Whitefield’s answer. “I was awfully drowsy when I went up to bed. But what you said at the last minute seemed to drive the drowsiness away, and, when I got between the sheets, I felt as wide awake as it was possible for a man to be. I’ll swear I didn’t close my eyes for some hours; then, I suppose, I must have dropped off. All the time I was awake I was listening for the sound of a key in my door; I had bolted it as you urged me. I had an ugly dream that he was trying to force his way in, and it was as vivid as it could be. So, as I have said, I can’t tell you one way or the other. For all I know to the contrary, he might have made an attempt in the middle of the night and been baffled. And now you say you are going to make a clean breast of it. But first tell me why he should want to get into my room. You say he was not after more money. What, then, would be his object?”

“Simply to get hold of the receipt he had given you, and destroy it.”

Whitefield considered a moment. “I think I see. There would then be no evidence that I had lent him the money. I suppose he then would have shuffled off and hidden himself somewhere, so that I couldn’t get at him.”

It was evident the American was not yet near the point of suspecting the whole of the ghastly design which Quentin had worked out with such devilish cunning.

“He is a thorough criminal, Mr. Whitefield. His main object in coming to your room in the dead of night would be to get hold of the receipt. But I think he had another motive—the desire to make sure that his plans in another direction had not miscarried.”

A swift flash of intelligence showed itself in Whitefield’s deep-set eyes. “There is no mistaking your meaning, Aylmer. In addition to swindling me out of ten thousand pounds, this infernal miscreant intended to purloin the receipt, and in order to make assurance doubly sure, close my mouth for ever.”

“You have guessed aright, sir,” was Aylmer’s answer. “Now I will tell you a few things which will enable you to understand how I became involved in the matter, how I have, fortunately, been able to rescue you from a terrible end. I shall make my story as brief as I can, and I may say that I owe my action to the merest accident. But for a few words that Mrs. Quentin let drop, I should never have been able to piece things together as I have done.”

“Was that charming little woman in it?” asked Whitefield eagerly.

“I will stake my life on it she was not,” said Aylmer firmly. “She may lately have had some suspicions that he was a crook, but she never dreamed him to be the vile criminal he is. If she had been his accomplice, she would never have given me the clue she did.”

He then proceeded to tell the American of the sudden death of Sir Charles Reeks at Biarritz, how the medical evidence was that he had died of heart disease, and his own suspicions of foul play.

“Now, to tell you how a sudden inspiration came to me which enabled me to piece things together. Mrs. Quentin happened to let drop that they had stayed at the Hôtel du Palais at the time of Sir Charles’s death. She appealed to Quentin for confirmation, and after a few brief words, he rose and walked away, although I happen to know that, at that particular time, he had every reason for not letting her out of his sight. This action of his set me thinking. I expect you have heard of the expression ‘reconstructing the crime’.”

“Often,” replied Whitefield. “I believe it is a method greatly favored on the Continent.”

“I did this with regard to the incident at Biarritz. I knew that Sir Charles Reeks had parted with a large sum of money to somebody shortly before his death. In all probability, he got from that unknown somebody a formal receipt. But when his belongings were examined, no receipt was found. A dispatch-case came into my possession on which were certain unidentified finger-prints. At once, by one of those flashes of intuition for which it is impossible to account, I connected Quentin with the Biarritz mystery.”

“But there must have been certain data on which to build your theory,” Whitefield interjected.

“Quite true. A certain similarity of circumstances. Quentin had tried to borrow money from me, and had been refused. He had succeeded in borrowing money from you, and given you a receipt. It was therefore on the cards that he was the unknown somebody who had been paid that large sum of money by Reeks.”

“I follow you so far, but it was nothing more than a shrewd guess. Any one of a hundred people staying at the Palais at the same time might have been the unknown somebody,” objected Whitefield.

“Perfectly true. At its best it was nothing but a guess instigated by the fact that I had made some inquiries about Quentin, and while finding practically nothing against him, I had discovered that he was the close associate of a notorious evil-doer. Of course, I wanted proof. If I could get Quentin’s finger-prints, I could compare them with those on the dispatch-case. With a little ingenuity, I contrived to get them, and found them exact. I therefore established the fact that Quentin had tampered with the dispatch-case for his own ends. From that point, the process of reconstruction was comparatively easy.”

Whitefield nodded his grey head. “Yes, I think I see the process by which you arrived at it, but please give me more details. I am intensely interested.”

“I felt convinced in my own mind that Quentin had got that money from Sir Charles, had stolen the receipt and put him out of the way, so that the transaction would not be revealed to any human being and he would never be called upon to refund the amount. I guessed that, to effect his diabolical purpose, he had made use of some subtle and little-known poison. With criminals of his type a knowledge of unfamiliar poisons is a part of their stock-in-trade. I do not suppose for a moment that Sir Charles was his only victim.”

