An hour later Aylmer came across Whitefield. There was a question he
had wanted to put to Eileen. But, the interview was so brief, he had
not had the time to put it. The information he desired he could get
out of the American if he could screw up his courage to tackle him.
For, Whitefield was a somewhat formidable personage, and his moods
were capricious. At one moment he would not trouble to resent the
grossest impertinence, at the next, he would flare up at the most
trivial thing.
Aylmer made up his mind to take his chance. “Excuse me, Mr.
Whitefield--I am going to take a great liberty; I am not sure you
won’t think it a piece of the grossest impertinence. I intend to take
the risk of that. A few mornings ago, I heard you invite Quentin to
take a walk, for the purpose of discussing with you some business that
he had broached to you on the previous evening.”
The millionaire spoke in a gruff voice. “Quite true, sir. He had
spoken to me about certain business matters. As you and I are nothing
more than the merest acquaintances, I confess your allusion to the
fact does savor a little of impertinence. Unless, of course, you have
some very justifiable motive in making it.”
“I have a very strong motive; if I could tell you all the reasons that
impel me to approach you, I think you would admit a justifiable one,”
answered the young man gravely. “At the present moment, I am forced to
be very reticent; I am acting only upon certain suspicions which have
formed in my mind. But I can only assure you I am acting with the
fullest sense of responsibility in regard to the course I am taking,
that I am not endeavoring to obtain your confidence from any motive of
idle curiosity.”
The American bent his bushy brows upon him. “You are speaking in
riddles, my good young friend. Say what you want to say, and I will
then tell you whether or not I consider you are impertinent.”
It was not, perhaps, very great encouragement, but it emboldened the
young man to proceed. “In as few words as possible, then, has Quentin
approached you with a view to either borrowing money or inducing you
to put money into some plausible scheme?”
Whitefield gave a start, but did not answer the question directly.
“And what is your reason for asking me this?”
“You must forgive me if I keep silence as to that for the moment; I
have the most cogent reasons for doing so, which I may be able to
explain later. I would ask you, further, to preserve absolute secrecy
with regard to our conversation. That is absolutely essential before I
can say another word.”
There was a different expression on Whitefield’s face now. Aylmer’s
intense gravity certainly had made a deep impression on him. The long
and searching scrutiny to which he had subjected him, impelled him to
a more considered estimate of his character and possibilities. Up to
the present, he had regarded him as a young man of agreeable address,
born to good fortune, contented to lounge away his life in the pursuit
of quite harmless amusement, rather above the average, perhaps, in
intelligence, but not possessing abilities of any outstanding kind.
There now seemed in him a quiet strength denoting qualities which were
not immediately apparent to the ordinary observer.
“I will keep absolute secrecy as you request. And now in answer to the
question which you say you have a quite justifiable motive in putting,
Quentin asked me to lend him money to invest in a certain scheme in
which he is greatly interested. The details of it would not interest
you; for my part, it recommended itself to me, of course upon
Quentin’s slightly optimistic explanations, as a fair business risk. I
don’t know that these considerations would have had much weight with
me; I have so many irons in the fire, have so many interests in big
undertakings, that small things like this venture don’t appeal to me.
But he added a personal note.”
“Ah,” cried the young man. “I can guess that he brought Mrs. Quentin
into it.”
There was just a shade of confusion in the millionaire’s manner. “You
seem to be endowed with a good deal of insight. He confessed that he
had been living up to a great rate for some years, had made serious
inroads on his capital. He was getting anxious about his wife when
anything happened to him. This speculation would return profit enough
to enable him to make handsome provision for her.”
He smiled in a rather shamefaced way, as he added: “So now, young man,
you have got the whole truth out of me. I let him have the money
because I thought it was doing a good turn to his wife. Otherwise, I
don’t suppose I should have entertained the idea for a minute.”
It was as Aylmer had thought; the artful schemer had got at this
worldly-wise man, this astute financier who had made his fortune by
picking out the good schemes that were presented to him and rejecting
the doubtful ones, through the innocent Eileen.
“Is the deal completed? Have you parted with the actual money?” asked
Aylmer presently.
“I gave it him last night in cash. For some reasons of his own he
wanted it that way. Of course, I usually give a check in this sort of
transaction.”
“And I suppose you got a formal receipt for it?”
“Certainly, he gave me one, at once. He was very punctilious about
that. I remember he made some joking remark when he handed it to me,
that life was short and he might die within the next few minutes, and
in that case there would be nothing to show he was my debtor unless I
had it, at once. As a matter of fact, I did not trouble myself much
about the matter, not looking upon it as a legitimate business
transaction. My motive was to do the poor little woman a good turn.
There’s no use beating about the bush. Quentin is a decent sort of
chap enough, but I don’t set up for being a philanthropist, and if a
man gets into a muddle through his own want of foresight, I don’t, as
a rule, feel any imperative obligation to help him out of it. When a
sweet and charming woman is involved, the situation assumes an
altogether different complexion.”
