Chapter TWENTY

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.”