“And he was going to practice on me the same methods that he used on your relative,” cried the American with a shudder he could not repress.

“As soon as I learned from you that you had lent him that ten thousand pounds, and the very remarkable fact that he had stipulated he should receive it in cash, I at once jumped to the conclusion that the chances were a hundred to one the previous gruesome history would be repeated. I went into your room last night, removed your pillow-case, which I replaced with one similar in appearance, and sent it to my friend Dumont, one of the greatest toxicologists in Europe, for analysis. Until I received his report I could hardly make any positive affirmation, however sure I was in my own mind. That report I received some little time after you had gone to bed. The pillow-case had been impregnated with a powerful poison, prepared by the Malays, the symptoms it produces in the victim being so similar to heart disease that a post-mortem would never detect the real cause of death.”

There was a long pause after Aylmer’s circumstantial narrative. The American was a man of grit and nerve, and although he must have been terribly shaken by the knowledge of how near he had been to death, he soon resumed his normal demeanor.

“Well, Aylmer, what can I say to express my thanks for what you have done? Any form of words I can think of would be inadequate to convey my gratitude. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, don’t forget you have made a friend for life. I know from that vile creature, who, I expect, is at the present moment gloating over my supposed end, that you are a young man born to fortune, otherwise I would charge myself with your future welfare. Well, I cannot now express a tenth of what I would like to say; perhaps, later on, I shall be able to say it better.”

He paused a moment, and then spoke briskly. “And now, I presume our next step is to inform the police.”

Aylmer agreed. He looked at his watch. “Our talk has taken a little time. I should say that Quentin is half-way through his breakfast. I propose we wait another quarter of an hour before we go down; he will have cleared out by then. As soon as possible we will go round to the police.”

Whitefield had been thinking rapidly over things. “I suppose there is evidence enough,” he said presently. “You know, young man, I am quite willing to admit you are very clever; but I think you would have acted more wisely if you had taken me a bit earlier into your confidence. If, for instance, we had gone together into my room when you took that pillow-slip away, my evidence would have been rather important. Now there is only your bare word for it. You see what I mean?”

“Quite,” said Aylmer. “But I don’t think you need worry about that. I told Dumont all my suspicions, and advised him that I was going to abstract that pillow-case for his analysis.”

“I dare say you are right. I can’t help wondering about that little woman, if she is altogether as innocent as you think her.”

“As I said before, I would stake my life on it that she is,” was Aylmer’s answer. “I feel convinced in my own mind that Quentin did all he could to expedite her departure. It seems absurd to speak of conscience in the case of such a hardened ruffian, but I expect he was glad to get her out of the way before the expected dénouement took place. If he has the slightest consideration for any human being, it would be for her.”

Whitefield looked at him keenly, but made no comment. He was not very observant in the small things of life, but it did begin to dawn upon this somewhat egotistical American that Aylmer had been on terms of very close friendship with Eileen and knew a great deal more about her than he did himself.

They went down to breakfast, and to their intense relief, found nobody at their table. The waiter volunteered the explanation that Monsieur Quentin had finished his meal some little time ago, and had gone out.

He evidently had gone out for only a short while, for they were not more than half-way through their meal when Aylmer saw him standing in the doorway looking in the direction of their table, and noticed his swift change of expression as he caught sight of Whitefield and recognized that his deadly plans had miscarried. As his glance met that of Aylmer, his face went livid, and with a hasty movement he turned away from the dining room.

Two minutes later, the sound of scuffling feet resounded from the direction of the big hall into which the apartment opened, and the bark of a pistol rang out.

“Something has happened,” cried Aylmer, and the two men rose simultaneously and made for the place whence those sounds had proceeded, followed by some of the waiters and others who were breakfasting.

A strange sight met their eyes. Half a dozen men were clustered round and stooping over an inert figure stretched on the floor.

One glance enabled them to establish its identity. That inert figure was the dead body of Quentin, still clutching in his stiffening fingers the weapon with which he had ended his evil life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Whitefield was one of those dominating men who instinctively push themselves forward at critical moments. He did so now, addressing the leader of the group clustered round the body of the dead man.

“I am an American; my name is Whitefield—Cyrus J. Whitefield; you may have heard of me. I have been on terms of intimacy with this person both here and some time ago at Ostend. He was just an hotel acquaintance, you understand; I know nothing of him except that he was an agreeable companion. What does it mean?”

The good-looking Frenchman, an agent of police in plain-clothes, bowed courteously, and spoke in excellent English.

“Everybody, I think, must have heard of Mr. Cyrus J. Whitefield. Under what name did you know him at Ostend, monsieur?”

“The same as here, the name of Quentin.”

