Presently the manager came into the lounge, which by now was quite
full. Agitation and distress were written on his mobile countenance.
Detaining gestures were made to arrest his progress, but taking no
heed, he went on until he came to a halt before Mrs. Quentin.
He spoke excellent English. “Alas, madame, I am the bearer of terrible
news. Thieves have got into the hotel during the dinner hour, and have
reaped a rich harvest. Mrs. Scadden, the Scotch lady, is the chief
victim; you know what a splendid store of jewelry was hers. She is
away on a visit to friends; she does not yet know of her loss. She
will be back some time to-morrow morning; I think I will wait till
then to apprise her of this terrible happening. We have done
everything. The police are in the hotel now. The chambermaid, going on
her rounds discovered that two rooms had been entered and ransacked of
their valuable contents. The thieves entered by the windows.”
Mrs. Scadden was a wealthy Scotch widow who must have invested a large
portion of her capital in precious stones. Every evening at dinner she
was a blaze of scintillating light, dazzling her fellow guests with
the opulent display.
The manager’s voice took on a tone of deeper commiseration as he
unfolded the story further. Mrs. Scadden was an ostentatious and
arrogant woman, not popular with the other people at the hotel, nor
with the staff; she set too great a valuation on herself.
Mrs. Quentin was liked by everybody from the manager to the diminutive
page-boys. That charming smile, that genial manner, secured her
friends everywhere.
“I am desolated to tell you, madam, that you are also a victim; I do
trust not to the same extent. Your room was found in disorder,
everything turned over and ransacked. Your husband’s room has not been
disturbed.”
Quentin uttered a deep imprecation; Martyn growled one equally deep.
Husband and wife rose together, moved by a common impulse to go
upstairs and ascertain the extent of the loss. The others remained
where they were. As a rule, Martyn did not address himself more than
he could help to either Peyton and Aylmer, but this sudden catastrophe
had the effect of compelling him to talk, even to people for whom he
had no liking.
“Of all the fools, I think women are the greatest,” he remarked in
unamiable tones. “If they will bring their gewgaws away with them to
make each other envious, why don’t they carry just as much as they can
plaster themselves with, and leave the rest at their bankers’? If they
didn’t do that, they might have the sense to leave what they are not
using in the custody of the proprietor. As for that silly Scotchwoman
decking herself out as if she were an Empress at a state function, I
have no patience with her. And if Mrs. Quentin hasn’t sense enough to
take care of her property, Quentin ought to look after it for her.”
Presently husband and wife returned. Mrs. Quentin looked pale and
worried; but Quentin did not appear to be greatly disturbed, perhaps
he was too great a philosopher to worry unduly about the loss of a few
trinkets.
She turned with a tragic gesture to the two young men. Since that
conversation in the empty lounge, there had appeared to be a sort of
armed neutrality between her and Martyn; they had spoken to each other
very little, and then in the most formal manner.
“Everything has been taken except what I am wearing to-night.
Fortunately, that is the most valuable of my small stock. Still, it is
very annoying.”
Quentin patted her shoulder kindly. “Don’t worry, my dear. If you are
very good, I will save up and in time replace it.”
“I hope you will take better care of the new than you have taken of
the old,” growled Martyn in a low voice.
“Don’t rub it in too much, my dear fellow,” said Quentin in his usual
placid tones. “Eileen recognizes, as fully as you do, now, that it was
injudicious to keep it in her room. But what’s the use of crying over
spilt milk?”
Having administered this rebuke to the disgruntled Martyn, he
addressed the company generally.
“Seems to have been quite a clever piece of work. I have had a long
talk with the head police official, who is upstairs, and he appears to
be completely baffled. There has been very close examination, they
have taken any amount of notes. But nothing much comes out of it.
There are no clues, he admits, not even the presence of finger marks.
The scoundrels must have worn thin gloves, he thinks. It looks very
much as if Eileen and Mrs. Scadden must bear their loss with as much
of philosophy as they can summon to their aid.”
