After she had left, Aylmer remained in the lounge for a few moments
thinking deeply over what just had occurred. He recalled the
despairing tone in which she had uttered those few words: “Nobody can
help me.” Was it possible there was some mystery about this beautiful
young woman, who had hitherto seemed so bright and gay, and who had
declared to him but a little time previously that she was quite
contented with her life?
She did not strike him in the least as one possessing a neurotic or
hysterical temperament. Obviously, there had been some serious quarrel
between her and this man Martyn, who had the power to move her to
almost convulsive emotion. If it had been her husband who was the
actor in this brief and dramatic scene, he would not have wondered so
much. Very few married people go through life without occasional and
bitter quarrels. In spite of his placid demeanor, Quentin might be a
man of deep feelings, perhaps of violent passions which he did his
best to keep in check, but which suddenly blazed forth in his
uncontrollable moments. A middle-aged husband united to a young and
singularly fascinating wife can hardly escape occasional spasms of
fierce jealousy.
But this could not be the case with Martyn. Even if he was secretly in
love with her, he would hardly dare to exercise any authority over
her, to reproach her for something in her conduct of which he
disapproved, and, to the extent of reducing her to tears. It was a
perplexing mystery, and the more Aylmer thought over it, the less
could he imagine a clue to it. What could be the reason for Martyn’s
mysterious influence over her?
This incident had the effect of making him alter his resolution to
separate himself speedily from the too fascinating Eileen. He felt an
irresistible impulse to watch this trio closely, in the hope that he
might discover something that would help him to elucidate the mystery.
He already had dropped a hint to Peyton that he would be leaving
shortly, and, although that clear-sighted young man had not said much,
Aylmer could see from his manner that such a step would have his
approval. Peyton went so far as to say that he was not particularly
keen on staying on at the Continental and would be quite contented to
go with his friend to any other place where they could have an equally
good time. With the new turn of events, Aylmer had to confess that he
suddenly had altered all his plans.
Peyton lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise. He did not say very much,
but, as usual, he spoke to the point.
“I thought your decision was a wise one, and I am sorry you have
altered your mind,” he said quietly. “Something must have happened to
account for it. But I suppose I can’t expect you to tell me what it
is.”
For a few seconds Aylmer hesitated. It occurred to him that something
was suggesting itself to Peyton’s rather active mind. He, in all
probability, was thinking that his friend had so far forgotten himself
as to make love to Mrs. Quentin and had not been repulsed. He must
clear himself and her of that dishonoring suspicion, and the only way
to do so was to tell the actual truth. He narrated to Peyton, under
the strictest seal of secrecy, what had happened in the lounge that
morning. Peyton, he knew to be the soul of honor, a man who never
would betray a confidence.
It was a little time before the young man spoke. He evidently was
turning the matter over in his mind. It was characteristic of him that
in serious matters he was always very deliberate in expressing his
opinion.
“There is certainly something mysterious in it,” he said at last. “I
mean in the fact that he has the power to produce such emotion in her.
As you say truly, if it had been her husband one would not have given
a second thought to it--just a little matrimonial wrangle, such as
occurs now and then between the most placid couples. Now, I have kept
my eye upon them a good deal during these few days, and I have come to
certain definite conclusions, rightly or wrongly.”
Aylmer pricked up his ears. He knew that this easy-going, vivacious
young man had remarkable powers of observation and nothing in the
demeanor of anybody he was watching escaped him, and that he also had
a marvellous faculty of lucid deduction from those same observations.
“Please go on,” said Aylmer tersely. “I am very curious to know what
conclusions you have arrived at.”
Thus encouraged, Peyton proceeded in his drawling, high-pitched voice.
“In the first place, Quentin is by no means passionately in love with
his beautiful young wife; but, he is very fond of her with a sort of
paternal affection, and she is not any more in love with him. On the
other hand, this rather objectionable Martyn worships the ground she
treads on, in true lover-like style. He hates to see her in the
company of another man, I should say in yours especially.”
“And what do you guess are her feelings towards him?” asked Aylmer
eagerly.
