The Quest
It was a piercingly cold day when I landed in New York--such cold as I
had not felt since I had finished my last American visit, four years
ago.
Everyone else among the many first-class passengers seemed to have some
welcoming friend to greet him on shore save only myself. I would not let
myself acknowledge that I felt discouragement, but a certain gloomy
sense of the hopelessness of my undertaking would obtrude itself, as I
rattled over the badly-paved streets of New York in the chill seclusion
of my cab.
I had myself driven straight to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, which was
becoming almost an old-fashioned hostelry now among its many tall new
rivals of incredibly many storeys in height, and walking up to the
"office" prepared my most affable manner, to win the confidence of the
smart "clerk" or book-keeper.
"Good-day," I began agreeably, wishing that in former visits to New York
I had stopped at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, so that now, for my quest's
sake, I should be accorded the welcome of an old friend.
"Good-day," was the brisk reply. "You want a room?"
"I should like first to enquire if Mr. Harvey Farnham, of Denver,
Colorado, is stopping here," I said. "My principal object in choosing
this hotel was to meet him, but if----"
"Gone three days ago," broke in the gentleman with the waxed moustache,
who evidently did not wish to waste time on a traveller more inclined to
parley than to patronise the house.
This was the first setback I had experienced on American shores, but so
many had been my portion on the other side of the Atlantic that I had
had time to grow accustomed to them. I had prepared my mind for as
numerous rebuffs here, yet in spite of that I felt the bitterness of
disappointment settling bleakly down upon me. Already I had been given a
sign that Wildred's cleverness had projected itself across the width of
ocean.
"Ah, indeed, I'm sorry to hear that he has left. Is he with friends in
town, or has he gone to Denver?" I questioned, with as bland an air as I
could well command.
"Can't tell you whether he's gone to Denver, I'm sure, sir. But I think
it's almost certain he's not in town, and somehow or other I've got the
impression that he mentioned he was going west."
"I suppose his health improved more rapidly than he expected, then," I
went on. "I understood before crossing that his accident on shipboard
had laid him up for awhile, and that it would be some time before he
felt fit to undertake the journey home."
"He did seem rather seedy," vouchsafed the clerk. "But he was pretty
well able to take care of himself. Shall I put you down for a room?"
"Yes," I answered indifferently. "I suppose you may as well--for one
night."
It was already late in the afternoon, and I had certain investigations
to make before I renewed my interrupted journey in the direction Harvey
Farnham was believed to have taken--going toward the setting sun.
I knew well enough that I was seriously handicapped as a detective by my
complete amateurishness, and possibly a little by my own keen personal
anxiety, which did not tend to cool my head or my pulses when coolness
was needed; but though I would fain have had advice from some clever
professional expert, the reports of the New York police had certainly
not been such as would encourage me to seek assistance from the force.
It appeared to me that I must "dree my weird" alone.
In the handsome, typically American room that was allotted to me I sat
down to map out my future course, as well as I could see it.
Either the brisk-mannered young "clerk" had shown a slight reserve in
answering my eager questions regarding Harvey Farnham, or I had been
morbidly sensitive enough to fancy it in his face and way of speaking.
Doubtless, when the police had been acting in the affair under advices
from London, he had been subjected to a previous catechism concerning
the western millionaire's movements, and if that were the case it was
only natural he should be cautiously inclined. But once I could win his
confidence and thoroughly convince him that I had no connection whatever
with the police, I ventured to hope there might yet be a chance of
learning at least a little more from him than I had been able to glean.
Perhaps it was something in the nature of a sop to Cerberus that I
should have asked for one of the best rooms in the house; and then,
beside, my name written in the visitors' book (or "hotel register," as
it is the fashion to call it in the States) evidently had some meaning
for the young man round whom my hopes centred, for his manner had
decidedly changed for the better when I visited him again after dinner.
He was not particularly busy at the moment, and appeared in the humour
for conversation, asking me of his own free will if it were possible
that I was "Noel Stanton, the traveller."
