There was no address on the letter. Of course, she would not include
that, she sensed too well that the ardor of his love would lead him
straight to her, and above all things, she did not wish him to seek
her out.
He read the brief note, over and over again, till the phrases sang in
his brain. Quentin had broken his promise to her, the promise given
when he had first entangled her in his web of deceit. There was
between them an insuperable barrier which could never be removed.
There was nothing left for them but to forget that sweet dream. She
loved him truly, her love for him would never grow cold. It was a
letter of absolute despair, of final renunciation.
The postmark on the envelope showed that it had come from Paris. Even
if he had been at liberty to confide in Duberry, the clue was too
slight to be of any use. He knew from what Dicks had told him that
Quentin’s first destination had been Paris; and, no doubt, the
detective had acted on the information, so far as his facilities
allowed, without obtaining any result.
The couple were hiding somewhere in the width of the Continent,
possibly in luxurious surroundings, equally possibly in obscure ones.
And if that letter spoke the truth, and it certainly seemed to be
written from the heart, she was as eager to avoid discovery, as the
man who passed as her husband.
Presently he began to recover from the state of agitation into which
the receipt of that letter had thrown him. In his calmer mood, he
began to find himself indulging in much the same detached kind of
analysis that Duberry would have employed, if he had been made
acquainted with its contents and informed of all that had previously
taken place between Eileen and himself.
She had encouraged him to love her at Ostend; she had still further
encouraged him, when they met again in London. He still had the utmost
faith in her probity and straightforwardness; and, he felt certain she
would not have given him that encouragement if she had known at the
time that there was an insuperable barrier between them.
There was a barrier, of course, of a kind, but not strong enough to
prevent her using her own free will, if her love was strong enough to
induce her to disregard Quentin’s wishes in the matter; if, in his
selfish egotism, he had shrunk from the scandal that might ensue on
the revelation of the actual truth of their relations--a scandal which
Aylmer was fully prepared to brave, even if he did not actually shut
his eyes to certain disagreeable consequences of it.
Something, then, had occurred between Quentin and herself, in the
interview which had followed upon his discovery of their clandestine
meetings; in that interview he must have succeeded in convincing her
that there was a real obstacle in the way of her happiness with
another man, so real that she at length had been forced to acquiesce
in the final renunciation of her lover. Nothing could be more emphatic
than her declaration that the dream, sweet as it had been, must end,
and that further relations between them would be impossible.
It was not, perhaps, to be wondered at that a man of his ardent and
romantic temperament should refuse to accept the verdict she had
pronounced. Not, at least, without a full and frank explanation of the
reasons which had induced her to arrive at it. If only he could find
her, he felt confident he would force from her a confession of what
had taken place between her and Quentin. And yet, could he be quite
sure that he could persuade her to reveal anything she wished to
conceal? Had she not adroitly evaded his questioning on the subject of
that agitating interview with Martyn?
Still, he felt he could not contain himself until he saw her again.
Duberry must call into play all his faculties to find her. On the
morning of the following day, he presented himself again at the
detective’s office.
Of course, Duberry, a man of more than usual shrewdness, would be able
to read the real reasons of his insistence, to guess that he had a
very profound interest in Mrs. Quentin. But, he was too engrossed in
his own feelings to care greatly for that. Let him suspect what he
liked, so long as the object was attained.
He approached the subject with as much diplomacy as he could muster.
“This finding out the retreat of the Quentins seems rather a slow
process, doesn’t it? I was wondering if we could employ some quicker
methods. Could we not send a man over to visit all the big cities
abroad? I have a notion that Quentin is not the sort of man to shut
himself up in some dull provincial town.”
Duberry reflected the while he was cogitating over his client’s keen
desire to find the man’s hiding-place. “That could be done, of
course,” he said at length. “And in that case, the search would be a
very thorough one; but, naturally, it would be a pretty expensive
job.”
Aylmer waived this objection aside with a hasty and emphatic gesture.
“Don’t give a moment’s thought to that aspect of the question. Spend
as much money as you like; I am determined to go through with this
thing.”
“All right, then,” said Duberry cheerfully. “I know of a splendid
fellow, one of the best trackers I ever came across, and as much at
home on the Continent as he is in England. Now, of course, these
people _may_ be carrying on under an assumed name. If under their own,
their discovery is only a matter of time, he must run them to earth
sooner or later. But, assuming for the moment they are lying low, let
me have a couple of your excellent sketches of the man and woman for
the purposes of identification.”
