Like a man in a dream, he opened the gate, and going to the board,
read on it the name of two agents--a firm in Hampstead, a well-known
one in the West End. Then, still in the same dazed condition, he
walked round the house, peering through the windows at the empty
rooms. What was the reason of this sudden flitting? It was just a
fortnight since he had received that letter from Eileen. If such a
step had been in contemplation when she wrote, she surely would have
apprised him of it!
As he went back, down the carriage-drive, after his brief tour of
inspection, he came face to face with Dicks, the late butler, who
touched his hat respectfully.
“Just strolled up to have a look at the old place, sir,” he explained.
“A bit of a jar being parted from it so suddenly. I have been here
with Mr. Quentin for a matter of six years.”
Aylmer looked hard at the man, not sure that he trusted this
exceedingly respectable butler much more than he did his master. There
was one secret, at any rate, that they both shared; his memory flew
back to that night when he had watched the pair talking earnestly to
Ramon, the man with the limp.
Dicks bore the scrutiny with perfect equanimity. His demeanor was
exactly that of the faithful retainer who had a sentimental
recollection of the place where he had put in so many pleasant years
of service.
Aylmer made up his mind to get what information he could, although his
instinct told him that Dicks was by no means a very communicative
person.
“I was more than surprised when I caught sight of that board.
Happening to be in this direction, I thought I would pay a visit to
The Laurels, on the chance of finding Mr. or Mrs. Quentin at home. Let
me see, how long ago is it since I stayed here? Somewhere about three
weeks, I should say. Mr. Quentin dropped no hint of his intention of
giving up the house. Rather a sudden resolve, wasn’t it?”
Dicks indulged in a slight shrug. “Please understand, sir, I don’t
wish to say a word in disparagement of Mr. Quentin. I never had a
better place; I never served a more perfect gentleman. But he was
always very impulsive. When he once got an idea in his head, he would
carry it out, as it seemed, without stopping to think. One day he told
me he was sick to death of England, sick to death of the house. ‘I
shall give it up, Dicks,’ he said. ‘My lease has only got three more
months to run. I could renew it then for another term if I wanted, but
I don’t want.’”
“Do you remember about what date that was?” asked Aylmer quietly. He
had good reason for the question.
“I should say a fortnight ago, it might be a day or two less, sir. To
tell the truth, I had often wondered, in my own mind, why he had kept
the place on, so long. He spent so much of his time abroad, that it
wasn’t of much use to him. And the way he ran it, it entailed a
terrible lot of money. The garden cost him a great deal; every year he
had the decorators in. He couldn’t have anything that wasn’t
absolutely spick and span.”
The thought which had crossed Aylmer’s mind was whether or not Eileen
had known of this contemplated flitting when she wrote him that letter
making an appointment for a fortnight later. The reply of Dicks was
not precise enough to enable him to decide. In all probability,
Quentin had revealed his intentions to his trusted butler before he
spoke to her. Still, it seemed inexplicable that she should allow him
to go to Great Portland Street on a fruitless errand.
“I was very much upset at the break-up,” went on Dicks, “but I can’t
say I was absolutely surprised. I had noticed last year that he seemed
very restless, and more than once he grumbled at the money it was
costing him. This year he was more restless, and he was, no doubt,
making up his mind to cut the whole thing before he spoke to me.
Perhaps he didn’t act merely upon impulse, but had well thought it
over in his own mind.”
“Do you know if Mrs. Quentin was upset at leaving?”
“Well, sir, she never said anything to me one way or the other. But I
should be inclined to say she didn’t take too kindly to the notion.
She seemed to go about the place looking very miserable, and once or
twice I could see she had been crying. I felt sorry for her. But it
was not my place to say anything. And, although I am not making any
complaint of her, she had always kept herself very aloof from all the
servants, especially from me.”
“It occurred to me, from what I observed during my two visits here,
that Mrs. Quentin was rather a cipher in the establishment,” said
Aylmer.
The respectable-looking Dicks coughed in a deprecatory fashion. “I
wouldn’t go so far as to say that, sir. But her husband was a very
masterful man, and fond of having his own way. He had been a bachelor
for so long, that his habits had become set, and his will was law.”
“You were here with him, then, before he married?”
“Some three years. And I can’t say the arrival of Mrs. Quentin made
much difference. If she had been like some young wives, she would at
once have taken a firm attitude; and if she had stuck to it, he might
have given in. But, to my thinking, since you have mentioned it, she
never did quite take her proper place. He being so much older, I
suppose she didn’t have the courage to stand up for herself.”
There was a little pause before the young man spoke again. He might as
well get what he could out of the man, even if it were not very much.
Knowing the softening effect of money, he slipped a note into his
hand.