Again he patted his wife’s shoulder, with the same kindly gesture.
“Cheer up, little woman. It is a misfortune, but you might have
suffered from a worse one. You might have walked out of this hotel and
slipped on a piece of orange peel, and been a cripple for life. You
might have been run over by a passing taxi. Let us take it calmly and
have a final drink, while this excellent body of police is gradually
coming to the conclusion that it has been outwitted. In a few hours
from now, Mrs. Scadden’s very opulent jewels and your comparatively
insignificant ones will be stripped of their settings and made
unrecognizable.”
“You’re a rich man,” growled Martyn from his corner. “But it is a
damnable thing to have happened. I am not sure it would not be wiser
to shift to another hotel; they have got a mark on this, it seems.”
Mr. Quentin, who appeared to be in the best of humors, smiled
pleasantly at his friend. “My dear Martyn, you always look on the
gloomy side of things. As they have made such a good haul to-night,
the chances are that they will give us a wide berth for quite a long
time. Anyway, as Mrs. Scadden and Eileen have now no jewelry except
what they carry on their persons, they will hardly enter in upon us as
we are sitting at dinner and hold us up to ransom. Ah, here’s the
waiter. Let us drink confusion to the scoundrels.”
He ordered drinks in a spirit of the most cheerful philosophy. As he
raised his glass to his lips, he looked at Aylmer with a quizzical
smile.
“Now, Mr. Aylmer, you told me a little time ago that you were deeply
interested in criminology. Why don’t you go upstairs and have a chat
with the head of the police? You might give them a wrinkle, you know.
Eileen would be awfully grateful to you if we could get back the
‘loot’ or catch the chaps who have made off with it.”
Mr. Quentin was rather mellow to-night, and he meant it all in chaff.
The young man recognized his mood, but, for all that he spoke quite
seriously.
“I don’t know that I have specialized in the methods of these _rats
d’hôtel_. But I think there is one thing pretty certain. To engineer
this coup as they have done, they must have been supplied with some
information from inside. Somebody in the Continental is in league with
them.”
Quentin spoke seriously in his turn. “Of course, that is an obvious
conclusion. Amongst the servants, or possibly the guests, I do not
doubt there is an accomplice. Poor Mrs. Scadden, who bedizened herself
in season and out of season, presented herself as a very open target.
I could not say that of my wife, who wore the few jewels she possessed
in good taste and on the proper occasions. It must have been known
they kept their gewgaws in their rooms, and they chose the quietest
time of the evening to make their raid. Somehow, you know, I pity
these crooks. If they only put their brains to legitimate uses, what a
success they might make of their lives. I’m sorry our friend
Whitefield left us so soon, he won’t hear of it till to-morrow
morning, and then the affair will have lost its dramatic quality.”
Later, when they separated, Peyton had a little chat with his friend.
“Quite mellow to-night, our good Quentin,” he said. “He’s a bit of a
sportsman, isn’t he? Quite nice to his wife about replacing the
trinkets. I thought old Martyn looked very savage over it all. And so
you are convinced there is somebody inside here who is an accomplice
in this job, eh?”
“I am pretty sure it could not have been carried out otherwise,” was
Aylmer’s convincing answer.
Mr. Cyrus J. Whitefield learned the news next morning, and was very
greatly disgusted when he knew that Mrs. Quentin was a victim. He did
not express any commiseration for Mrs. Scadden, who, he learned, was
fat and remarkably plain. His sympathies were for youth and beauty.
With his usual bluntness, he went straight to the point, and inquired
of Mrs. Quentin: “What did they sting you for, if it isn’t a rude
question?”
He had addressed his wife, but Quentin answered quickly: “Oh, really
nothing to write home about; I should say four hundred would cover it.
My wife is very wise in this respect; she doesn’t leave her best
jewelry in her box; she puts it on.”
