Aylmer was due at the Savoy, the day after his return to London, to
keep an appointment with the American millionaire. Mr. Whitefield
never accepted hospitality without giving a more than adequate return.
And before leaving the City Carlton Club, he had given an invitation
to the two young men to lunch with him at the Savoy.
Peyton and Aylmer arrived there within a few seconds of each other;
the host had not yet put in an appearance. When ten minutes had
passed, the younger man began to show signs of impatience. His father
used to make a proud boast that never in his life had he been late for
an appointment. His son had the same scrupulous regard for time, and
voiced his annoyance.
“A typical business man in so many ways, and yet always unpunctual,”
he remarked to his friend. “A remarkable kink, I can’t understand it
myself. He’s so full of energy that he’s always trying to cram the
work of two hours into one, with the result--that he gets a bit
behindhand in the process. Bet you he gives us a magnificent spread;
he always likes to make his dollars felt, does Cyrus J. He’ll make my
modest club lunch look a mean thing. Personally, I hate these heavy
meals in the middle of the day; you’re not fit for any work in the
afternoon. If we had many clients like him, they would kill us with
kindness.”
During the next few minutes, Peyton volunteered the announcement that
he had fixed matters up with Miss Murcheson the evening before, and
was now an engaged man. He received his friend’s congratulations with
his usual _sang froid_. He certainly did not seem unduly elated that
the charming Lily had consented to be his wife. They were to be
married in six months.
As Aylmer’s glance rested on that placid, contented face, he could not
repress a certain feeling of admiration for a man who conducted his
life on such well-ordered lines. Claude Peyton was perfectly satisfied
with himself and his lot. He was not asking for any more out of
existence than it was giving him--a handsome income at an early age,
increasing as the years rolled on, the reversion of his father’s share
of the business when that worthy gentleman, in the fullness of time,
would be gathered unto his fathers. A very pretty and quite charming
young woman for a fiancée, who would make an ideal wife and mother
and never give him a moment’s uneasiness.
Yes, Claude Peyton was an admirable specimen in many ways--honest,
capable, and practical--of the type that had made England great in the
past. If there were many more like him, young men who had responded
instinctively to their early training, England would be great and
prosperous in the future.
Of course, there were certain things lacking in this estimable young
man. You could not say that he was a fine spirit touched to fine
issues. If he had been in the same unhappy position as his friend, you
could not picture him following in the footsteps of Miss Murcheson,
and visualizing the presence of his lost sweetheart as she tripped
daintily along.
Aylmer even felt a certain sense of humility as he contrasted himself
with his friend, so limited, yet so blissfully unconscious of his
limitations. He felt that he was the thrall of his own romantic
temperament, and was ready to admit such a temperament was more of a
curse than a blessing. Whatever he adventured upon would never be
undertaken with the same sound common sense, the same calm detachment
which characterized this youngster, so much his junior. Was not Peyton
much the happier of the two? Did he, Aylmer, rather lose than gain by
his deeper insight into the subtleties of life, by the fact that his
emotions were more easily stirred, more deeply touched?
That insight enabled him to gauge Peyton very thoroughly, to
anticipate the ordinary thoughts and feelings of his commonplace
personality. On the other hand, Peyton, even in moments of supreme
illumination, could only glimpse a very little of his friend’s
temperament. Yes, surely, this prosperous young stockbroker was to be
envied. And, in every situation, he always would acquit himself well.
He would make an excellent fiancé, escorting Lily to dances and
theatres, attentive but not ardent. He would make an exemplary
husband; there never would be the faintest cloud on the domestic
horizon. On the other hand, he would miss something, he would never
thrill to a word or a kiss from sweetheart or wife. The Peytons of
this world are not thrilled by such unsubstantial things. Perhaps,
after all, he would not change temperaments with his friend.
Any further reflections were arrested by the entrance of the host, a
quarter of an hour behind time, full of boisterous apology, a figure
of remarkable vitality and vigor. It was difficult for ordinary people
not to feel a certain insignificance in the presence of this dominant,
overpowering man whose sixty years sat so lightly upon him, and who
expressed so eloquently the immense energy of his strenuous nation. He
shepherded them into the dining room as if they were a couple of
schoolboys.