“Quite so, monsieur. He has gone by that name more frequently than any other; he has always used it when staying in big hotels and towns. But his real name is Sanderson, he was a man of good education, and, I believe, of decent family. At one time he was a doctor in Singapore, but left there on account of some financial trouble. We, with others of the continental police, have had our eye on him for some years; but he was very cunning, and it is only lately that we have been able to get sufficient evidence to justify an arrest.”

“And what was the offence for which you were able to arrest him?” queried the American.

Monsieur Paillot, such was the police agent’s name, embarked on a brief narrative. “Quentin, or Sanderson, to give him his proper appellation, was what is known on the Continent as a rat d’hôtel, one of the chiefs of a big gang who carried on their depredations in the various capitals of Europe. His rôle was to stay at different large hotels in the guise of a man of means and leisure, to ingratiate himself with his fellow-visitors, find out all about them, and indicate to the working members of the gang the most likely victims. He had never been known to engage in actual robberies himself, he left that particular branch to his subordinates; but there was no doubt he was one of the controlling brains of the organization. They had got on his track through the confession of one of the gang who had turned traitor for the sake of a substantial reward.

“Of course, we have had suspicions of him for some time,” said Paillot in conclusion. “For it was very seldom he stayed at an hotel but there was a robbery, either while he was there or soon after he left, engineered in consequence of the information he was able to give to his confederates. But he kept himself so cleverly in the background that, until just now, we could never manage to bring anything home to him.”

Whitefield looked at Aylmer, and the young man nodded to show that he knew the thought that had occurred to the American.

“There has so far been no robbery during his sojourn here,” Whitefield explained to the police agent. “But there certainly was one at the hotel in Ostend where we were last staying together.”

“No doubt he has put one in train here, monsieur; but, of course, it may not come off in consequence of what has just happened. I expect the gang will be a bit scared when they hear the news,” said the good-looking, courteous official.

“Perhaps you would give me a short description of what happened between you,” suggested the American.

“Willingly, monsieur. When I entered the hall with my men, he was standing at the door of the dining room, his back was towards me and he was looking into the apartment. Then, very swiftly, he turned round and came in my direction. He seemed very agitated before he caught sight of me, but when we met face to face, his countenance had a dreadful look. You see, we had met a few times in the course of the last few years, on occasions when I had charge of the investigations relating to certain robberies, and he knew me perfectly well. I am sure he had long guessed that I suspected him, although I was not able to put my suspicions into words. As I say, he recognized me, and besides, he saw my men, that was enough to tell him the game was up. He came to a dead halt, and cried out, as I thought, in a voice of fear—‘Ah, you here, Monsieur Paillot! What do you want in this hotel?’ I told him it was him I wanted, and here, Monsieur Whitefield, I blame myself that I was not quick enough. I ought not to have answered him but closed with him at once. That half minute of hesitation was enough for him. Quick as lightning he whipped out the pistol, put the muzzle to his head, and fired with instantaneous and fatal effect.”

“I suppose he always carried a weapon about with him as a precaution in the event of being taken.”

“I presume so,” said the police agent. “From what little I know of him, I should never have taken him for one of those robust criminals who would rather kill themselves than face a prison. He was so quiet and smooth-spoken—just a bit effeminate, I thought. I should never have credited him with the courage to take his own life. There was another bird we were after named Martyn, a man who generally hunted with him in couples. But we are too late for him; he slipped through our hands yesterday. But I hope we shall have him before long, unless he cheats us as his friend has done.”

Having learned all that mattered from the polite agent of police, Whitefield drew Aylmer aside. “Let us get out of this,” he said; “a breath of fresh air will do us good after such a nauseous experience.”

Together they went out, and walked along in silence for some little time. Presently Whitefield voiced his thoughts.

“A cunning devil if ever there was one. I was thinking of that robbery at Ostend, which we may be sure he engineered. That was a clever touch of his, having some of his wife’s jewellery stolen at the same time, not the best of her collection, you remember. It was done, of course, to avert suspicion from himself.” Then his thoughts reverted to Mrs. Quentin. “I can’t help feeling sorry for that poor little woman, if, as you seem so confident, she has simply been the dupe of a callous criminal.”

They walked on again in silence, and presently Aylmer remarked: “I suppose you will go to the police later on. There seems a good chance of getting back your ten thousand pounds, unless he put it in some place of safety as soon as he received it. But one would hardly think he had time for that, you gave it him so recently.”

Whitefield answered in a rather confused manner. “Yes, I have been thinking over that, Aylmer, and I have come to the conclusion it will be wiser to let sleeping dogs lie. I should say an old hand like that would put it away without a moment’s unnecessary delay. But supposing he has not done so, and it is found amongst his effects, think of the delay that would ensue before I could get hold of it. Thanks to you, he didn’t steal the receipt, although I expect he had a try for it in the dead of night. No, Aylmer, I shall let that ten thousand pounds go to the deuce.” He laughed harshly. “I shall try my best to forget it; but when I do remember it, it will be a bracing reminder of an old man’s folly.”

