CHAPTER III.

After she had left, Aylmer remained in the lounge for a few moments thinking deeply over what just had occurred. He recalled the despairing tone in which she had uttered those few words: “Nobody can help me.” Was it possible there was some mystery about this beautiful young woman, who had hitherto seemed so bright and gay, and who had declared to him but a little time previously that she was quite contented with her life?

She did not strike him in the least as one possessing a neurotic or hysterical temperament. Obviously, there had been some serious quarrel between her and this man Martyn, who had the power to move her to almost convulsive emotion. If it had been her husband who was the actor in this brief and dramatic scene, he would not have wondered so much. Very few married people go through life without occasional and bitter quarrels. In spite of his placid demeanor, Quentin might be a man of deep feelings, perhaps of violent passions which he did his best to keep in check, but which suddenly blazed forth in his uncontrollable moments. A middle-aged husband united to a young and singularly fascinating wife can hardly escape occasional spasms of fierce jealousy.

But this could not be the case with Martyn. Even if he was secretly in love with her, he would hardly dare to exercise any authority over her, to reproach her for something in her conduct of which he disapproved, and, to the extent of reducing her to tears. It was a perplexing mystery, and the more Aylmer thought over it, the less could he imagine a clue to it. What could be the reason for Martyn’s mysterious influence over her?

This incident had the effect of making him alter his resolution to separate himself speedily from the too fascinating Eileen. He felt an irresistible impulse to watch this trio closely, in the hope that he might discover something that would help him to elucidate the mystery.

He already had dropped a hint to Peyton that he would be leaving shortly, and, although that clear-sighted young man had not said much, Aylmer could see from his manner that such a step would have his approval. Peyton went so far as to say that he was not particularly keen on staying on at the Continental and would be quite contented to go with his friend to any other place where they could have an equally good time. With the new turn of events, Aylmer had to confess that he suddenly had altered all his plans.

Peyton lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise. He did not say very much, but, as usual, he spoke to the point.

“I thought your decision was a wise one, and I am sorry you have altered your mind,” he said quietly. “Something must have happened to account for it. But I suppose I can’t expect you to tell me what it is.”

For a few seconds Aylmer hesitated. It occurred to him that something was suggesting itself to Peyton’s rather active mind. He, in all probability, was thinking that his friend had so far forgotten himself as to make love to Mrs. Quentin and had not been repulsed. He must clear himself and her of that dishonoring suspicion, and the only way to do so was to tell the actual truth. He narrated to Peyton, under the strictest seal of secrecy, what had happened in the lounge that morning. Peyton, he knew to be the soul of honor, a man who never would betray a confidence.

It was a little time before the young man spoke. He evidently was turning the matter over in his mind. It was characteristic of him that in serious matters he was always very deliberate in expressing his opinion.

“There is certainly something mysterious in it,” he said at last. “I mean in the fact that he has the power to produce such emotion in her. As you say truly, if it had been her husband one would not have given a second thought to it—just a little matrimonial wrangle, such as occurs now and then between the most placid couples. Now, I have kept my eye upon them a good deal during these few days, and I have come to certain definite conclusions, rightly or wrongly.”

Aylmer pricked up his ears. He knew that this easy-going, vivacious young man had remarkable powers of observation and nothing in the demeanor of anybody he was watching escaped him, and that he also had a marvellous faculty of lucid deduction from those same observations.

“Please go on,” said Aylmer tersely. “I am very curious to know what conclusions you have arrived at.”

Thus encouraged, Peyton proceeded in his drawling, high-pitched voice. “In the first place, Quentin is by no means passionately in love with his beautiful young wife; but, he is very fond of her with a sort of paternal affection, and she is not any more in love with him. On the other hand, this rather objectionable Martyn worships the ground she treads on, in true lover-like style. He hates to see her in the company of another man, I should say in yours especially.”

“And what do you guess are her feelings towards him?” asked Aylmer eagerly.

“If my diagnosis is correct, I should say she hates him as much as he loves her. But more important still, she fears him as much as she hates him. She seems restless and distraite when his eyes are upon her, as if she were apprehending some violent after-scene.”