He appeared to be in the best of spirits, and talked unceasingly
during the progress of the very profuse lunch. Peyton remarked later
on to his friend, with a sarcasm he did not often indulge in: “The old
boy was at the top of his form, wasn’t he? I expect he had brought off
a big _coup_ and ruined half a dozen people. That’s the cheerful sort
of sport in which these chaps delight.”
Presently Whitefield turned to Aylmer. “What about Nice? Have you made
up your mind yet?”
Aylmer spoke with just a shade of hesitation: he was conscious that
Peyton’s disapproving eye was fixed on him. “Yes, I think I will run
over for a few days. I might as well go there as anywhere else.”
“Good,” cried Whitefield heartily. “Well, what do you say to our going
together and springing a surprise on good old Quentin? He won’t expect
to see you in my company.”
Aylmer was delighted with the suggestion; such a proposition suited
him very well. Considering what had happened, he would have felt a
certain embarrassment in entering the Hôtel Negresco by himself. Now
he would have a very natural explanation of his visit. He had met
Whitefield in London and he had pressed him to be his companion. A
third party would remove the awkwardness inseparable from the
situation.
Eileen in her letter of renunciation had given him no details of what
had passed between herself and the man she called her husband. But
Aylmer had imagination enough to reconstruct them for himself. When
Martyn had revealed the fact of his having seen them come out together
from the Soho restaurant, Quentin would naturally demand an
explanation of their clandestine meeting. Eileen, in self-defense,
would have to confess the truth, that they were in love with each
other. She hardly could go so far without going farther, without
admitting that she had given away the secret of her not being
Quentin’s wife. The meeting between the two men, were they alone,
could not fail to be a very awkward one. Whitefield would certainly
prove a most convenient third party.
“Yes, I shall be awfully pleased to accompany you,” Aylmer answered.
“By the way, it would be a good idea that of springing it upon them as
a surprise. So, if you are writing to them again, perhaps you would
not say anything about me.”
Whitefield promised. “I may write them a brief note, stating the time
of my arrival; but as regards yourself--mum’s the word, you can rely
upon me.”
Peyton left soon after lunch, pleading, with absolute truth, a
pressure of business. As he went along to his office, he had
considerable food for reflection. First and foremost, he was heartily
sorry that Aylmer had succumbed to temptation, and, to use his rather
confused imagery, was again going to put his head in the lion’s mouth.
Then, he fell to wondering why Whitefield had pressed Aylmer so
heartily to go to Nice. There was no doubt, Mrs. Quentin was the
attraction for the millionaire. Why did he want to take an attractive
young man with him? Was Whitefield such a supreme egotist that he
considered himself irresistible, in spite of his sixty years and grey
hair, so irresistible that he thought nobody else had a chance against
him and his dollars? There was no telling. He was a shrewd and very
clever man, but the cleverest men are often blinded by their own
overpowering vanity.
After Peyton had left them, the other two went into the lounge and
stayed there, talking and smoking, for the best part of an hour, and
Aylmer found the millionaire a much more genial and companionable
person than that for which he had given him credit. He certainly had
not shown the best side of himself at Ostend; but, that might be
accounted for by the fact that he was too greatly engaged with Mrs.
Quentin to take much notice of anybody else.
From the Savoy, Aylmer went on to Duberry’s office. It was only an act
of common courtesy to let him know that he had discovered the
whereabouts of the Quentins. Not a twitch of the eyelid showed that
the detective was deeply chagrined to learn that the young man had
succeeded where he and his satellite had failed.
“Well, that was a bit of luck your coming across Whitefield,” he said
in a cheerful voice. “So the old fox doubled back to England after
all; you will remember I hinted at that possibility. I don’t suppose,
considering the slender material we had to work upon, we should ever
have located him at an obscure place like Sherehaven, if we had put a
dozen men on his track. You are a student of criminology yourself; you
know what a great part mere chance plays in so many of these
discoveries, that to the public appear so wonderful.”
Aylmer agreed ungrudgingly that it was so. If he had not, by the
merest good luck, come across the American millionaire, he would have
been as much in the dark, as ever. Before leaving, he paid Duberry a
handsome compliment on what he had done for him in finding out so much
about the two men, Ramon and Dicks, and assured him that he did not
begrudge a penny of the money he had laid out on the business. They
parted the best of friends.