“I can do that, while I am here.” In a few minutes the young man had
drawn two very lifelike portraits of Eileen and Richard Quentin. He
further handed over to Duberry a check for preliminary expenses.
“I’ll set my man on, directly; I know he is at a loose end just now
and will be glad to get hold of something,” said the detective as they
parted company. “This is, of course, the only thorough way of doing
the business, but I did not like to suggest it at the beginning on
account of the cost. I hope it will not be very long before he picks
up the trail.”
When his client had gone, Duberry shook his head reflectively. “I’m
sorry for him, such a nice, straight chap; everybody speaks well of
him. It is evident Mrs. Quentin’s good looks have made a very deep
impression on him, too deep a one for his peace of mind. Spanish blood
on his mother’s side, too. Just the sort to go mad over a woman. Not
enough English evenness of temper in him to steer a safe course where
his feelings are in question.”
There was not a much more miserable man in London that day than Frank
Aylmer as he left the detective’s office in Bloomsbury. Without the
radiant presence of Eileen, existence was practically a blank. The
intense longing to see her, to feel the touch of her hand, to hear the
soft tones of her voice, was driving him to the verge of insanity.
Wrapped in his swiftly racing thoughts, he walked on and on, till he
reached Regent Street. And there, in the middle of that busy
thoroughfare, he found himself face to face with Quentin’s close
friend Martyn.
He could tell at once that Martyn had recognized him, with a sidelong
glance of his rather shifty eyes, and was pressing forward in the hope
that he had not been seen. Aylmer frustrated his maneuver by placing
himself in front of him and extending his hand.
“How do you do, Mr. Martyn? Glad to see you looking so well. It is now
some little time since we made a merry party at Ostend.”
The somber-faced man took the hand extended to him in a very limp
fashion. “How do you do,” he said awkwardly. It was quite obvious that
he was not overpleased at the unexpected encounter.
Aylmer kept up his assumed geniality. “What a good time it was while
it lasted. And the Quentins were such delightful people. You knew,
perhaps, that I visited them at their Hampstead house?”
Martyn gave him a wary look. He had to say something, but appeared to
speak with the greatest reluctance. “Oh, is that so? Yes, delightful
people! I am sure they would give you a good time. Both Quentin and
his wife are the embodiment of hospitality.”
What a hypocrite he was, thought Aylmer as he noted the man’s obvious
embarrassment. Being such an intimate friend, he would have known as a
matter of course, of Quentin’s invitation to The Laurels.
“I am sorry that I had such a brief opportunity of cultivating them,
while they were in England. I suppose you know all about it, but you
can judge of my surprise when I called one day and found the house to
let. I ran across Dicks, the butler, as I was leaving the place. He
told me a very little, that Quentin had suddenly taken a distaste for
England, had thrown up the tenancy of his house, and gone on the
Continent. I have not the slightest doubt you know the details better
than I.”
The wary look on Martyn’s face deepened as he answered the question.
“Not very much, Mr. Aylmer. Quentin was always a very eccentric kind
of chap, you could never be sure of his movements. He would settle for
a few hours in a place, and rave about it, and declare his intention
of stopping in it for life. Then next day he would clear off, and the
next you heard of him was that he was a hundred miles away.”
“But, surely, as such a close friend, you had warning of this sudden
change of plan?”
Mr. Martyn shook his head emphatically. “You are quite mistaken. I had
no warning. Only a very brief note after the event.” Seeing the look
of incredulity on Aylmer’s face, he added hastily: “I dare say you
think it strange, but as I have just told you, Quentin was a very
eccentric man.”
It was quite possible that Quentin was a very eccentric man, but
Aylmer was now convinced of one thing; namely, that Martyn was a very
accomplished and steadfast liar. He had the butler’s evidence that the
man was there during the move from Hampstead, during which period he
must have known what was going on.
It was on the tip of his tongue to prove him the liar he was, but he
refrained from reasons of policy. He would pump him as far as he
allowed himself to be pumped.
“And where are they now?” he asked in a casual voice. “Somewhere on
the Continent, of course.”