“Well, Dicks, as it is not likely we shall have another chance of
meeting, here is something to drink my health. I hope Mr. Quentin was
generous to you at parting.”
The man’s reply was very emphatic. “Most liberal, sir. He was that to
all the servants, but especially so to me. I can never speak of Mr.
Quentin in any but the highest terms.”
“And after he first told you of his intention, how long was it before
they were actually out of the house?”
Dicks embarked upon a full and detailed narrative. The landlord was
communicated with the next day, and informed that he could put up a
board as soon as he liked. A few days later, a man from some big firm
in London came down to inspect the furniture, and make an offer for
it. Dicks had ventured to suggest that a bigger sum would be realized
if it were sent to a good auction room, but here Mr. Quentin’s
impulsive temperament asserted itself. Having once made up his mind to
go, he was in a fever to get off; he would not wait for the slower
method, but closed with the private offer. Three days more, and the
house was abandoned, and Quentin and his faithful butler said good-by
to each other.
“I don’t know exactly what he got,” was the conclusion of Dicks’s
story, “but it must have been a pretty tidy sum. There was a lot of
valuable stuff he must have given big prices for. Still, to my
thinking, it was a pity he didn’t let the things go to auction.”
Aylmer put another question. “And where have they gone to? You would
know that, of course, from the labels on their luggage.”
He had half apprehended that Dicks might plead ignorance on this
point. But the butler betrayed no hesitation in his answer. “They went
straight to Paris, sir. But, I believe they were not going to stay
more than a day or two there. I fancy Mr. Quentin has got one of his
restless fits on him, and will go wandering all over the Continent.”
And then the young man thought of a last question before they parted
company. “I suppose your master’s old friend, Mr. Martyn, knows of all
this.”
“I have not a doubt he does, sir. As you know, he is a most particular
friend. During the week before they went, he was down here every day;
he would have to be told, as he could see what was going on. Besides,
I am sure he was always most fully in Mr. Quentin’s confidence.”
Dicks lifted his hat in farewell and withdrew, going in the direction
of the Heath. Aylmer lingered a few moments longer, gazing at the
empty house with a great aching in his heart. He felt that Eileen was
lost to him. This stealthy departure could mean nothing else. They had
gone as soon as the furniture had been removed; there would have been
plenty of time for her to communicate with him, unless she had been
too closely watched for correspondence to be possible.
He had promised to dine with Peyton that night at the Savoy. But when
he got home, he sent a telegram of excuse. His nerves were all jangled
and unstrung; he had received too rude a shock. He did not feel he
could face anybody to-night, more especially Peyton, who would be sure
to bring the conversation round to the Quentins at some period of the
evening.
He had inherited from his Spanish mother a romantic and sensitive
temperament which, at the moment, was wounded to the quick. The
ordinary routine of life, the atmosphere of London, had suddenly
become hateful to him. He felt he must get away to some quiet place
where he could think and brood over the too brief hours he had spent
with the woman he adored.
The next morning he went to Rottingdean, that quiet little place near
Brighton, where he would meet nobody. Some day Peyton would have to be
told, but he must have himself in better order before he could bring
himself to unfold that mysterious story to his friend. Peyton would be
kindly and considerate, according to his lights, as tactful as such an
eminently practical person could be. But he would be sure to say
something that would make his wound smart more deeply.
For three days he stayed in that quiet little place, thinking,
thinking till he felt as if his brain would give way. And then there
suddenly occurred to him the name of a man, Walter Duberry, a man whom
he could not exactly call a friend, but between whom and himself there
was a certain degree of intimacy, due to the fact that Duberry
practised a profession in which Aylmer was deeply interested.
This man was a professional unraveler of mysteries--in other words, a
Private Inquiry Agent. They first had met at a certain Bohemian club,
whose rather small premises were situated in a street, off the Strand.
It was not by any means a fashionable establishment. There was no
entrance fee, and its subscription was an exceedingly moderate one.
But it numbered some very clever fellows amongst its members--authors,
journalists, musicians, none of them perhaps of the highest rank,
preponderating.
Duberry was a man of education and culture, who, like Aylmer early had
been attracted to the subject of criminology. Being his own master and
possessed of some private means, he was at leisure to follow his own
inclinations, which led him to practise professionally as one of those
useful people who undertake the unraveling of mysteries. He was a few
years older than Aylmer. He had now been established in business for
some time, and had made a considerable reputation.
There was a mystery connected with Quentin and his relation with
Ramon; there was mystery in his sudden disappearance and the strange
silence of Eileen. Was not Duberry a likely man to ferret it out?
After a few hours of reflection, he made up his mind to go up to
London and consult him. He felt an imperative need to find out all he
could about this man, who appeared to have plenty of money, and lived
almost the life of a recluse when in England.