“If my diagnosis is correct, I should say she hates him as much as he
loves her. But more important still, she fears him as much as she
hates him. She seems restless and _distraite_ when his eyes are upon
her, as if she were apprehending some violent after-scene.”
Aylmer ruminated over his young friend’s remarks. He knew he had an
uncanny knack of reading the thoughts of others.
“If he is really in love with her, he has a strange way of showing his
affection,” he remarked. “He bullies her into tears when they are
alone, and even in her husband’s presence he says rude and insulting
things.”
Peyton shrugged his shoulders. “That is the nature of the creature, a
sort of cave man who would caress a woman one minute and thrash her
the next.”
He spoke again in a lighter tone. “Well, now I see what has made you
change your mind. You want to stay here to try to fathom the mystery.
I still think you would be wiser to go. But, you are master of your
own actions. I will help you all I can.”
That night things went on in normal fashion. Mrs. Quentin, who had
quite recovered from her emotion of the morning, announced that she
was completely herself again, and accepted Aylmer for her partner. The
young man fancied he saw a slight scowl on Martyn’s brow as he led her
out. But, the husband bestowed one of his pleasant smiles upon them
both, while exhorting his young wife not to overtax herself.
Eileen seemed in wonderfully good spirits, as if she had never had a
care in the world. Peyton danced repeatedly with the pretty girl on
whom she previously had passed her comments.
“I am sure it is quite a serious case,” she said with mock gravity.
“They are gradually tangoing into love with each other. Poor dears, I
do wish they could perform with a bit more grace.”
“Nothing really serious, I am quite sure,” was Aylmer’s reply. “Just
the holiday spirit, that is all. Claude has got a wonderfully old head
on his young shoulders. He’ll want to look about a bit before he
settles down.”
The next day Quentin gave the young man some news which he seemed to
consider of great importance, to judge by the manner in which he
conveyed it.
“I learned from the reception clerk just now that a person of
considerable importance is expected to-day,” he told Aylmer. “Cyrus J.
Whitefield, one of America’s biggest millionaires. I expect you have
heard of him, a veritable captain of industry.”
Aylmer certainly had heard of the gentleman in question, although for
the life of him he could not have said how he had amassed his
millions. It was evident that Quentin took a great interest in the
advent of the millionaire, probably because he was such a worshiper of
commercial success.
“Do you know him?” Aylmer asked politely.
“I came across him in an hotel in Nice before I was married,” was the
answer. “We forgathered just a little after the usual cosmopolitan
fashion. I shall remind him of that occasion. But it is very likely he
may not remember me. In his position he must know dozens of people,
and he would regard me, no doubt, as a very insignificant individual,
one to be forgotten immediately.”
Mr. Cyrus J. Whitefield arrived in due course, but did not present
himself to the general public till just before dinner, when he came
into the lounge.
Aylmer and Peyton were standing near the Quentins who were accompanied
by the inevitable Martyn, but they were not in their actual company.
They were quite close enough, however, to take in all the details of
the little comedy that followed.
The millionaire, a tall, clean-shaven, typical American, cast a
searching glance from his deep-set, keen blue eyes round the
apartment, doubtless with the object of discovering if he recognized
any friend or acquaintance. Apparently, he did not; for, his gaze
traveled from left to right, paused a moment on the beautiful Mrs.
Quentin, and went past her husband without any gleam of recognition.
It was obvious that Quentin had not lingered in the great man’s
memory. But he was not the person to be abashed by a trifle like that.
He went up to the American with outstretched hand.
“I am afraid you have forgotten me, Mr. Whitefield. I had the pleasure
of meeting you some four years ago at the Hôtel Negresco, at Nice.”
Mr. Whitefield murmured a rather brusque apology, saying that he had a
bad memory for faces. Mr. Quentin was determined not to let his quarry
go.
“Will you allow me to present you to my wife and our great friend Mr.
Martyn?”
Introductions being effected, the millionaire slipped into a vacant
chair beside that of the charming young woman, and at once proceeded
to pay her compliments. He had rather the deferential air of the
ladies’ man in the society of the opposite sex, and although he was
sixty years of age, did not in the least consider that he had lost the
art of pleasing where a good-looking woman was concerned.