I did not deny this impeachment, and, moreover, showed myself willing to
be "drawn" on the subject of my explorations. I even went so far as to
relate an adventure at some length (a thing I am thankful to say I have
never been guilty of before or since), told an anecdote which made the
young man laugh, and flattered him to the best of my ability, by asking
his opinion about an American political crisis of the day. Then, by
gradual steps, I led the talk toward the great West in general, Colorado
silver mines in particular, and so at last reached the subject of Harvey
Farnham, one of the most prominent of the financiers of that State.
"I was much disappointed, I confess, at not finding him here," I
remarked, "and shall on his account cut short my visit to New York.
Farnham and I have known each other for some years; and, by the way, I
remember his saying that in his opinion this was the best-managed hotel
in New York. I believe he usually stops here when in town, doesn't he?"
"So it seems, sir," answered the clerk, very civilly now, having decided
to be patient with my humour. "However, I had never seen him until he
turned up the other day. I haven't been in my present position very
long."
"I suppose you did see him though?" I persevered. "How was he looking
after his accident--seedy at all?"
"He was very _thin_, if you mean that," laughed my informant. "He
limped about with a crutch, too, and as he had bumped his forehead in
the same fall which sprained his ankle, he wore a green shade that
covered his temples and his eyes." I grew attentive at this. It appeared
to me that here was a point in my favour.
"I should like to have a talk with one of his old friends in the hotel,"
I said; "the manager, for instance. No doubt he knows Mr. Farnham very
well."
"He does, but he's out of town on business for a day or two. I think
you'll find, though, that our bartender and Mr. Farnham were about as
chummy together as anyone in the house."
Apparently at my leisure, really with great impatience, I repaired to
the extremely handsome "barroom" of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and here the
oracle was very communicative.
Having mixed me a peculiarly American drink called "gin fizz," the
bartender was willing to chat of Mr. Farnham.
"I guess he must have been pretty bad this last time," he said, in
response to my first question, "for he didn't trouble the barroom much."
"He did come in, however, did he not?" I asked anxiously.
"Oh, yes, he came in once or twice, but I thought he acted rather grumpy
and queer."
"Did you have a good look at him either time?" I pressed on, with
eagerness.
"Pretty good. Almost as close as you are now, I guess."
"And did he appear the same as usual, with the exception of the green
shade over his eyes?"
"Well, I reckon he did. I was kind of busy both times, and I don't know
as I took much notice."
"Still"--and I called up a laugh--"you'd have known whether it really
_was_ Mr. Farnham, or a stranger passing himself off in his place?"
The bartender stared at me for an instant, and, had he spoken his inmost
thoughts, probably they might have been appropriately expressed in the
slang phrase, "Ah, what are you givin' me?" "Well, it might have been
his grandfather's ghost, I daresay," he facetiously remarked at length,
"but, anyhow, there seemed to be a strong resemblance between Harvey
Farnham and him."
I set down my glass untouched. A cold conviction was growing within me
that I had been mistaken; that, villain as Carson Wildred was, he had
not, after all, been guilty of the one great crime which I had
attributed to him. It seemed almost impossible that this keen-eyed man,
accustomed to Farnham's comings and goings for several years, could have
mistaken another for him.
Next morning when I had put together the few things that I had had
occasion to unpack, and was "tipping" the pretty chambermaid who
"chanced" to come to my door as I was departing, a sudden inspiration
seized me, and I called the young woman back again as she was
disappearing.
"By the way," I said, "did you happen to attend a Mr. Harvey Farnham,
who was here a few days ago, and who has often stopped in the hotel?"
"Oh, yes, sir," she answered, "I know him quite well, and a very
pleasant, generous gentleman he is--or rather" (and her face changed at
some recollection), "or rather was."
I caught her up eagerly. "_Was?_" I echoed. "Wasn't he the same as
usual this last time?"
"No, that he wasn't, sir. I thought to myself, thinks I, 'Mr. Farnham
must have been disappointed in love or something,' he was so grumpy and
dull. Always before when he came he had a good word for me, 'How do you
do, Ginnie?' or a smile and a nod, but now he went by me without a sign,
for all the world as if he'd never seen me before, though I've been here
since I was seventeen; that's six years ago. When I spoke to him first,
why he looked up and answered in a mumbling way, never even saying my
name. But then, poor gentleman, I suppose he was too sick to think of
anybody except himself."