It was with the greatest difficulty that he could possess his soul in
patience during the weary time of waiting. The days seemed
interminable. But, at last, the hour came when he and Whitefield were
speeding towards Nice, as fast as express could carry them. Would his
journey bear fruit? He wondered. Would he be able to extract from
Eileen the nature of that insuperable barrier to which she had alluded
in her brief letter of farewell?
The two men entered the lounge of the Negresco, together. There were
only two people seated in it, Eileen and Quentin. The girl’s face
paled, and then flushed deeply, as she recognized Aylmer. Quentin made
a slight gesture of surprise as he rose to greet the newcomers, one of
whom he certainly did not expect, but his self-control was wonderful.
Of the two, he appeared much less embarrassed than Aylmer.
Whitefield explained matters in his usual loud, boisterous style. “You
didn’t bargain for two old acquaintances, eh? I ran across Claude
Peyton--you remember Peyton at Ostend, of course--told him I was
coming here and suggested he should join me. So here we are. If Peyton
were here, the old party would be complete. By the way, is your friend
Martyn with you?”
Quentin replied in a rather cold voice that Martyn was with them, but
out at the present moment; they would see him at dinner. It was
evident that he was considerably taken aback by the unexpected
encounter, although he did his best to mask his feelings under the
guise of indifference.
Presently Quentin drew Whitefield a little apart, and engaged him in a
conversation which presently became animated. No doubt, like Aylmer
himself, he found it impossible to maintain easy relations with a man
who knew so much about him and his real relations with his supposed
wife. The young man addressed himself to Eileen, with whom, for the
moment, he felt almost as embarrassed as with Quentin himself.
“It is a very small world, Mrs. Quentin. But as you travel so much and
I am a confirmed globe-trotter myself, we should have been bound to
meet some day.”
She motioned to him to sit beside her where they were out of earshot
of the two men. “Why did you come, after what I told you in my
letter?” she asked in a low voice. “In a way, I am glad to see you, to
speak to you once more; yet I am miserable that you are here,
because--because----” Her voice broke in a smothered sob.
“I came because I had to, as soon as I knew where you were to be
found,” was the fervent answer. “If you had been at the ends of the
earth, instead of this trifling distance, I should have had to come,
to implore you to tell me the whole truth, to learn what it is that
stands in the way of our happiness.”
“Hush!” she said, sending a nervous glance in the direction of
Quentin. “We cannot talk here.”
“Where and when can we talk, then?” he asked doggedly.
“Oh, my dear, so much better that we should talk nowhere. But if you
insist, to-morrow morning, here, as soon as you find me alone. It must
not be to-night, even if we get the opportunity. I am too miserable,
too unstrung. You were always so gentle and considerate, you will not
press me, you will make allowance for my weakness.”
A diversion was created by the arrival of Martyn, who had been taking
one of his solitary rambles. He greeted Whitefield first, and then
crossed over to Aylmer. He held out his hand, as in politeness bound,
but there was no affability in his manner. Apparently, he was as
little pleased to see him as Quentin himself.
Whitefield and Aylmer had rooms on the same floor. A little time
before dinner they went up together. Evidently the American had
noticed the cool demeanor of the two men towards his companion. “Old
Quentin was all right with me,” he remarked, “but he didn’t appear to
give you a very warm welcome. Of course, Martyn’s manner doesn’t
count; he was always a surly sort of chap.”
If it had not been for Whitefield, who was in one of his most genial
moods, dinner and the evening that followed would have been very dull
indeed. Eileen spoke hardly a word and only smiled faintly in response
to some of the American’s sallies. Martyn was never a talker at the
best of times. And, although Quentin drank liberally, he did not
become mellow under the influence of the generous wines as was his
wont. There was a curious constraint about the man; and, as a matter
of course, Aylmer knew that it was due to his presence. A similar
constraint was upon him, himself.
Finding that the party was such a dull one, Whitefield devoted his
attention to Eileen for the rest of the evening. He was always
accustomed to blurt out his thoughts without much consideration for
the feelings of others, so he had no hesitation in imparting his
opinion of the situation to his companion.
“Seems as if I had made a bit of a mistake asking young Aylmer along.
