Having left almost directly after breakfast, it was quite early when
Aylmer returned to his rooms in Ryder Street. The more he thought over
it, the more he was upset by what had happened. The alteration in
Quentin’s manner had been so marked that the most unobservant person
must have noticed it. And the young man resented it hotly. In the
first place, such an audacious request should never have been made,
and in the second place, it was in the worst possible taste to show
resentment because it had been refused. Cultivated and clever as
Quentin was, he was evidently lacking in the instincts of a well-bred
man.
The young man felt restless and low-spirited after his host’s chilling
dismissal of him. Feeling the need of somebody to confide in, he
determined to go down to the City and take his young friend Peyton out
to lunch. He would very much like to have an impartial opinion on the
matter. And, although he had been reticent about certain things
connected with Hampstead, he saw no reason why he should not reveal
this particular episode. If Quentin had not badgered him--there was no
other word for his pertinacity--the second time, he would have
dismissed the incident from his mind, or, at any rate, have locked it
up in his own breast.
Peyton was engaged for a few moments, so he took a seat in the
waiting-room. Another man was sitting there, evidently waiting for one
of the partners. Aylmer looked at him carelessly with the impression
that the features were familiar to him; but, for the moment he could
not recall when or where he had seen them. Presently a clerk came in,
and addressing him as “Mr. Ramon,” told him that Mr. Peyton senior was
now at liberty and would be pleased to see him.
The man rose at this announcement and, walking with a slight limp,
followed the clerk. At once, memory returned to the young man. This
tall, elegant-looking person, perfectly groomed, was the same shabby
individual he had seen entering the grounds of The Laurels on his
first visit and leaving them in the dead of night after that long
colloquy with Quentin and his butler. He had discerned something
foreign in his gestures on that never-to-be-forgotten occasion. Ramon
sounded like a foreign name, presumably a French one.
When he entered his friend’s room it was close upon the luncheon hour,
and when Peyton received the invitation, he accepted with alacrity.
Hastily locking his desk, he suggested that they should make a move at
once, before he was caught hold of by some inconvenient client.
“There’s always a certain type of man who puts off his business till
just about the luncheon hour,” he remarked, “and somebody may be
meditating a descent at the present moment. Let us clear out at once.”
When the two young men were out in the street, Aylmer inquired about
the man whom he had seen in the waiting-room. Of course he was not
going to divulge the real reasons for his curiosity; that would be
letting Peyton too much into the secrets of the Quentin _ménage_.
“There was a chap in the waiting-room who went in to see your father,
a good-looking, smartly-dressed fellow whom the clerk addressed by the
name of Ramon. His face and appearance seem very familiar to me,
although I can’t recall where I have seen him. Who and what is he? I
have run across him, somewhere, although his name doesn’t suggest
anybody I have actually known.”
“He’s a Frenchman, although he speaks English as perfectly as any
foreigner can; of course, you can tell him by the roll of his r’s,”
was Peyton’s answer. “He has been a client of ours for, I should say,
a couple of years. Drops in now and then to invest a bit of money in
rather speculative securities. The governor, who, as you know, always
leans to the safe side, does his best to induce him to deal in less
risky stuff. But he won’t be persuaded.”
“And what’s his particular line? He has got some sort of business, I
suppose?”
“A kind of financial agent, as we understand; his solicitors, whom we
know very well, put him on to us. Not at all in a large way, I should
say. I fancy a sort of jackal, nosing out likely things for the big
men. He has small offices, two rooms in Old Broad Street, with a
couple of clerks and a typist. I went there once to give him some
information he had written for, and was not much impressed with the
establishment. Still, he seems to rub along, somehow, and has invested
quite a tidy bit of money since we have known him. Lots of these
foreigners are awfully careful chaps. Does my description help you fix
him?”
Aylmer answered as carelessly as he could that it did not, that he had
very likely been deceived by a superficial resemblance to somebody he
had met, probably abroad.