Aylmer could easily read between the lines of these words, of this rather magnificent disregard of money. The millionaire was looking at it from a point of view the young man could quite appreciate. The suicide of a rat d’hôtel at the moment of his arrest was not an event that would excite much attention. The news might never filter through to England or America.

But if a prominent man like the American millionaire were brought into the affair, every newspaper in Europe, as well as the American journals, would scent delightful “copy.” The story of an eminent financier, well known for his ’cuteness in all the world markets, being swindled by a commonplace adventurer, would furnish delicious reading. And Eileen’s name would come into it sooner or later, and people would draw their own conclusions, that the elderly gentleman’s generosity was prompted by his admiration of the adventurer’s supposed wife. Whitefield had powerful business friends who had the greatest respect for him. In New York he also had a wife and family whom he did not always take on these little jaunts.

On the whole, Aylmer came to the conclusion the old man was acting wisely, and told him so. In his position, it was worth more than the loss of ten thousand pounds, a mere bagatelle to a man of his wealth, to avoid the risk of a very serious scandal.

“I shall be off this afternoon and get on to Rome earlier than I intended,” said the American presently. “I suppose you won’t be very long before you make tracks.”

“No,” was Aylmer’s answer. “I shall wire my man to-night that I am returning, and start to-morrow morning. Don’t you think we had better lunch out somewhere? I don’t seem to want to sit in that hotel for a little while. It’s a morbid feeling, I know, and it will pass soon; but at the moment, I can’t get that staring dead face out of my mind.”

They lunched at one of the best restaurants in the town, and in the afternoon Aylmer saw the American off at the station. Whitefield again expressed his warm gratitude, and repeated his assurance that if Aylmer ever wanted a friend he knew where to look for one.

The millionaire’s last words were of Mrs. Quentin, who had made such a deep impression on him.

“I wonder if you will ever come across the little woman again,” he said. “I can’t help thinking of her. You seem so positive she knew next to nothing of her husband’s evil courses that I find myself sharing your belief. An awful shock for her, poor thing, when she learns what has happened. I wonder if any provision was made for her. Of course, he may have been telling the truth, or, at any rate, a portion of it. He may really have wanted to get hold of that ten thousand pounds as a nest-egg for her. Well, if that is the case, I don’t know that I shall begrudge it. I suppose she had to look to him for everything, hadn’t a penny of her own.”

“Very little, so far as I understood,” answered Aylmer. “She told me once she had been left a very small income by her mother, a matter of something like fifty pounds a year. Unless he has put that ten thousand pounds of yours safely away for her, I doubt if Quentin ever made any provision. My inquiries pointed to the fact that he was a man of no substance, living, as it were, from hand to mouth. I expect he spent his ill-gotten money as fast as he raked it in.”

The train was moving off as Aylmer said these last words. Whitefield waved him a final adieu, and called out a last injunction. “You will go and see your friend before you leave, you know whom I mean.”

The friend alluded to was Monsieur Dumont, the eminent scientist. He was the only man besides Whitefield and Aylmer who knew of the attempted murder. It had been arranged at lunch, after the American had reiterated his intention of hushing the matter up, that his young friend should call on Dumont and get from him a promise to keep the secret.

Dumont was not only a scientist, he was also a keen man of the world, and Aylmer had no difficulty in making him see the American’s point of view.

He readily gave the required promise. “Rely upon it, my friend, that, so far as I am concerned, the incident will be forgotten. Considering how things have turned out, I think this wealthy person, who seems to part with his money so liberally under certain influences, has taken a very wise course. If the scoundrel had lived, I suppose he could have hardly repressed his natural desire to procure him the punishment he merited. But now that he is out of the reach of justice, ma foi, it is much the best thing to hush the matter up. It will, I should think, be a lesson to your Mr. Whitefield in the future; he will think twice before he mixes himself up with plausible people of whom he knows nothing.”

When Aylmer arrived in London, the first visit he paid was to Duberry. He had been thinking things over on his journey, and had come to the conclusion that it would be the wisest policy to tell him and also Peyton some portion of what had happened at Nice, that part relating to one side of Quentin’s criminal career. The other part, relating to the murder of Sir Charles Reeks and the attempted murder of Whitefield, he intended to keep to himself for the sake of Eileen, who, he was resolved, should never know through his instrumentality that the man who had befriended her was a criminal of the deepest dye.