"Did he look strangely?" I went on to question.
"Oh, I don't know about that, sir, except for the green shade he had to
wear over his eyes; I suppose his face was much the same. Only I didn't
get many chances to see it, and all his jolly ways and smiles were gone,
so that made a difference. I was so glad when I saw his baggage coming
up, for there's never been a gentleman so popular with us girls as Mr.
Farnham; but except for his giving me something when he went away, he
might almost as well not have been in the hotel."
"Would you have recognised his voice," I asked, "if you had not seen
him?"
"I would when he was well and like himself, sir, in a minute, but not
this time, because of the bad cold he'd got on the voyage, which he said
was the worst he'd ever had. He did nothing but cough and wheeze, and
could only speak in a hoarse sort of whisper."
These details were all I could extract from "Ginnie" the chambermaid;
but before I left the hotel it occurred to me to examine the visitors'
book for Farnham's name, wishing to look at the handwriting which, if
his, I felt sure I could not fail to recognise. As I searched the pages
vainly I thought with some compunction of Farnham himself, remembering
how I had hardly known, on the evening of our unexpected meeting in
London, whether or not to be genuinely pleased to see him. I had feared
to have too much of his society during the few hours at the St. James's
Theatre; yet ever since, by a strange irony of fate, I had been doomed
to pursue him, to think of little that was not in some way or other
connected with Harvey Farnham and his affairs.
Evidently he had not considered it worth his while to write in the
visitors' book on this occasion, though I found that he had scrawled his
name when staying in the hotel some months before. This counted for
nothing definite, of course; and as for the taciturnity of which the
chambermaid complained, the ailments from which my poor friend was
reported to have been suffering were quite enough to account for that.
Still, through her words and those of the man in the bar, I had gained
my only real evidence--if evidence it might be called--and as such I
treasured the scanty information.
Having by dint of some exertion found the cabman who had driven Farnham
from the hotel to the railway depot, I made sure that his luggage had
been "checked" to Denver, and so set forth again with a feeling that I
had something to go upon.
Never had a journey seemed to me so endless. After Chicago the
interminable plains got upon my nerves, and I looked out eagerly for the
first range of the snow-clad Rockies.
The trip had taken the best part of three days, and it was early morning
when I arrived in busy Denver, where the dry cold wind and the whirring
shrieks of electric trams made me feel that I had left the place but
yesterday. Much was changed, and many more tall, handsome blocks of pink
stone had been erected during my four years' absence; still I easily
found my way to the building where Harvey Farnham had offices.
It was just past breakfast time, but the business world of Denver,
Colorado, and the "great West" is astir at an hour which would appear
unusual in England. I asked for Mr. Farnham, and was told by a young
clerk that he had returned to Denver three or four days previously. He
had not been at the offices, as he was somewhat unwell as yet, but if I
chose I could see Mr. Bennett, who would tell me when he might be
expected.
I remembered Bennett, now that I was reminded of his existence, as an
energetic young fellow high in Farnham's confidence, who probably knew
as much about the mining and other financial interests as did his
employer. I said therefore that I would see Mr. Bennett by all means.
He came in to me briskly in a few moments, surprised, and, he said,
delighted to meet me again. Yes, it was quite true that Mr. Farnham had
returned, but was as yet unable to be troubled by business affairs.
This settled the matter, then, I assured myself. There was nothing left
for me to do but rejoice in Farnham's safety, curse my own idiocy for
harbouring fantastic suspicions, despite all evidence which should long
ago have overthrown them, and proceed to retrace my six thousand mile
journey across the continent and the Atlantic.
I should at all events have the satisfaction, I bitterly reflected, that
I had done my best to serve Karine's interests and my own, and I should
arrive in England in plenty of time to see her married to the man I had
vainly attempted to prove a murderer.