There was a long pause. Presently the American rubbed his grey head
thoughtfully, and spoke again. “I reckon most of my friends would say
of me that I’m a pretty ‘’cute one’; but since you have been speaking,
I’ve an uncomfortable conviction that I have behaved like a darned old
fool. Now look here, Aylmer, I have answered all your questions quite
frankly, and I have not suggested that any one of them was
impertinent. I think it is your turn to be straightforward with me. I
don’t ask you to tell me anything it would be wiser to keep secret for
a while. But it’s evident you know something of this chap, Quentin. I
surmise he has been up to the same trick before. What do you really
know or suspect?”
“At the moment I have not the slightest evidence to go upon; in
whatever I suspect I am relying upon nothing stronger than the merest
intuition,” was the quiet answer. “I may or may not get some
convincing evidence in the course of the next twenty-four or, perhaps,
forty-eight hours. Should I fail, I rely upon you not to give me
away.”
“Of course, of course, I never break a promise. But your intuition, as
you call it, must have had something to feed upon. You might tell me a
bit. Is he an adventurer, pure and simple, living on his wits, and
using that pretty little wife of his as a kind of decoy?”
Whitefield’s voice rose into a high crescendo on the last words.
Aylmer knew quite well what was troubling the egotistical
American--the thought that a person of his proved capacity, a man who
prided himself on his knowledge of men, should be taken in by anybody,
especially by a quiet, innocent-looking creature like Quentin.
He had half a mind to tell Whitefield something of what was in his
mind, to relate his own experiences at Hampstead when Quentin had
tried to get money out of him, but prudence caused him to refrain. The
American was an explosive person, and if he knew too much, might blurt
it out in a moment of ungovernable impulse, heedless of his promise to
keep secrecy.
“Yes, certainly an adventurer,” was Aylmer’s cautious reply. “I cannot
tell you if he is something worse until I have completed certain
investigations I am on the point of making. I will reveal to you those
results when I have obtained them. In the meantime, keep the strictest
guard on yourself; don’t let Quentin suspect for a moment that you
have the slightest doubt of him.”
It was easy to see the millionaire was greatly perturbed by the
conversation, but he paid Aylmer a very handsome compliment. “You have
got a very wise head on your young shoulders; there’s not the least
doubt about that. To speak quite frankly, I am sure there is a lot
more in you than I gave you credit for. You’ve put suspicion in my
mind, and you guess I’m the sort of chap to run amuck when I get my
dander up, so you’re wise in not telling me too much at once. Well,
young Aylmer, I believe in you, and I will follow your advice.
Whatever I may be thinking, and you bet I shall be thinking a deuce of
a lot, I will do my level best to hide it from Quentin.”
Aylmer smiled grimly. “You will have to exercise all your powers of
self-control, I warn you. The man is as clever as they make them, and
as sharp as a needle. He will spot the slightest variation in your
manner.”
“I know, I know,” said the American hastily. Then he switched off to
the subject of Eileen’s departure. “I say, what about Mrs. Quentin’s
sudden dash to England? Is there some hidden meaning in it? You heard
we three were to meet in Rome later--Martyn is going off somewhere, on
his own.”
“What explanation did Quentin give you?”
“It seemed very straightforward,” answered the American. “A telegram
received shortly after breakfast, an elderly aunt dying, wanted to see
her niece before her death. Mrs. Quentin very much attached to her,
the last link with her family, couldn’t resist the appeal, although
she feared she would not be in time.”
Aylmer made up his mind he could confide in Whitefield with regard to
this particular matter.
“A lie, an absolute lie,” he said emphatically.
“But he showed me the telegram, my dear Aylmer.”
Aylmer could hardly repress a smile at his companion’s simplicity. He
might be a superman in dealing with men of business like himself, but
he had no idea of the subtle mentality of a plausible rogue.
“Of course, he would do that. I have told you that he is a very clever
man, also he is more than ordinarily subtle.”
“I should say you were his match in subtlety,” remarked Whitefield
generously.
“Thanks; you are becoming quite appreciative. Well, to return to
Quentin. He would never commit the mistake of making a statement that
he could not corroborate with fairly strong evidence. Depend upon it,
he devised means for the transmission of that telegram through some
friend, or acquaintance, in London. Now, I will tell you something
very important. Mrs. Quentin has practically no friends in England.”
“But, surely, she has relatives?” interjected the American.
“Yes, plenty of relatives who do not acknowledge her,” said Aylmer
calmly. “Her mother made a marriage against the wishes of her family.
The family retaliated by ostracizing her, her husband, and her child.
Mrs. Quentin has not a single relation in England who would
communicate with her under any circumstances, whatever. The elderly
aunt is a creation of Quentin’s resourceful imagination.”