There was just the chance that the English papers would not get hold of the news of Quentin’s tragic end, more especially as he appeared to be better known to the continental police under his real name of Sanderson. But, if they did, it would be very difficult for him to justify his silence. Peyton knew he had gone to Nice for the express purpose of meeting the Quentins, and he would be sure to make some inquiries about them when they next saw each other.

Duberry was, of course, deeply interested in the story of the sudden arrest and suicide. “My old friend Webber could find out nothing about Quentin here,” he remarked. “He evidently confined his malpractices to foreign countries. But, of course, the mere fact of his association with Ramon suggested that he was of the criminal type. Every day I live I confirm the truth of the old saying that a man is known by the company he keeps. That very respectable butler, Dicks, was, no doubt, another member of the gang, at any rate acted for Quentin in some useful capacity.” He added presently: “And what has become of the lady who passed as Mrs. Quentin? She was on the scene when the tragedy occurred, I suppose?”

“No, she left a day or two before.”

Duberry looked at him sharply. “Do you know where she went?”

Aylmer answered truthfully that he had not the slightest idea.

“Do you want to trace her?” was the detective’s next question. “I might be more fortunate this time.”

Aylmer shook his head. “I think not, as my feelings are at present,” he answered, and the reply gave Duberry the greatest pleasure.

As a matter of fact, the dearest wish of Aylmer’s heart was to find Eileen, and for that purpose he might shortly avail himself of the services of a detective. But he resolved to go warily until he had thought over things very carefully. And he had fully made up his mind that, in any case, he would not employ Duberry on such a mission. He would go to some stranger.

With Peyton he had a fairly easy time. That energetic young man was very busy, his head full of his various business affairs, and he did not seem to take more than a somewhat languid interest in the story which Aylmer unfolded to him. His comments were very brief.

“Well, I pretty soon tumbled to the suspicion that he was a wrong ’un, after that little incident of his trying to fleece you. It was so obvious he had cultivated you with that end in view. But I had no idea he was such a high-class artist as he appears to have been. What a nerve the chap must have had, one can hardly help admiring him for it. Swanking about in swagger hotels, living on the fat of the land, and marking down the likely victims for his pals to operate on. And that fine house at Hampstead, too. I’m glad he didn’t take it into his head to invite me. I suppose he chose his customers. He knew a poor devil of a junior partner wasn’t worth wasting his time on. If he could have got hold of the governor, wouldn’t he have been all over him? Not that he would have caught him, he’s too wary a bird.”

In spite of his very serious thoughts, Aylmer smiled at Peyton’s rather flippant reference to his hard-headed parent.

“I think either you or your father would be a match for a dozen Quentins, my dear Claude.”

“Thanks for the compliment, old man; but without boasting, I think either of us would be a tough proposition. By the way, talking of crooks, do you remember a fellow you met one day in our place, named Ramon? You asked me about him, had a notion you had met him before in some place or another.”

“I remember him perfectly,” answered Aylmer shortly.

“Well, I don’t know if you saw it in the papers. He was a crook, of the financial sort, swindling companies, worthless shares, that kind of thing. The police went to arrest him in some common lodging-house, found him dead on the floor, and another man, gasping out his last breath, another crook like himself, of course. They had had a dust up over some division of the spoil most likely and did each other in, ridding the world of a couple of pretty rogues.”

“Yes, I think I did see it,” was Aylmer’s cautious answer; he was resolved not to let Peyton know too much. “But it passed from my mind till you mentioned it.”

“A client of ours, you know. Not a very big one, perhaps, but from first to last he invested a pretty tidy sum. They never found the wife, I expect she had got the ‘oof’ in safe custody. The governor was awfully annoyed about it. He’s very sensitive in business matters; he seemed to take it as a slur on himself that he had a swindler for a client. I comforted him by prophesying that we might have a good many more before we had finished, although they might not have the bad luck to be found out. Well, good-by, old man. So the curtain is rung down on the Quentins. How did the little woman take it?”

Aylmer returned the same answer he had made to Duberry, that Mrs. Quentin had left before the tragedy took place and had not revealed where she was going.

And, as Claude Peyton now disappears from this story, it may be narrated that, in due course, he married his pretty sweetheart, and proved a most exemplary husband to an equally exemplary wife.

Aylmer now had been back in England a week, and was making up his mind to take steps for the discovery of Eileen. But he was forestalled in his intention by the receipt of a brief telegram from her.

“Please come to me at Rosebank, Sherehaven.—Eileen.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Eileen was waiting for Aylmer at the little countryfied station the next morning. Her telegram had been dispatched late on the previous evening. There was no late train to this out-of-the-way place or he would have started off there and then. As it was, he took an early one on the next day and arrived at a few minutes past noon. From the London station he had dispatched a wire informing her of the time at which she might expect him.

