Chapter FOUR

Presently the manager came into the lounge, which by now was quite full. Agitation and distress were written on his mobile countenance. Detaining gestures were made to arrest his progress, but taking no heed, he went on until he came to a halt before Mrs. Quentin.

He spoke excellent English. “Alas, madame, I am the bearer of terrible news. Thieves have got into the hotel during the dinner hour, and have reaped a rich harvest. Mrs. Scadden, the Scotch lady, is the chief victim; you know what a splendid store of jewelry was hers. She is away on a visit to friends; she does not yet know of her loss. She will be back some time to-morrow morning; I think I will wait till then to apprise her of this terrible happening. We have done everything. The police are in the hotel now. The chambermaid, going on her rounds discovered that two rooms had been entered and ransacked of their valuable contents. The thieves entered by the windows.”

Mrs. Scadden was a wealthy Scotch widow who must have invested a large portion of her capital in precious stones. Every evening at dinner she was a blaze of scintillating light, dazzling her fellow guests with the opulent display.

The manager’s voice took on a tone of deeper commiseration as he unfolded the story further. Mrs. Scadden was an ostentatious and arrogant woman, not popular with the other people at the hotel, nor with the staff; she set too great a valuation on herself.

Mrs. Quentin was liked by everybody from the manager to the diminutive page-boys. That charming smile, that genial manner, secured her friends everywhere.

“I am desolated to tell you, madam, that you are also a victim; I do trust not to the same extent. Your room was found in disorder, everything turned over and ransacked. Your husband’s room has not been disturbed.”

Quentin uttered a deep imprecation; Martyn growled one equally deep. Husband and wife rose together, moved by a common impulse to go upstairs and ascertain the extent of the loss. The others remained where they were. As a rule, Martyn did not address himself more than he could help to either Peyton and Aylmer, but this sudden catastrophe had the effect of compelling him to talk, even to people for whom he had no liking.

“Of all the fools, I think women are the greatest,” he remarked in unamiable tones. “If they will bring their gewgaws away with them to make each other envious, why don’t they carry just as much as they can plaster themselves with, and leave the rest at their bankers’? If they didn’t do that, they might have the sense to leave what they are not using in the custody of the proprietor. As for that silly Scotchwoman decking herself out as if she were an Empress at a state function, I have no patience with her. And if Mrs. Quentin hasn’t sense enough to take care of her property, Quentin ought to look after it for her.”

Presently husband and wife returned. Mrs. Quentin looked pale and worried; but Quentin did not appear to be greatly disturbed, perhaps he was too great a philosopher to worry unduly about the loss of a few trinkets.

She turned with a tragic gesture to the two young men. Since that conversation in the empty lounge, there had appeared to be a sort of armed neutrality between her and Martyn; they had spoken to each other very little, and then in the most formal manner.

“Everything has been taken except what I am wearing to-night. Fortunately, that is the most valuable of my small stock. Still, it is very annoying.”

Quentin patted her shoulder kindly. “Don’t worry, my dear. If you are very good, I will save up and in time replace it.”

“I hope you will take better care of the new than you have taken of the old,” growled Martyn in a low voice.

“Don’t rub it in too much, my dear fellow,” said Quentin in his usual placid tones. “Eileen recognizes, as fully as you do, now, that it was injudicious to keep it in her room. But what’s the use of crying over spilt milk?”

Having administered this rebuke to the disgruntled Martyn, he addressed the company generally.

“Seems to have been quite a clever piece of work. I have had a long talk with the head police official, who is upstairs, and he appears to be completely baffled. There has been very close examination, they have taken any amount of notes. But nothing much comes out of it. There are no clues, he admits, not even the presence of finger marks. The scoundrels must have worn thin gloves, he thinks. It looks very much as if Eileen and Mrs. Scadden must bear their loss with as much of philosophy as they can summon to their aid.”

Again he patted his wife’s shoulder, with the same kindly gesture. “Cheer up, little woman. It is a misfortune, but you might have suffered from a worse one. You might have walked out of this hotel and slipped on a piece of orange peel, and been a cripple for life. You might have been run over by a passing taxi. Let us take it calmly and have a final drink, while this excellent body of police is gradually coming to the conclusion that it has been outwitted. In a few hours from now, Mrs. Scadden’s very opulent jewels and your comparatively insignificant ones will be stripped of their settings and made unrecognizable.”

“You’re a rich man,” growled Martyn from his corner. “But it is a damnable thing to have happened. I am not sure it would not be wiser to shift to another hotel; they have got a mark on this, it seems.”

Mr. Quentin, who appeared to be in the best of humors, smiled pleasantly at his friend. “My dear Martyn, you always look on the gloomy side of things. As they have made such a good haul to-night, the chances are that they will give us a wide berth for quite a long time. Anyway, as Mrs. Scadden and Eileen have now no jewelry except what they carry on their persons, they will hardly enter in upon us as we are sitting at dinner and hold us up to ransom. Ah, here’s the waiter. Let us drink confusion to the scoundrels.”