Your husband doesn’t appear to want him at all, would rather he had
stayed away. Can’t make it out; he was such pals with him at Ostend.”
Eileen made some evasive reply to the effect that Quentin had been
upset by some unpleasant news from England. Whitefield, all
unconscious of the silent drama that was being carried on before his
eyes, little guessed that she could have given him the true reason of
this changed attitude.
It was some little time after breakfast the next morning before Aylmer
could get Eileen alone. It showed that either Quentin or Martyn was
keeping guard over her, and then the American was perpetually buzzing
about. But at last, after half a dozen futile attempts, he found the
opportunity he wanted.
“You must be very quick,” she said, as she beckoned him to a seat
beside her. “Richard is terribly upset at your following me here; you
could see that for yourself last night; his manner to you was almost
rude. He won’t give us many chances of being together.”
“I got your letter, of course, but it told me no details, only
stressed the fact that there was an insuperable barrier between us,”
said Aylmer, speaking rapidly. “Now, I should like to know something
of what passed between Quentin and yourself after he received that
information from that spying Martyn. Did you tell him the whole truth
of our relations, or only a portion of that truth?”
“I told him the whole truth,” she answered, speaking quickly, in her
turn. She knew that at any moment their interview might be
interrupted. “I told him that we had fallen in love with each other,
and reminded him of his promise to let me go if I found some one I
really cared for.”
He paused for a moment, then said:
“Did you tell him you had confessed to me that the supposed marriage
to him was a pretense, a sham, a mere compact entered into in a
foolish moment for the sake of keeping up appearances?”
“Of course. That was almost the first thing I did tell him.”
“And what attitude did he take up then?”
She answered him almost in a whisper, and as she spoke, her eyes
seemed ever on the watch for the interruption she felt sure would
come. “He was not so disturbed at that as I thought he would be. He
spoke very gravely, said there was something he was bound to tell me,
and after he had done so, he would leave it to my own judgment to
decide whether I would or would not marry you. He told me, and when he
had finished, I knew that I must give up all hope of becoming your
wife.”
In his eagerness, the agitated lover drew closer to her. “And what is
the nature of that barrier that you say divides us?”
The answer came in a faltering voice. “That I cannot tell you; I don’t
think I shall ever be able to tell you.” Suddenly she made a slight
movement of the hand. “Hush! I hear his footsteps coming down the
staircase. For pity’s sake, do not ask me the question again; my
answer will always be the same. Believe me, there is no hope of its
ever being different.”
Quentin was upon them almost as soon as she had spoken the last
sentence. For a moment the two men gazed at each other with that hard
look in their eyes which two duellists might wear before they crossed
swords. The next instant, they both relaxed--the man who was supposed
to be Eileen’s husband, the man who wanted her for his wife. Quentin
spoke in a cool, indifferent voice.
“Many times as I have been to Nice, I always find in it a fresh charm.
If I were compelled to choose one place for a perpetual residence, I
think my choice would fall here.”
Aylmer, imitating his mood of well-bred indifference, was rather
disposed to agree.
When he had said a few laudatory words in favor of the place, Eileen
joined in the conversation, although the short scene between Aylmer
and her had so tired her that she could hardly keep her voice steady.
“I am very fond of Nice, but if I had to make a choice, I think I
should select Biarritz. I don’t think I ever enjoyed myself as much at
any place as there, when we stayed at the Hôtel du Palais.”
Aylmer looked up quickly. “You have stayed at the Hôtel du Palais?
When were you last there?”
She gave him the date, in a voice that had grown more assured, now
that they were fairly launched on impersonal topics.
“Ah, then you were there at the same time as my relative Sir Charles
Reeks. He died suddenly of heart disease, according to the medical
verdict. I dare say you remember the occurrence.”
“Certainly, it was a very sudden death, and cast a gloom over the
hotel.” She turned to Quentin: “You remember it, of course, Richard;
you and he were rather by way of being friends.”
Quentin rose, somewhat to Aylmer’s surprise; he had expected him to
mount guard over Eileen. “Perfectly, my dear; Sir Charles was one of
the most agreeable, well-bred men I ever met. Well, I think I will
take a short stroll. I can trust to Mr. Aylmer to take charge of you
in my absence.”