“But surely, Mrs. Quentin, you were not at the hotel when I was there?
Whoever else I might have forgotten, I should most certainly have
remembered _you_.”
Eileen gave him one of her pretty smiles. “You have nothing to
reproach yourself with, Mr. Whitefield, so far as I am concerned. When
my husband met you at the Negresco, I was not then married to him.”
The millionaire looked relieved. He felt it would have been a serious
reflection on his good taste if he could have forgotten such a
beautiful young woman.
Peyton, who, with his friend, had been an interested spectator of the
little scene, nudged Aylmer. “I’ve been introduced to the Johnnie in
London,” he whispered. “He is an old acquaintance of my father, in
fact he is a client of ours. But I shan’t thrust myself upon him like
Quentin. A bit bad form, I think, what? Besides, I don’t fancy Quentin
wants us to be drawn into the circle; he intends to keep the
millionaire as much to himself as he can. Fancy how pushing some of
these quiet men are when they see the opportunity.”
But, if such were Quentin’s intentions they were destined to be
frustrated by Whitefield himself. His keen glance happened to rest for
a moment on young Peyton and remembrance suddenly stirred within him.
He turned abruptly with the question:
“I am sure I’ve met that young man before, his face is quite familiar
to me, but for the moment I can’t put a name to it. Do you know him?”
“Yes, we have made his acquaintance in the hotel. His name is Peyton;
he is a junior partner of his father’s firm of stockholders, I believe
a firm of considerable importance.”
“Of course, of course, I know the old boy well, I have known him for
years in business.” He beckoned to the rather reluctant Peyton to come
forward, and shook him heartily by the hand.
“Very pleased to see you, my young friend. Your father introduced you
to me on my last visit to London. You remember me, don’t you? Why
didn’t you make yourself known to me when I came in?”
Peyton, feeling himself rather abashed by the millionaire’s loud tones
and confident gestures, muttered something about not wishing to
intrude. Then his sense of humor came to his aid, and he said with a
somewhat mischievous smile:
“Besides, Mr. Quentin took possession of you so quickly that I could
hardly find an opportunity.”
Whitefield burst into a loud laugh; he was a bit boisterous, this
tall, keen-eyed man at whose touch everything appeared to turn to
gold. But he evidently appreciated the situation and saw the joke.
Apparently, so did Mrs. Quentin by the peculiar smile which curled her
pretty mouth.
“Well, it’s all right now, and I don’t think any the worse of a young
fellow for being a bit modest. Is that a friend you were talking to?
If so, bring him along. As some of us have met before, we may as well
make a little party of it the short while I am here. We’ll get the
waiter to give us a special table so that we can be together at
meals.”
Aylmer was brought along and presented. Quentin seemed to grow rather
quiet after the irruption of the two young men, a circumstance which
confirmed Peyton in his belief that he had wanted to keep the
millionaire to himself. But, before they went to dinner, he roused
himself sufficiently to put a question to Whitefield.
“You don’t intend to make a long stay here, then?”
The American shook his head. “Three or four days at the outside, just
want to see after a little bit of business, and then I’m off. For the
matter of that, I don’t stay very long anywhere.”
At dinner he sat next to Mrs. Quentin, and certainly exerted himself
to amuse and entertain his companion, a task in which he succeeded, to
judge by the brightness of her demeanor and her frequent peals of
silvery laughter. Aylmer watched her closely. Was she a flirt, he
wondered, greedy for admiration wherever it came from? And yet, he
flattered himself there was a subtle difference between her demeanor
to Whitefield and her bearing towards himself. She was gay and
vivacious enough, but she seemed more intimate with him than with the
gallant and talkative American.
As was usual with him, Peyton had formed some impressions at dinner
and before, which he communicated to his friend later in the evening.
“The great Cyrus doesn’t seem to bother much about anybody but Mrs.
Quentin,” he remarked. “The husband was trying to get hold of him as
hard as he could, but the old boy kept shaking him off. Perhaps my
innocent little remark had opened his eyes a bit; when he came to
think it over, he mightn’t have quite liked being rushed at like that.