His heart ached as he looked at her and saw the inexpressible sadness on her face, the pathetic droop of the slender figure. Heedless of the few passengers who had alighted at the same time as himself, he took her arm, and led her out of the station in silence.

When they were in the road leading to the little town, she spoke, turning her sombre eyes upon him. “You know why I sent for you?”

“I can guess,” was the answer. Then he added briefly: “You have heard. When did you hear?”

“Three days ago. I had received no communication from—from him since I left Nice. But that did not worry me; he was always an indifferent correspondent. We had been separated before, and I never got more than an occasional letter, always of the briefest.”

“And who was it who informed you?”

“An envelope was addressed to me in an unfamiliar handwriting. I had a presage of evil tidings when I opened it; you know almost my last words to you were that I had a presentiment something disastrous was about to happen. Inside was a hastily scrawled note in pencil, I at once recognized Martyn’s handwriting. There was no address, no date, no signature. I can tell you the exact words, for they are graven on my memory. ‘You will get this through the medium of one I can trust, I dare not let you know where I am. The police came to the hotel, I had left the day before for the purpose of arresting Richard. Before they could effect their object, he shot himself. He had always told me that if such a thing came about, he would never suffer himself to be taken alive. Aylmer was there at the time. I believe Richard has made some provision for you, of which you will hear later.’ ”

News, no doubt, traveled quickly in the underworld, was Aylmer’s reflection. A further thought was that the criminals, whose hands were against everybody, were very staunch to each other. Here was Martyn, in deadly peril himself—by now he might have been taken—doing a good service to a woman in whom his late confederate was interested.

Aylmer pressed her arm gently. “It must have been a ghastly blow to you, poor child. I suppose you are going to take me to Rosebank. You must have much to tell me, much that it will cause you inexpressible pain to relate. Let us postpone any further talk on this horrible subject till we get there. I have been to Rosebank before, you know.”

Eileen looked at him with a wan smile. “Yes, I found that out. Mrs. Robinson told me somebody had called who said he had known us abroad, and described you to me. Whitefield had a letter from here; I guessed at once you had got the address from him.”

In the hall they met the pleasant landlady, who bestowed a cheerful smile on Aylmer. “Glad to see you, sir. I hope you will cheer Mrs. Quentin up; she has been in very poor spirits since she has been here.”

They sat down in the tiny sitting room, and Eileen was the first to speak. “I sent for you for two reasons, perhaps three. First, I wanted to talk this awful thing over; then, now that my lips are unsealed, I wished to tell you the reasons which decided me not to become your wife. There is a third. You will remember in the last part of his brief letter, Martyn stated that provision had been made for me, and that I should hear about it later. Well, yesterday morning, about this time, I had a visitor, a strange man who had come from London to see me.”

“Let us talk about the strange man first. What was the object of his visit? What was he like?”

“There was something about him which repelled me, which gave me the impression of a sinister personality, although he appeared to be a person of some education, expressed himself well, and, in a way, was sympathetic and polite. He told me that he was an old and very confidential friend of Richard’s although, in all probability, I had never heard of him. Some time ago, Richard had entrusted him with a certain sum of money which was to be handed over to me if anything happened to him. He had heard from reliable sources that Richard had committed suicide; he was careful not to enter into any details, and that, under the circumstances, he wished to discharge his trust. He had brought down the money with him, five thousand pounds, and would be pleased to hand it over to me. He added it would be a transaction entirely between our two selves, that he would require no receipt.”

Another and a stronger instance of the fidelity of the criminal classes to one another, thought Aylmer. He felt certain that the sum mentioned, five thousand pounds, was part of the ten thousand which Quentin had extracted from the American, and which he, no doubt, had dispatched to his faithful confederate a few hours after he had received it. In all probability this sum represented Quentin’s own share, the other portion had to be divided amongst others. If that supposition were correct, no part of the money would be found amongst the dead man’s effects, and if Whitefield had made any efforts to regain it, they would have been doomed to failure.

“And what was your answer, Eileen?” asked the young man when he had thought over the situation for a few seconds.

“When I recovered my astonishment at the honesty of this man, who found himself in possession of a large sum of money which I have no doubt he could easily have retained himself without anybody being the wiser, I began to think. In face of his self-inflicted death I could not bring myself to believe that any money belonging to Richard could be acquired honestly, and that I should be tainted myself if I touched it. He begged me to reconsider my decision. How was I going to live if I refused? I told him that I had inherited a very tiny income from my mother, and that I could supplement it by some sort of work.”

“Bravo, Eileen, and what did he say to that?”

“He seemed frankly incapable of understanding my attitude. To get rid of him, I said that if he would leave me his name and address, I would communicate with him in the event of my altering my mind.”

“And what did he say to that?”