He ordered drinks in a spirit of the most cheerful philosophy. As he raised his glass to his lips, he looked at Aylmer with a quizzical smile.

“Now, Mr. Aylmer, you told me a little time ago that you were deeply interested in criminology. Why don’t you go upstairs and have a chat with the head of the police? You might give them a wrinkle, you know. Eileen would be awfully grateful to you if we could get back the ‘loot’ or catch the chaps who have made off with it.”

Mr. Quentin was rather mellow to-night, and he meant it all in chaff. The young man recognized his mood, but, for all that he spoke quite seriously.

“I don’t know that I have specialized in the methods of these _rats d’hôtel_. But I think there is one thing pretty certain. To engineer this coup as they have done, they must have been supplied with some information from inside. Somebody in the Continental is in league with them.”

Quentin spoke seriously in his turn. “Of course, that is an obvious conclusion. Amongst the servants, or possibly the guests, I do not doubt there is an accomplice. Poor Mrs. Scadden, who bedizened herself in season and out of season, presented herself as a very open target. I could not say that of my wife, who wore the few jewels she possessed in good taste and on the proper occasions. It must have been known they kept their gewgaws in their rooms, and they chose the quietest time of the evening to make their raid. Somehow, you know, I pity these crooks. If they only put their brains to legitimate uses, what a success they might make of their lives. I’m sorry our friend Whitefield left us so soon, he won’t hear of it till to-morrow morning, and then the affair will have lost its dramatic quality.”

Later, when they separated, Peyton had a little chat with his friend. “Quite mellow to-night, our good Quentin,” he said. “He’s a bit of a sportsman, isn’t he? Quite nice to his wife about replacing the trinkets. I thought old Martyn looked very savage over it all. And so you are convinced there is somebody inside here who is an accomplice in this job, eh?”

“I am pretty sure it could not have been carried out otherwise,” was Aylmer’s convincing answer.

Mr. Cyrus J. Whitefield learned the news next morning, and was very greatly disgusted when he knew that Mrs. Quentin was a victim. He did not express any commiseration for Mrs. Scadden, who, he learned, was fat and remarkably plain. His sympathies were for youth and beauty. With his usual bluntness, he went straight to the point, and inquired of Mrs. Quentin: “What did they sting you for, if it isn’t a rude question?”

He had addressed his wife, but Quentin answered quickly: “Oh, really nothing to write home about; I should say four hundred would cover it. My wife is very wise in this respect; she doesn’t leave her best jewelry in her box; she puts it on.”

Four hundred pounds was, of course, nothing to a man who thought in millions. He opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, then closed it again, apparently from the restraining influence of second thoughts. Peyton read him like a book. It had been on the tip of his tongue to say that he would write her a check for the amount and accompany her to buy the trinkets that were to replace the stolen ones. But he was not quite sure of his ground, and such an offer might mortally offend both husband and wife.

And here it may be mentioned that this very daring jewel robbery was relegated to the long list of similar mysteries. The thieves, expert at their business, had left not a single clue, and after trying their hardest, the police had to confess themselves baffled. Poor Mrs. Scadden, whose loss was very serious, was vituperative and inconsolable. Eileen adopted the philosophy of her husband. There were worse misfortunes than this.

“It’s less to look after,” she said gaily the next evening to Aylmer as they were dancing together. “What little I have got left, I can take care of without any trouble. I shan’t really be sorry if Richard doesn’t replace it; it would be a constant anxiety.”

She always spoke of her husband as Richard, and when he thought over it, Aylmer found himself coming to the conclusion that Quentin was a man whom nobody would have thought of calling by the familiar abbreviation of Dick. He was genial in a way, after dinner particularly so; but, there was a certain something about him that did not invite familiarity. You felt you could go to a certain point with him--but no farther. Nevertheless, he possessed a considerable personality.

Aylmer ran an appraising eye over her, as she gave utterance to these remarks. She did not bedizen herself like the Scotch widow, but what she wore represented a goodly sum. Her diamonds and pearls, though few, were of the first quality. The _rats d’hôtel_ certainly had come off second best, so far as she was concerned. She carried at least a thousand pounds on her very charming person.

At the end of four days the millionaire departed, expressing his deep regret at having to leave such delightful society. He expressed those regrets in his usual loud voice to Mrs. Quentin, whose hand he appeared to be pressing very tenderly as he made his _adieux_. He might have intended to address the whole of the party through her, but his manner, as he bade the others good-by separately, did not indicate any particularly warm feeling.

Young Peyton, who seemed to pass his life in minute observations of his fellow creatures, had several remarks to make to his friend about the departed Whitefield.

“Laid it on pretty thick when he said good-by to Mrs. Quentin, didn’t he?” he observed. “He tolerates me because I am my father’s son; I should say he rather dislikes you than otherwise, for obvious reasons. He thinks the fair Eileen looks upon you with favor. That bounder, Martyn, I am certain, he cordially detests. Well, I am with him there. With regard to Quentin himself, I don’t quite know what his feelings are. I fancy he regards him as a nonentity.”