But Mr. Martyn was not to be inveigled into confidences, if he had any
to impart. “Most probably,” was the brief answer; “but I cannot say
for certain. I had the one brief note from Quentin, stating that he
was going to Paris, and promising further communication. That further
communication has not reached me up to the present. Knowing the man so
well, I should guess it would be weeks or months before it did.”
There was evidently nothing to be got out of this very discreet and
reticent person. Aylmer made a last desperate attempt, speaking with a
geniality that cost him a considerable effort.
“I wonder if you would give me the pleasure of your company for
luncheon, at my club, the Excelsior?”
But Martyn was not to be cajoled into even the semblance of
friendship. “Any other time I should have been delighted. But every
moment of the day is occupied. I am going abroad to-morrow morning.
It’s an awful rush to get off. Well, good-by for the present. We shall
meet again some day, I expect.”
The man put out a limp hand, and darted off. He had obviously been ill
at ease during the whole of the brief interview, and was pleased to
bring it to an end. Aylmer thought a little over things after they had
separated.
It rather looked as if Martyn and Dicks had not met lately, or else
the butler would have warned him of what he had let out as to Martyn’s
visits during the move. On the other hand, Martyn himself might have
made a slip, in his embarrassment at the unexpected meeting.
Some very weary days ensued. The man whom Duberry had set upon the
track of the Quentins did not seem to meet with any success so far. He
had located the hotel in Paris at which the couple had stayed for a
few days after they took their hurried departure from the house at
Hampstead. But, after this one discovery, he was unable to pick up the
trail.
Duberry kept assuring his client it was only a matter of time; but, in
his impatience, Aylmer did not pay much heed to these optimistic
prophecies. It seemed as if fate was against him, and that his
imperative longing to find himself face to face again with Eileen, in
the hope of extracting from her some satisfactory explanation, would
never be gratified.
The detective, who, to do him justice, was busy enough in his own way,
had found out a good deal about that dark horse, the butler Dicks. He
had traced him to three different situations which he had held before
he had entered the service of Quentin. In each his record had been
most satisfactory. Judging from the united testimonials of his
employers, he appeared to be a person of the highest respectability
and integrity.
Against this was to be set the fact of his being in touch with such a
confirmed wrong-doer as the man Ramon. At the present moment, he was
living in lodgings by himself at Hampstead, and was apparently making
no effort to obtain another job. There was nothing, perhaps, very
suspicious about this. After so many years of service, during which he
could have put by a certain amount of money, it was only natural that
he should like to take a fairly long holiday.
Aylmer listened rather listlessly to these details about the butler.
He remarked, perhaps a little petulantly, that they were interesting
enough in their way, but they did not appear to help much in the
paramount object of discovering the Quentins’ hiding-place.
Duberry, being a very good-tempered man, did not resent the young
man’s petulance; he had met so many clients who showed bitter
disappointment if a detective did not at once proceed to work
miracles. He knew well enough the loss of Mrs. Quentin in a measure,
had upset the young man’s mental balance, and he was genuinely sorry
for him.
“At the present moment, Dicks doesn’t help us in the least,” he said
quietly. “But I shall continue to keep a watch on him. At any moment
he may rejoin his late master, and if that should be so, he will lead
us straight to our quarry. There is a strong suspicion in my mind that
Martyn is going after them. If I had enjoyed the good fortune to have
been with you that day you met him, I would have shadowed him from
that moment, and in a short time we might have been in possession of
the information we want.”
Another week went by, and there was still no news of Quentin’s
whereabouts. Dicks was still at his lodgings at Hampstead, and passed
a great part of his time in the various public-houses in the district.
On two occasions Ramon had been down to see him. On the last time, the
two men had walked together to the Tube station, and Duberry’s
emissary, who had followed them, reported that they appeared to be
indulging in a very serious quarrel. He did not, in the least, know
what they were quarreling about, as he did not dare to go very near
them for fear of being observed. When they parted in the lobby of the
station, they appeared to be very bad friends, to judge by the
expression on their faces.
Then, one morning, as Duberry was preparing to go out, his old friend
Webber was announced. One look at him revealed that he was bursting
with news of considerable importance.
“I have just seen my friend at Scotland Yard,” he said, speaking
rapidly and eagerly. “Ramon has gone wrong again, pretty serious thing
this time. His office is still open, but he hasn’t been near it for
some days. The house at Barnes is shut up. There is a warrant out
against him. They have tracked him to a mean lodging in Soho, and they
are going to take him to-day.”