Four hundred pounds was, of course, nothing to a man who thought in
millions. He opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, then
closed it again, apparently from the restraining influence of second
thoughts. Peyton read him like a book. It had been on the tip of his
tongue to say that he would write her a check for the amount and
accompany her to buy the trinkets that were to replace the stolen
ones. But he was not quite sure of his ground, and such an offer might
mortally offend both husband and wife.
And here it may be mentioned that this very daring jewel robbery was
relegated to the long list of similar mysteries. The thieves, expert
at their business, had left not a single clue, and after trying their
hardest, the police had to confess themselves baffled. Poor Mrs.
Scadden, whose loss was very serious, was vituperative and
inconsolable. Eileen adopted the philosophy of her husband. There were
worse misfortunes than this.
“It’s less to look after,” she said gaily the next evening to Aylmer
as they were dancing together. “What little I have got left, I can
take care of without any trouble. I shan’t really be sorry if Richard
doesn’t replace it; it would be a constant anxiety.”
She always spoke of her husband as Richard, and when he thought over
it, Aylmer found himself coming to the conclusion that Quentin was a
man whom nobody would have thought of calling by the familiar
abbreviation of Dick. He was genial in a way, after dinner
particularly so; but, there was a certain something about him that did
not invite familiarity. You felt you could go to a certain point with
him--but no farther. Nevertheless, he possessed a considerable
personality.
Aylmer ran an appraising eye over her, as she gave utterance to these
remarks. She did not bedizen herself like the Scotch widow, but what
she wore represented a goodly sum. Her diamonds and pearls, though
few, were of the first quality. The _rats d’hôtel_ certainly had come
off second best, so far as she was concerned. She carried at least a
thousand pounds on her very charming person.
At the end of four days the millionaire departed, expressing his deep
regret at having to leave such delightful society. He expressed those
regrets in his usual loud voice to Mrs. Quentin, whose hand he
appeared to be pressing very tenderly as he made his _adieux_. He
might have intended to address the whole of the party through her, but
his manner, as he bade the others good-by separately, did not indicate
any particularly warm feeling.
Young Peyton, who seemed to pass his life in minute observations of
his fellow creatures, had several remarks to make to his friend about
the departed Whitefield.
“Laid it on pretty thick when he said good-by to Mrs. Quentin, didn’t
he?” he observed. “He tolerates me because I am my father’s son; I
should say he rather dislikes you than otherwise, for obvious reasons.
He thinks the fair Eileen looks upon you with favor. That bounder,
Martyn, I am certain, he cordially detests. Well, I am with him there.
With regard to Quentin himself, I don’t quite know what his feelings
are. I fancy he regards him as a nonentity.”
“He certainly did not take much notice of anybody except the lady,”
said Aylmer. “I think you are right about myself. I can’t exactly say
he was uncivil, but he appeared to ignore me as much as he possibly
could.”
“Very rum chap Quentin, I can’t make him out,” resumed Peyton,
pursuing his meditations. “I thought our friend J. Cyrus flirted with
her in the most open way--a good bit beyond the limits of good taste,
in my opinion. To do her justice, she didn’t respond; she gave me the
impression she was trying to keep him off, and put him in his place, a
difficult task with such a self-sufficient, overbearing chap. It must
have been obvious enough to Quentin, as it was to everybody else, but
he never seemed to resent it in the least. I used to see Martyn
scowling at him as if he could murder him. But the husband looked on
with his usual air of placid indifference.”
“Evidently not a jealous husband; perhaps he has got beyond the age of
jealousy,” commented Aylmer.
“Well, you know, or probably you don’t know, the latest development. I
only knew of it myself about half an hour before Whitefield left. I
happened to be in the lounge while the two men were talking together.
Whitefield remarked that he was pretty certain to pay a visit to
London in a couple of months’ time. Quentin was on at him at once.
Would he come over and dine with them at their Hampstead house? If it
was too far out, they could put him up if he would stay a day or two.