I became for the first moment conscious that I was desperately weary,
that I had eaten little during the past few days, and slept less. I had
not troubled myself to breakfast that morning--devouring food had seemed
so utterly irrelevant--and now for an instant, as Mr. Bennett's words
rang in my ears, a curious sudden dizziness overpowered me. I felt sick
and faint, and realised that life was a failure, with nothing worth
living for in future, since Karine Cunningham would soon be Karine
Wildred.
"You look ill, Mr. Stanton," remarked Bennett. "I guess you've had a
tiresome journey. I know what a bad run that is between Chicago and
Denver."
A nasty run, indeed! But it would be much worse going back again,
leaving the house of cards, which I had come so far to see, lying in
ruins behind me. Still, I continued to beat into my brains the fact that
I rejoiced in poor old Farnham's safety.
"I believe I am a bit knocked out," I said, "though I ought to be able
to stand a trifle like that and think nothing of it. I should be glad to
see Mr. Farnham. I suppose such an old friend as I might venture to call
in on him, even though he isn't feeling as fit as I should like to think
him. If he's not likely to turn up here presently I might drive to the
house, and he'd give me breakfast, I daresay."
I saw before I had finished my second sentence that Bennett was slightly
disturbed. He flushed to the roots of his flaxen hair, and his face wore
an expression which betrayed a suppressed desire to whistle.
"You can bet he would give you breakfast, or anything else he had, Mr.
Stanton," the trusted man of business said heartily, yet with a certain
irresolution. "But the fact is, he ain't at the house this morning. He's
gone away again."
"I thought he was unwell," I interpolated, in surprise.
"That's so. He's a sick man, not hardly fit to be about, but for all
that he's off. He ought to be back again in--well, in a few days,
however."
"A few days!" I echoed.
"More or less. By George! he will be mad when he knows he's kept you
waiting. For, of course, you _will_ wait, won't you, Mr. Stanton?"
"I should certainly like to see him before I go back to the East," I
said; and I spoke no more than the truth, for, putting my cordial
feeling for Farnham out of the question, it might be that valuable
information concerning Wildred's past could be wrested from him with due
diplomacy. "Still, I hardly feel like hanging about Denver for an
indefinite length of time, doing nothing. I shouldn't mind a little
journey, as I've come so far. If he's at any of the Colorado mines,
perhaps I might run out and join him; I've been there with him before,
you may remember."
"You might indeed, sir," returned Bennett, still embarrassed, "if he was
in any such place, which he isn't. To tell you the plain truth, Mr.
Stanton, as I'm sure Mr. Farnham would wish, if he could dream it was
_you_ I was talking to, why, this little journey of his is strictly
on the 'Q. T.' I guess from what he said there's a lady mixed up in it."
Exactly what Wildred had said, when explaining his friend's absence on
Christmas Day from the House by the Lock! I remembered the coincidence,
though I could hardly see that it bore with any importance on the
present case. Farnham might hold several feminine trump cards to play at
the end of a trick for all I knew, or had a right to know.
"I tell you what to do, Mr. Stanton," Bennett continued, recovering his
wonted self-possession. "You just go up to the house, and make yourself
at home there till Mr. Farnham gets back. You know what a big place it
is, and how glad the chief is to fill it with his friends, especially
such friends as you. Then, by the end of next week, anyhow----"
I interrupted him impatiently. "What, will he be away till then?"
"I should think it was probable from what he said before he left, sir."
"I wish," I exclaimed desperately, "that you could see your way to
making things a little clearer for me. I don't want to pry into
Farnham's affairs, of course--that goes without saying. But perhaps,
without any betrayal of confidence, you might let me know exactly what
he did tell you in regard to his return."
"Well," said Bennett, with a short laugh, "seeing it's you! The fact is,
Mr. Stanton, it'll be a considerable relief to my mind to talk over the
matter, and ask your opinion as to one or two points that have been
rather troubling me."
He glanced up into my face, almost for the first time since we had begun
the discussion, and I saw that I was to hear something which he
considered of importance.
Of how great importance it was to prove for me, I did not dare to dream.