“He certainly did not take much notice of anybody except the lady,” said Aylmer. “I think you are right about myself. I can’t exactly say he was uncivil, but he appeared to ignore me as much as he possibly could.”

“Very rum chap Quentin, I can’t make him out,” resumed Peyton, pursuing his meditations. “I thought our friend J. Cyrus flirted with her in the most open way--a good bit beyond the limits of good taste, in my opinion. To do her justice, she didn’t respond; she gave me the impression she was trying to keep him off, and put him in his place, a difficult task with such a self-sufficient, overbearing chap. It must have been obvious enough to Quentin, as it was to everybody else, but he never seemed to resent it in the least. I used to see Martyn scowling at him as if he could murder him. But the husband looked on with his usual air of placid indifference.”

“Evidently not a jealous husband; perhaps he has got beyond the age of jealousy,” commented Aylmer.

“Well, you know, or probably you don’t know, the latest development. I only knew of it myself about half an hour before Whitefield left. I happened to be in the lounge while the two men were talking together. Whitefield remarked that he was pretty certain to pay a visit to London in a couple of months’ time. Quentin was on at him at once. Would he come over and dine with them at their Hampstead house? If it was too far out, they could put him up if he would stay a day or two. Whitefield seemed to think a bit, then said he couldn’t promise to stay with them, but he would certainly see something of them while he was in London. He would be busy, as he always was, but he would make time to get to Hampstead. Quentin appeared delighted and asked him if he could rely upon that as a promise. Whitefield’s answer was that he could. So evidently Quentin is going to hang on to him, and desires his better acquaintance. Of course, if he does go, it will be with the intention of renewing his flirtation with the lady. I’m sure he wouldn’t walk across the street to shake hands with Quentin if he were without his wife.”

That this agreeable, placid man was not by any means a jealous husband was proved next morning, when Aylmer came upon the couple in the lounge.

Quentin addressed the young man with his usual pleasant, rather grave smile. “I have got a lot of letters to write this morning, and Eileen, as is natural, wants to go out into the sunshine and fresh air. Martyn, as is usually his custom, has gone off on his own. What do you say to being her escort, that is if you are not engaged to your friend, young Peyton?”

Aylmer assented to the suggestion with alacrity. Having stayed on from the desire of discovering the cause of that uncontrollable agitation of the other morning, he naturally was ready to embrace any opportunity of being alone with Eileen, as it was impossible to venture the most distant allusion to the subject in the presence of a third party. How often had those words occurred to him: “Nobody can help me.” What mystery was hidden behind that despairing utterance?

They talked on trivial subjects to begin with. But presently he felt himself compelled to put a direct question in the hope of inviting confidence.

“How are you and Mr. Martyn getting on now? It has struck me that quite lately--dating back, in fact, from a certain morning when I came upon you in the lounge--your relations have been strained. Once you were an inseparable trio, but now he seems to absent himself, except at meals.”

She flushed a little, and then answered him in a tone of lightness that he felt sure was assumed.

“We certainly, at the moment, are not the best of friends. I think, on the whole, I am rather glad. Whatever his feelings may be for me, I have never had much liking for him. I suppose he thought his great friendship with Richard gave him a certain authority over me, which I very much resented. On that morning to which you have alluded, I had to put him in his place. But I am naturally a peace-loving person, and the task upset me very greatly.”

“I cannot tell you how much your distress, it seemed more like despair, affected me,” said Aylmer in a tone the obvious sincerity of which evidently made a deep impression on her. “You said I could not help you. But is that really true? Believe me when I tell you there is no service you could ask of me which I would not render if it were within my power.”

She looked at him long and searchingly, while the rapid rise and fall of her bosom testified to the emotion that simple speech had aroused in her. And in her eyes was that telltale light which comes only when a woman is interested in a man. For a moment the young man was sorry that he had gone so far, that he had not controlled himself better. Why had he not moderated the warmth of his manner, the tenderness in his voice? Why had he let her read his heart so plainly? He felt himself a cur for making thinly-veiled love to a married woman.

“Would you be my friend, if ever I needed one?” she asked presently in a voice that seemed almost caressing.

At that question, the tide of prudence which had suddenly surged within him rolled back again. He answered fervently that he would.

She spoke again after a brief pause. “I am not sure, but some day I may need a friend. I cannot read the future. But sometimes I fancy it may be dark and uncertain. I should like to think I had somebody to rely upon, if such a time ever came. I know you have a tender and chivalrous nature, most especially where women are concerned. I cannot say very much now. But if I told you a very great secret would you swear by all you hold sacred to respect my confidence?”

“Dictate to me any form of oath you please and I will take it,” was the reply.

Again that tender light in her eyes as her earnest gaze fixed itself upon him.

“I will exact no oath. Give me your word of honor, that will be enough for me. My instinct tells me I can trust you.”

He bowed his head. “As you choose,” he said simply. “What you tell me shall never be divulged to any human being.”

The words dropped slowly from her lips, as a deep flush stained the beautiful face. “Something within me, I know not what, impels me to tell you this secret. You know me, as everybody else does here, as Mrs. Quentin. But Richard Quentin is not my husband; we are not man and wife.”