Whitefield seemed to think a bit, then said he couldn’t promise to
stay with them, but he would certainly see something of them while he
was in London. He would be busy, as he always was, but he would make
time to get to Hampstead. Quentin appeared delighted and asked him if
he could rely upon that as a promise. Whitefield’s answer was that he
could. So evidently Quentin is going to hang on to him, and desires
his better acquaintance. Of course, if he does go, it will be with the
intention of renewing his flirtation with the lady. I’m sure he
wouldn’t walk across the street to shake hands with Quentin if he were
without his wife.”
That this agreeable, placid man was not by any means a jealous husband
was proved next morning, when Aylmer came upon the couple in the
lounge.
Quentin addressed the young man with his usual pleasant, rather grave
smile. “I have got a lot of letters to write this morning, and Eileen,
as is natural, wants to go out into the sunshine and fresh air.
Martyn, as is usually his custom, has gone off on his own. What do you
say to being her escort, that is if you are not engaged to your
friend, young Peyton?”
Aylmer assented to the suggestion with alacrity. Having stayed on from
the desire of discovering the cause of that uncontrollable agitation
of the other morning, he naturally was ready to embrace any
opportunity of being alone with Eileen, as it was impossible to
venture the most distant allusion to the subject in the presence of a
third party. How often had those words occurred to him: “Nobody can
help me.” What mystery was hidden behind that despairing utterance?
They talked on trivial subjects to begin with. But presently he felt
himself compelled to put a direct question in the hope of inviting
confidence.
“How are you and Mr. Martyn getting on now? It has struck me that
quite lately--dating back, in fact, from a certain morning when I came
upon you in the lounge--your relations have been strained. Once you
were an inseparable trio, but now he seems to absent himself, except
at meals.”
She flushed a little, and then answered him in a tone of lightness
that he felt sure was assumed.
“We certainly, at the moment, are not the best of friends. I think, on
the whole, I am rather glad. Whatever his feelings may be for me, I
have never had much liking for him. I suppose he thought his great
friendship with Richard gave him a certain authority over me, which I
very much resented. On that morning to which you have alluded, I had
to put him in his place. But I am naturally a peace-loving person, and
the task upset me very greatly.”
“I cannot tell you how much your distress, it seemed more like
despair, affected me,” said Aylmer in a tone the obvious sincerity of
which evidently made a deep impression on her. “You said I could not
help you. But is that really true? Believe me when I tell you there is
no service you could ask of me which I would not render if it were
within my power.”
She looked at him long and searchingly, while the rapid rise and fall
of her bosom testified to the emotion that simple speech had aroused
in her. And in her eyes was that telltale light which comes only when
a woman is interested in a man. For a moment the young man was sorry
that he had gone so far, that he had not controlled himself better.
Why had he not moderated the warmth of his manner, the tenderness in
his voice? Why had he let her read his heart so plainly? He felt
himself a cur for making thinly-veiled love to a married woman.
“Would you be my friend, if ever I needed one?” she asked presently in
a voice that seemed almost caressing.
At that question, the tide of prudence which had suddenly surged
within him rolled back again. He answered fervently that he would.
She spoke again after a brief pause. “I am not sure, but some day I
may need a friend. I cannot read the future. But sometimes I fancy it
may be dark and uncertain. I should like to think I had somebody to
rely upon, if such a time ever came. I know you have a tender and
chivalrous nature, most especially where women are concerned. I cannot
say very much now. But if I told you a very great secret would you
swear by all you hold sacred to respect my confidence?”
“Dictate to me any form of oath you please and I will take it,” was
the reply.
Again that tender light in her eyes as her earnest gaze fixed itself
upon him.
“I will exact no oath. Give me your word of honor, that will be enough
for me. My instinct tells me I can trust you.”
He bowed his head. “As you choose,” he said simply. “What you tell me
shall never be divulged to any human being.”
The words dropped slowly from her lips, as a deep flush stained the
beautiful face. “Something within me, I know not what, impels me to
tell you this secret. You know me, as everybody else does here, as
Mrs. Quentin. But Richard Quentin is not my husband; we are not man
and wife.”