But in his own mind he was sure that Monsieur Ramon and the
shabby-looking man he had seen at Hampstead were one and the same
person. To begin with, it was rather a striking face, with its
refined, clear-cut features, the sort of face you easily could carry
in your memory. And there was the further proof of the limp.
They lunched at that well-known resort, the Palmerston, in Old Broad
Street. Half-way through the meal, Aylmer told his friend of the
financial suggestion Quentin had made to him on his first visit.
The sagacious young Peyton elevated his eyebrows in surprise. “Well,
of all the cheeky things I ever heard,” he exclaimed. “He gave me the
impression all through of being a cool customer, but I’m surprised to
hear he went so far as that. You can’t call yourselves more than the
merest acquaintances. You refused, of course. How did he take your
refusal?”
“Very well, indeed; I though it was all over and done with. But last
night he returned to the charge, but in a different way. Instead of
being his partner, he proposed that I should lend him the money at a
handsome interest. Of course, I declined that, too.”
“Pertinacious beggar,” was Peyton’s comment. “Some people have the
cheek of old Nick, himself. And did he take the second refusal in the
same amiable spirit?”
“Frankly, he did not, that’s just what I am annoyed about. There was
an immediate drop in the temperature, which lasted up to my departure
early this morning. Do you consider he had any cause to be offended?”
“Of course not,” was Peyton’s emphatic answer. “If you had known a man
all your life, he would have no right to be offended by the refusal of
such a request. He doesn’t strike me as being endowed with remarkable
sensitiveness, but he must have been dashed keen to get hold of that
ten thousand, or he would hardly have screwed up his courage to have a
second go at you. Looks more than a bit fishy, too. If he is a man of
straw, it would not be safe to lend him a penny. And if he is as well
off as he pretends to be, he would be able to get the money from his
bankers. That’s what bankers are there for.”
“What excuse did you make to him?” inquired Peyton, presently. “It
must have put you in a very embarrassing position.”
“Well, of course, nobody could feel quite comfortable in such a case,
although he was in the wrong, from the start. I pitched him rather an
embroidered sort of tale about trustees and all that sort of thing. Of
course, I have not any trustees, there were only executors to my
father’s will. But still, it is quite true that if I contemplated any
serious disturbance of capital, I should consult them before taking
any steps. I don’t pretend to be a man of business, and I should never
act without advice.”
Peyton did not speak for some little time; when he did, he delivered
himself of some sound reflections. “Well, it shows that it is a very
risky thing to cultivate intimate relations with people you pick up
casually. You never know what is going to be sprung on you. If you had
been a weak sort of chap, you might have compromised with this fellow.
I dare say he would have jumped at a much smaller amount, if he had
been offered it.”
Aylmer had been much impressed by that remark of his clever young
friend, that if Quentin had been a man of considerable means he could
have got assistance from his bankers. This reading of the matter had
not occurred to him, but he immediately saw its truth. A bank will
always lend on good security. He knew that if he wanted temporary
help, he could have easily got it.
Presently Peyton hazarded a question that he felt a little trepidation
in putting, being such that his friend was abnormally sensitive on the
subject of Eileen. “I suppose Mrs. Quentin knew nothing of this?”
Aylmer answered him very deliberately. “No, he had not taken her into
his confidence. But she took an early opportunity of warning me that
if he should make any financial suggestions, I was to turn a deaf ear
to them.”
Peyton nodded his head with a comprehending look. “Evidently she knows
her man,” he remarked briefly. “I am very glad to hear that she did
that.”
Aylmer was sorry that he had to let out so much, but he could not bear
that any suspicion of being privy to her husband’s schemes should rest
upon Eileen. Peyton would work all this out in that active brain of
his, and, no doubt, come to a right conclusion. He would put more than
one question to himself on the subject. When and where did Mrs.
Quentin give him this warning? She would not be likely to find an
opportunity in their own house. The inference, therefore, was that
they were on very intimate terms for her to give him such a warning at
all, and that it was given him at some clandestine meeting.