There was a faint smile on Eileen’s face as she answered the question. “He was much too wary to be caught by such a simple proposition; I suppose men of his calling are very chary of trusting outsiders. If I changed my mind, I was to put an advertisement, the wording of which he made me write down, a week hence in The Times. After he had read it, he would take measures that the money should reach me safely. He was careful not to say that he would himself pay another visit to Sherehaven.”

“You were quite right in refusing the money,” said Aylmer. “Let him look in The Times, he must never find that advertisement there. And now tell me your reasons for refusing to be my wife, although I am quite sure I know what they were.”

And Eileen told him, the tears falling from time to time as she did so. “You know that Martyn saw us that day in Soho. Later on, he told Richard, who taxed me with meeting you clandestinely. I admitted it, and told him that we were in love with each other and wanted to marry, at the same time I reminded him of his promise when we entered into our strange compact. He was very grave, he admitted his promise, but added that before I could become the wife of any decent man, there was something of the utmost importance he had to impart to me. But before doing so, he must exact from me a solemn pledge to preserve secrecy; that pledge I gave him.”

“And he revealed to you that he was not the man of means and leisure you had thought him, but simply an adventurer and a crook.”

A deep flush of shame mounted to the unhappy girl’s cheek as she bowed her head. “That is what it amounted to, really. He camouflaged it as well as he could, made it out that he was an adventurer of the financial type, that he borrowed money from anybody weak enough to lend it to him without the slightest intention of repayment. He went on to say that, although he exercised the utmost precautions in these transactions, there might come a day when he would overstep the border-line and be pilloried to the world. You can understand what a terrible shock this was to me, as I had never had the least suspicion that anything of the kind was hanging over his head.”

“You were all along under the impression that he was a man of considerable means, of assured income?”

There was absolute truth in the girl’s voice and gaze as she made answer. “Certainly. After he made this revelation, I recalled one or two things I had noticed, but which made little impression on me at the time. He never ventured any details of his actual resources, never dropped a hint as to the nature of his investments and securities, but I explained this by the fact of his being a singularly reticent man. I did know that he had borrowed money from Sir Charles Reeks, for I overheard him say so to Martyn one day after we had returned from Biarritz. But he was very lavish in his expenditure, and at times he openly admitted that he was short of funds and must retrench for a short while. I concluded he had borrowed just to tide him over an uncomfortable period. That was why I warned you, because I did not wish you to risk your money, although at the time I did not believe him to be dishonest as well as extravagant. And now tell me, for I had a certain feeling when he and I did have that fateful talk that he was not revealing the whole truth, for what offense did the police arrest him? Please give me all the details; I would rather know them.”

Yes, he would let her know that; the one thing he was resolved to keep from her was that the man had stained his hands with murder. He told of how he and Whitefield had been sitting at breakfast when they heard a commotion in the hall, of the ringing out of the pistol shot, how they had rushed out to find Quentin lying dead on the floor surrounded by the police who had come to arrest him, of Monsieur Paillot’s revelations that he was one of the heads of an international gang of crooks who specialized in robberies from hotels, that Martyn was one of his confederates.

She listened with downcast eyes, and now and again he could see her half-averted face convulsed with a spasm of pain, but on the whole, she bore the ordeal with commendable composure.

When he had finished, she lifted her tear-stained eyes to his. “You see, dearest, how wise it was for me to write you that letter. When he had finished telling me what was only a half-truth, he uttered some very weighty words; I have never seen him in a graver mood than he was then. ‘You see, Eileen, how impossible it would be for you to link your fate with that of an honest young fellow like Aylmer. Anything that smirched me would smirch you, and through you him. I know you have far too much nobility of nature to run the risk.’ ”

Aylmer mused a little after she had told him this. “A strange, complex sort of creature,” he said presently. “One would not have credited him with any consideration for the feelings of others. I should have thought he would have been glad to get you off his hands, into safe harbor, as it were, without thinking about any after-consequences.”

“He was exceedingly complex, and though I suppose you may rather resent praise from such a source, he took an excessively strong fancy to you, and spoke in the highest terms of you, though, for a time, he was bitter against you just after you refused to lend him the money. I don’t think he said much about you to Martyn, but to me he has said more than once that you were a perfect type of an honorable, straightforward young Englishman.”

At this moment the maid came in to lay the cloth for lunch, and a few minutes later the meal was served. Intimate conversation was arrested until they were alone again and safe from interruption.

“Do you know anything of a man named Ramon?” he asked her presently.

She answered him without the slightest hesitation. “A rather refined-looking man, always dressed in the shabbiest of clothes. I saw him only once or twice, but he always paid a visit to The Laurels when we were in London. The explanation given to me was that he was a destitute relation whom Richard helped from time to time. He used to enter the house by the kitchen entrance, and Richard used to see him in his study, he was never brought into the other rooms. Why do you ask?”