Duberry, a tall, well-set-up man of about thirty-eight, was somewhat
astonished when his visitor was announced. Aylmer would hardly have
called on him at his office in Bloomsbury, unless he had come on
business. And yet, Aylmer was the last man in the world to require the
services of a Private Inquiry Agent, according to his own judgment of
him.
As his keen eyes, ever alert and watchful, rested on his caller, he
noticed a considerable change in him since they had last met at the
club, a few weeks ago. That continual brooding, together with
sleepless nights, had told severely on him; he looked ill and wan, and
his manner was restless and nervous. Duberry’s first thought, a very
natural one, was that he had got into a scrape with a woman.
He welcomed him cordially. “Very pleased to see you, Aylmer.” In the
Bohemian club to which they both belonged, it was not the fashion for
members who knew each other fairly well to address each other as
“Mister.” “Am I right in supposing that this is a professional visit?”
“Quite right,” was the response. And, Aylmer, without any further
preamble, unfolded the story of his acquaintance with the Quentins. He
told it with commendable lucidity, considering that he had to maintain
secrecy on certain points. He was in honor bound not to betray the
confidence that Eileen had reposed in him when she confessed that she
was not the man’s wife. And he was also anxious to keep from this
keen-witted acquaintance the actual nature of the relations between
her and himself.
Duberry listened with the closest attention. There was no indication
on his rather impassive countenance that he recognized the true state
of affairs, the real reason for Aylmer’s very keen interest in the
Quentin _ménage_. If he did, he was certainly quite successful in not
showing it.
When the story was finished, he proceeded to ask a few questions. “You
knew absolutely nothing of these people before you met them at Ostend?
Quite so. And you have never heard any allusions to friends or
relatives in England?”
The young man replied truthfully he had learned from Mrs. Quentin
certain things that appeared to explain this. Her mother had married
against the wishes of her family, and had been ostracized by them in
consequence. Quentin himself was a good deal of a recluse, not
particularly keen on the social side.
Duberry smiled. “The recluse stunt, I should say, is a bit of a
blind,” he remarked. “A man who shuns his kind is hardly likely to
frequent crowded hotels; his action in doing so rather shows that he
is a fellow of a gregarious nature. Again, would a real recluse invite
two utter strangers, Mr. Whitefield and yourself, to his private
house? It may happen he has few or no friends in England. There is
some reason for that we don’t know. But he is certainly not the
solitude-loving creature he pretends to be.”
Aylmer was silent. In this particular respect he himself had
entertained doubts of the sincerity of Mr. Quentin’s professions as to
his love of seclusion.
Duberry pursued his inquiries. “Do you happen to know how long these
people have been married?”
Aylmer felt a little embarrassed by his getting on this subject; and,
it seemed to him quite an irrelevant question. But he had always
noticed, in his frequent visits to the Law Courts, that the legal mind
has a habit of inspiring questions that seem irrelevant to the lay
mind.
He spoke as carelessly as he could. “I can’t be quite sure, but I
think Mrs. Quentin once referred to her marriage as having taken place
about three years ago.”
Duberry made a note of the statement, and asked a further question.
“You don’t know the name of his bankers, I suppose? No? Well, I expect
I shall be able to find that out, unless he hasn’t a banking account
anywhere. And I don’t think that very likely.”
No, it was not likely. More than once, Aylmer had seen him change a
check with the cashier of the Continental at Ostend, but had not taken
notice of the bank on which it was drawn.
Duberry began to sum up. “Well, there is certainly mystery about. Now
what I have got to do is to ferret out all I can about Quentin, about
Ramon, the financial agent in a small way, who dresses one day as a
beggar and the next as a man of fashion. I shall also take the butler
into my area of investigation.”
He paused a moment, before adding a few final words. “At first blush
it rather strikes me that the sudden disappearance may have its root
in financial stringency of some sort. You see, he pressed you very
hard for that money which his persistence shows to have been essential
to him. Your refusal may have forced him to look certain unpleasant
facts in the face, with the result that he found he could not hold on
any longer at Hampstead.”
Aylmer rose. Perhaps Duberry’s suspicion was right. Perhaps the man
was living only from hand to mouth, and found himself confronted with
a crisis. And yet, somehow, he could not bring himself to believe that
was the real reason of this sudden disappearance.
“You will let me know the result of your investigations, as soon as
possible. I may be going into the country for a little while, but any
letter will be forwarded at once. And if you wish to see me, I can run
up to London any time.”
Duberry promised the utmost dispatch. When the young man had left the
office, he thought a good deal. And one of his thoughts was that
Aylmer had kept something back in his narrative. He had noticed a
certain hesitation in him when he had put that question about the date
of the marriage. But, he was not surprised, for his experience had
taught him that no client tells the whole truth at once. There is
always something, for personal reasons, which he shrinks from
confessing.