Chapter EIGHTEEN

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.”