And there was no doubt Aylmer apprehended quite accurately the trend
of his young friend’s thoughts. In truth, Peyton was much troubled by
what was suggested in these revelations and felt that the pair were
treading on the very thinnest of ice. But, knowing the utter
uselessness of wise counsel in such a case, he reluctantly held his
tongue. Love of this kind is a madness that no worldly-wise physician
can cure. It was a thousand pities for both the man and woman; but,
salvation could only come from themselves.
Three days later, the lovers met at their new trysting-place, in Great
Portland Street. Taught by their one narrow escape, they observed
great caution, entering and leaving the restaurant separately.
Of course, he always was the first at the rendezvous; but she did not
keep him waiting more than about five minutes, being that rather rare
thing, a fairly punctual woman. They had not been long together,
before she put to him the question he expected.
“Richard approached you again on that matter, did he not?”
“Yes, almost directly after you left us, as soon as we were settled in
the study. Of course, he has said nothing to you about it. I don’t see
how he could, after the promise he gave you.”
“He would not say anything to me, naturally, as he would have to
convict himself of broken faith,” she said. “And callous as he is in a
good many things, I think he has enough self-respect to be ashamed of
himself when he has done anything very heinous. But, at the breakfast
table next morning, I could see what had happened. He had put some
fresh proposal to you and met with a refusal.”
“You judged that from his manner, of course,” observed Aylmer. “I
expect I showed a bit of embarrassment on my side. It was really a
very awkward thing, you know, he showed his disappointment so plainly.
The first time he took it like a sportsman.”
There was contempt in her smile as she answered him. “The first time
he had not given up hope; he expected to be able to bring you round to
his way of thinking later. It was worth keeping the mask on. When he
felt sure it was finished with, he had no hesitation in letting it
all.”
“I suppose, at the present moment, Quentin dislikes me about as much
as he dislikes anybody, just because I won’t join in a wild
speculation.”
“I don’t think just now he is overfond of you,” admitted Eileen.
“I suppose he has made some disparaging remarks about me?” queried
Aylmer. “I have a very strong conviction that he will not invite me to
The Laurels again. Is not that your opinion, also?”
It was some little time before she answered. “I am sure that it is
best for us to be absolutely truthful with each other. Richard is a
very vain man, rather proud of his intellectual predominance over
others. You have resisted his influence, and that in itself has hurt
his pride. And where his pride is hurt, he is vindictive and
resentful. Since you ask me the question, I do not think he will
invite you again.”
“He will have to make some excuse to you for suddenly dropping me,
will he not?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Of course, in due time, I shall make the
suggestion that you come again, as if I were utterly ignorant of
anything having happened, which I should be but for my own
interventions. He will have some answer ready, that you are a bit too
young for him, or that you are not so interesting as he first thought.
You can trust him to find some excuse that he thinks is good enough to
deceive me.”
“Perhaps he has already given you a hint of this?”
She gave a little laugh, not a very merry one. “You must be a wizard.
Yes, a few minutes after you left, he said he had not enjoyed this
second visit at all, that he had been rather bored. That was said, of
course, to prepare me.”
Aylmer’s face flushed with anger, the gross injustice of it all
rankled deeply. “I dare say I shall be able to exist without Mr.
Quentin’s friendship, especially since it is founded upon such sordid
motives. That is,” he added anxiously, “if it is to make no difference
in our relations, if we can still meet as we are doing now.”
There was a very steadfast light in her eyes as their glances met, the
telltale light of the woman who loves and is not ashamed of her love.
“My dear, you may be sure I shall meet you whenever I can; I only
really live when we are together.” There was a sudden catch in her
voice, as she added: “If I failed to meet you, it would be because
circumstances I could not control would be too strong for me. Be
assured of that.”
Those words, coming on the top of his previous depression, chilled him
with a sense of foreboding. There was mystery everywhere, it seemed.