He told her of his first visit to Hampstead, and how, long after the household had gone to bed, he had seen Quentin and Dicks escorting the shabbily-dressed man to the gate, and how his suspicions of Quentin had arisen from that moment. He found that she had heard nothing of the tragic end of Ramon and Dicks. There could be little doubt that Quentin was a many-sided criminal and belonged to more than one organization; he did not confine his energies to one branch of crime.

There were still a few questions he wished to put to her. “Will you carry your mind back, dear, to our first intimate conversation at Ostend, when I promised to be your friend?”

“Yes, I remember every word of it,” she said in a low voice. “That was when I first knew I was in love with you.”

“You had some sort of presentiment of coming misfortune then. What grounds had you for that premonition?”

“I can hardly give any satisfactory explanation. But all the time we were together, I always felt I was living in an unreal world, that one day I should wake up to something totally different. Our strange nomadic life—we were so seldom in London that I often wondered why he kept on that house at Hampstead.”

“He had some business in London, you may be sure, business in which Dicks and Ramon were closely associated with him, something quite apart from his continental activities,” interjected Aylmer.

She was quick enough to see the point at once. “Of course, that must have been the reason. Then the absence of any proper friends, the isolation in which we lived when we were in London, weighed upon my spirits. As I told you, there were a few men who came to the house; they paid very short visits, and were generally closeted with Richard in his study, I rarely saw anything of them. Then there was the occasional shortage of money which puzzled me. Altogether I was conscious of a peculiar mystery. And that borrowing from Sir Charles troubled me. I was afraid that was not the only time he had borrowed; I suspected he had made up his mind to ask you and Whitefield to Hampstead for the same purpose, and it showed me the uncertain state of his finances, that a crash might come at any moment.”

“Not many more questions, dear, and I think I shall have done. Why were you so agitated that morning when I surprised you and Martyn together?”

“I had been very upset by something he had told me, that Richard was very short of money, that he knew you were a rich young man and that in all probability you would be useful to him. He asked me—oh, I am ashamed to tell you—he asked me to cultivate you as much as possible so as to make you more easy to approach. I answered him indignantly, told him that I refused to play the part of decoy, and we had a sort of battle royal which left me in tears.”

“Did Martyn really not know of these peculiar relations with Quentin?”

“I always used to believe he did not. Richard always swore that nobody but our two selves were in possession of the secret. But I latterly had a suspicion—mind you, it was nothing more—that Martyn did know.”

“And now for my last question. That sudden flight from Hampstead. The object of that, I take it, was to remove you from my influence?”

Eileen thought a moment. “It was a contributory cause, no doubt, but his financial condition was the strongest motive. I could tell he had been very hard-up since we left Ostend, and your refusal to let him have money put him, I believe, into dire straits. The sale of the furniture gave him a fair sum in ready cash. We went off to Paris, and for a little time lived in the usual luxurious way. But he soon found that retrenchment was necessary, so he brought me to Sherehaven, where he was able to exist economically, for him. Then I suppose he got funds again, and we went off to Nice to meet Whitefield. He had designs, of course, upon him?”

“Yes,” replied Aylmer, who did not wish to dwell upon this topic at any great length. “He did get money out of Whitefield. That five thousand you refused was part of the plunder.”

The girl covered her face with her hands. “Oh, how terrible!” Then a sudden thought struck her: “Would it not be a good thing if I put the advertisement in as that man suggested, got the money, and sent it to Whitefield?”

“It’s a splendid idea,” said Aylmer. “Do this, my dear; it will show him you had no complicity in Quentin’s schemes. Ten thousand pounds was the sum got out of him; the other five has gone into quarters where you cannot recover it.”

It may be mentioned here that in due course this was done. Eileen received the money in a somewhat roundabout way and sent it to the millionaire with a very humble note in which she explained her inability to make good the whole of his loss. And by return she received from the millionaire a graceful and appreciative reply.

There was a long silence before Aylmer approached what to him was the most important object of his visit. He leaned forward and took both her hands in his. “And have you thought of what you are going to do as regards your future?”

She answered him very bravely, although she could not keep back the tears. “I have my little income; one can say this to his credit, he never tried to touch that, and I can work. I am afraid I am not educated enough to be a governess, but I could go into a shop. I might get a place as a mannequin; I have always been told I have a good figure.”

And then this staunch lover burst out into impetuous speech. “You are going to do nothing of the sort. You are going to marry me with as little delay as possible.”

A rosy flush dyed the pale cheeks. “Oh, my dear, is there another man in the world like you, so brave, so true? But it can never be, even he saw that. And if it was impossible then, it is equally so now. I am innocent enough, Heaven knows; I have never been guilty of a dishonest action in my life. But you cannot touch pitch and not be defiled. I will not defile you.”