Still, I suppose he’s used to it by now, he’s quite a public
character. For myself, I haven’t much use for millionaires, except as
a beacon-light to ambitious youth to go and do likewise. Did you
notice Mrs. Quentin’s smile when I made that little joke about her
lord and master? No? It was a very subtle one. I think she was a bit
annoyed at his obvious officiousness.
“Another little thing I noticed,” went on this very keen observer
after a slight pause. “There was a distinct look of disappointment on
Quentin’s face when Whitefield said he was only going to make a short
stay. What was the reason of that, I wonder? He can’t want anything
out of the old boy, a dilettante sort of chap like that. Not that he
would be likely to get it if he did. Whitefield’s reputation is too
well known. It is said that mustard isn’t in it with Cyrus J. Anyway,
he’s awfully gone on the wife. I expect that’s why he’s putting up
with the rest of us. I wonder how that hangdog Martyn likes the state
of affairs? What an infernal wet blanket the fellow is! He’s neither
one thing nor the other, neither a ladies’ man nor a man’s man. What
Quentin can see in him beats me.”
That evening the fair Eileen danced a good deal, dividing her favors
pretty equally between Aylmer and the American, who was a very good
performer and as light on his feet as a young man.
“He’s not in it, of course, with you,” she told Aylmer later. “But
he’s wonderful for his age. He seems a very wonderful sort of person
altogether. From what Richard tells me you would think a man who is so
wrapped up in money-making would despise the frivolous side of life.”
But it seemed that, in his less strenuous moments, the American was
very much attracted toward the frivolous side of life. He loved the
fleshpots, he liked philandering with pretty women, he cut a good
figure in the ballroom, he appeared to be one of those who make money
largely with the idea of giving themselves a good time.
Peyton’s surmise that the beautiful Mrs. Quentin was the magnet was
justified later on in the evening. When she intimated that this must
be her last dance, Whitefield protested, declaring, with the egotism
peculiar to the man, that he was ready to go on for another hour. The
night was yet young, he declared, darting at her a look of intense
admiration. However, finding her firm in her refusal, he very soon
left the little circle, making as his excuse the fact that he had a
great deal of work to get through before he went to bed. In vain did
Quentin, in his most conciliatory manner, urge him to join them in the
lounge for a drink and a smoke. He was a great lover of the pleasures
of the table, and he was always in a most benignant frame of mind
after dinner. Night, he declared emphatically, was by no means the
ideal time for work.
The keen-faced millionaire fixed his hawk-like gaze on him, and there
was just a shade of contempt in his voice as he spoke. He had drunk a
great deal more than the other man, but he had a cast-iron head and
the digestion of an ostrich, and he might have been drinking water for
all that his speech and appearance suggested to the contrary.
“That’s a fine theory for idlers,” he said. “But we men of business
work hard and play hard. When we’ve played a bit too hard, we have to
work double tides at any hour of the night or day. As Mrs. Quentin is
so obdurate, I shall stop playing and get back to work.”
He made no secret of his admiration, perhaps the possession of his
millions made him speak the blunt truth without regard for the
feelings of less distinguished people, to which class he, no doubt,
relegated Quentin.
But that placid gentleman did not appear at all to resent the fact
that his wife seemed the only one who counted in the millionaire’s
estimation. When he had departed, he gave utterance to some very
eulogistic remarks on him.
“A splendid fellow,” he said with very evident sincerity. “It is a
privilege to sit in the company of a man like that. For inherited
wealth I don’t care a snap of my fingers. But for a man who has worked
his way up till he has become a power in the land, I have an unstinted
admiration. I have never enjoyed an evening more in my life. It was a
delight to hear him talk to us.”
Peyton gave his friend a sly glance at this last remark. Aylmer knew
what was passing in his mind. During the whole of that evening, the
great magnate, Cyrus J. Whitefield, had directed practically the whole
of his conversation to Mrs. Quentin. To the others he had addressed
the briefest of observations.
They adjourned to the lounge, and half an hour later they were
conscious of a certain stir and bustle in the hotel. In a few moments
the rumor ran round that a singularly daring robbery had been
committed while the guests were sitting at dinner.