Whitefield bent upon him a sharp glance. “You know that, of course,
from the fountain-head, from something that has been dropped by either
Quentin or his wife?”
“Yes, from the fountain-head,” replied the young man. “At Ostend, Mrs.
Quentin confessed to me several things, many of which I am not at
liberty to divulge. That was one of them.”
He was pleased to see that Whitefield was considerably chastened by
this heart-to-heart talk between himself and a much younger man whom
he had rather looked down upon in his pride of commercial success, in
his fond belief in the irresistible power of his dollars to subjugate
everything, and everybody, to his own wishes and whims.
As the elderly millionaire walked away, Aylmer felt a certain pity for
him. Why did he not carry his years gracefully, in consonance with his
grey hairs and his unquestionable achievement in the world of
commerce? His history was public property. He had led a hard life in
his youth and early manhood, that disagreeable training had induced in
him a certain hardness, in later life. Perhaps the secret of his
existence was this; that denied the natural expansion of youth, he had
begun to live when more fortunate men had long ago sown their wild
oats. This, surely, was the explanation of his eccentric benefaction,
when Quentin had so artfully pleaded on behalf of his wife’s future.
Aylmer went up to the corridor in which his bedroom was situated. He
had omitted to ask for his key, but that act was intentional.
As he slowly ascended the stairs, he was conscious of a certain glow
of satisfaction in him. The many leisure moments he had devoted to the
study of criminology had not been spent in vain. He was sure that he
had in him the makings of a better detective than his friend Duberry.
He had greater qualities of imagination, of insight, than that very
capable member of a very clever profession. Duberry could deal quite
brilliantly with hard facts.
But, by virtue of that quality of imagination, Aylmer could do more.
He could project himself into the mentality of a criminal, he could
anticipate what that criminal would do in a certain given set of
circumstances. At the present moment, he was developing that “sixth
sense” which always is existent in persons of his temperament. He was
reconstructing a tragedy which had happened at the Hôtel du Palais
some time ago, which might be repeated here very swiftly, if he did
not forestall and prevent it.
He waited in the corridor till he saw the chambermaid coming towards
him, a smiling, dark-eyed child of the sunny South. He went up to her
with his most ingratiating smile.
“I’m awfully sorry, but I came up without the key of my room. Can you
help me?”
Unsuspecting of the ruse of this attractive young Englishman, the girl
offered him her pass-key, which opened all the rooms in the corridor.
“Take it with pleasure,” she said simply. “I shall be back again in
five minutes. You will let me have it back then? I should get into
trouble if it was known that it had passed out of my possession.”
He made the necessary promise, and unlocking the door, went into his
own room. During that five minutes he worked very swiftly, taking in
wax an impression of the pass-key.
He was a little late for lunch, but neither Quentin nor Whitefield,
nor the ever-silent Martyn, commented on his tardy appearance. After
the meal was concluded, he went to a locksmith in the town, and had a
key fashioned from the wax impression.
It was at the beginning of the dinner hour that he resumed his
mysterious investigations. The corridor was quite empty, all the
guests were in the dining room. A few doors below his own bedroom was
the chamber in which Quentin slept. There was not a servant in sight.
It was an ideal moment for him to carry out the campaign he had been
preparing.
Unobserved, he drew from his pocket the duplicate key which had been
made for him that afternoon, and he entered Quentin’s room.
Shutting the door carefully behind him, he crossed over the room to
the wash-stand, on the glass shelf of which stood a tumbler. This he
carefully polished with a silk handkerchief, and after having
performed this curious action, he went down to dinner. That evening he
strolled again into the town, and purchased a tumbler exactly
resembling the one he had left in Quentin’s room. This was the first
act in his investigations, the second took place some time just before
breakfast the next morning.
Unobserved, he had watched Quentin leave his room and slip downstairs.
The chambermaid would not appear on the scene for some little time.
The coast being clear, he slipped into the room. The tumbler he had
polished the previous evening stood upon the wash-stand half full of
water. Pouring the contents of it into the glass he had purchased, he
took the other one to his own apartment, holding it very carefully as
he made the short journey.
The next proceedings were the work of a few moments. He produced a
finger-print outfit, and having carefully dusted the telltale tumbler
with white powder, which he removed presently with a small camel-hair
brush, found distinct finger-prints left on the glass.
He drew from the bag which had been sent him by his valet a sheet of
thin green paper upon which were some faint prints.
He compared them, and gave a long sigh of satisfaction. They were
exact. The finger-prints on the tumbler coincided in every detail with
the finger-prints on the bag which had belonged to Sir Charles Reeks.
“My intuition led me right,” he said softly to himself. “And Quentin,
that smooth-spoken, oily hypocrite, is more than a mere adventurer. If
I read the man aright, he will move very quickly, not later than
to-night. There is no time to be lost. I would wire to Duberry to come
out and help me, but that would mean delay. I must act on my own.”