Mystery in the advent of that shabby stranger who had sneaked away
under cover of the darkness--mystery in Quentin’s frantic attempt to
get hold of his, Aylmer’s money--mystery in Eileen’s abject fear of
the man who had no legal claim on her. What did it all portend?
“I wish you would take me just a little more into your confidence,” he
said gently.
A burning blush overspread her cheek. “In what way? Have I not reposed
the utmost confidence in you?”
He shook his head. There was a hint of reproach in his voice. “Only up
to a certain point. You will not tell me why you are so afraid of
Quentin.”
Was there not something evasive in her hesitating reply?
“Are you sure it is fear I feel? You know how good he has been to me,
that I owe everything to him. Where should I have been but for his
helping hand? You can understand, surely, how reluctant I am to
distress him, to show myself ungrateful.”
“But, as I told you once before, there will come a day when you will
be forced to choose between us. We cannot go on like this forever.”
“I know, I know,” she said, a little wildly; he could see how greatly
she was moved. “But give me a little more time, let me get more
accustomed to all that such a break-away means. You are a man, and
strong; I am a weak woman, weaker than most of my sex. If I were
different, more headstrong, had a duller conscience, I should act at
once upon my impulses, and those impulses would lead me straight to
you.”
The suppressed passion in those last words was convincing enough even
to the most suspicious listener. But he felt very down-hearted. How
long did she expect him to wait for her to overcome what he considered
her unreasonable scruples? For the first time in their relations, he
had an uneasy feeling that she was not treating him quite fairly.
Granting that there was something due to Quentin, and in the present
state of his feelings towards that strange man, he was not anxious to
mete out to him more than the barest justice, there was a greater
consideration due to her lover.
There was a certain cloud between them during the rest of the time
they spent together. With a woman’s intuition, she sensed it, and when
they parted, she made a suggestion that she hoped might restore him to
a happier mood. No doubt she admitted to herself that her own attitude
was responsible for that cloud. She proposed that, instead of waiting
for another week, as was their usual custom, they should meet again in
a couple of days.
His brow cleared at once. He guessed it was her woman’s way of making
amends for any unhappiness she had caused him. He agreed, with an
eloquent look that told of his appreciation of the suggestion.
On the appointed day he was there, and a good few minutes before the
hour fixed, as usual. A quarter of an hour passed, another quarter.
When half an hour had gone, he ordered his lunch, expecting to see her
enter every moment. He stayed at the restaurant, sick at heart, a prey
to the most bitter disappointment, till the room was empty. There was
no hope of her coming now. She had never disappointed him before. The
idea occurred to him that she might have been taken suddenly ill, and
this thought added to his trouble.
He hoped that a telegram might arrive that day, perhaps a letter by
the last post. When neither came, he felt he must not be impatient.
Under the circumstances, communication would not be easy. If she was
not able to go out herself to the post, she could hardly trust a
servant with a letter, for fear that Quentin might hear of it.
On the second day, a brief note arrived, evidently written hastily,
and, he fancied, in a state of agitation.
“My Dearest,--Please forgive me for disappointing you. As I was
starting, ostensibly on a shopping expedition, Richard insisted upon
accompanying me. I could devise no means of putting him off. It struck
me there was something peculiar in his manner, unless it was my guilty
conscience. This is the first opportunity I have had of writing. The
same place and time this day fortnight. If he has any suspicions, he
may have got over them by then. Ever yours,
“Eileen.”
He went on the day appointed to Great Portland Street, and the same
thing occurred again: Eileen did not put in an appearance; and,
evidently, she had not been able to warn him that she would not be
there.
When his lunch was finished, in a fever of impatience, he resolved to
go up to Hampstead and call at The Laurels. He could easily make the
excuse that, finding himself in the neighborhood, he had taken the
opportunity of paying the Quentins a visit.
A taxi took him up to the Heath, where he got out, and pursued his
journey on foot. As he neared the familiar gate, his heart almost
stopped still in his excitement and consternation.
The house was empty, and in the garden was a board announcing that it
was for sale.