Aylmer ruminated over his young friend’s remarks. He knew he had an uncanny knack of reading the thoughts of others.

“If he is really in love with her, he has a strange way of showing his affection,” he remarked. “He bullies her into tears when they are alone, and even in her husband’s presence he says rude and insulting things.”

Peyton shrugged his shoulders. “That is the nature of the creature, a sort of cave man who would caress a woman one minute and thrash her the next.”

He spoke again in a lighter tone. “Well, now I see what has made you change your mind. You want to stay here to try to fathom the mystery. I still think you would be wiser to go. But, you are master of your own actions. I will help you all I can.”

That night things went on in normal fashion. Mrs. Quentin, who had quite recovered from her emotion of the morning, announced that she was completely herself again, and accepted Aylmer for her partner. The young man fancied he saw a slight scowl on Martyn’s brow as he led her out. But, the husband bestowed one of his pleasant smiles upon them both, while exhorting his young wife not to overtax herself.

Eileen seemed in wonderfully good spirits, as if she had never had a care in the world. Peyton danced repeatedly with the pretty girl on whom she previously had passed her comments.

“I am sure it is quite a serious case,” she said with mock gravity. “They are gradually tangoing into love with each other. Poor dears, I do wish they could perform with a bit more grace.”

“Nothing really serious, I am quite sure,” was Aylmer’s reply. “Just the holiday spirit, that is all. Claude has got a wonderfully old head on his young shoulders. He’ll want to look about a bit before he settles down.”

The next day Quentin gave the young man some news which he seemed to consider of great importance, to judge by the manner in which he conveyed it.

“I learned from the reception clerk just now that a person of considerable importance is expected to-day,” he told Aylmer. “Cyrus J. Whitefield, one of America’s biggest millionaires. I expect you have heard of him, a veritable captain of industry.”

Aylmer certainly had heard of the gentleman in question, although for the life of him he could not have said how he had amassed his millions. It was evident that Quentin took a great interest in the advent of the millionaire, probably because he was such a worshiper of commercial success.

“Do you know him?” Aylmer asked politely.

“I came across him in an hotel in Nice before I was married,” was the answer. “We forgathered just a little after the usual cosmopolitan fashion. I shall remind him of that occasion. But it is very likely he may not remember me. In his position he must know dozens of people, and he would regard me, no doubt, as a very insignificant individual, one to be forgotten immediately.”

Mr. Cyrus J. Whitefield arrived in due course, but did not present himself to the general public till just before dinner, when he came into the lounge.

Aylmer and Peyton were standing near the Quentin’s who were accompanied by the inevitable Martyn, but they were not in their actual company. They were quite close enough, however, to take in all the details of the little comedy that followed.

The millionaire, a tall, clean-shaven, typical American, cast a searching glance from his deep-set, keen blue eyes round the apartment, doubtless with the object of discovering if he recognized any friend or acquaintance. Apparently, he did not; for, his gaze traveled from left to right, paused a moment on the beautiful Mrs. Quentin, and went past her husband without any gleam of recognition.

It was obvious that Quentin had not lingered in the great man’s memory. But he was not the person to be abashed by a trifle like that. He went up to the American with outstretched hand.

“I am afraid you have forgotten me, Mr. Whitefield. I had the pleasure of meeting you some four years ago at the Hôtel Negresco, at Nice.”

Mr. Whitefield murmured a rather brusque apology, saying that he had a bad memory for faces. Mr. Quentin was determined not to let his quarry go.

“Will you allow me to present you to my wife and our great friend Mr. Martyn?”

Introductions being effected, the millionaire slipped into a vacant chair beside that of the charming young woman, and at once proceeded to pay her compliments. He had rather the deferential air of the ladies’ man in the society of the opposite sex, and although he was sixty years of age, did not in the least consider that he had lost the art of pleasing where a good-looking woman was concerned.

“But surely, Mrs. Quentin, you were not at the hotel when I was there? Whoever else I might have forgotten, I should most certainly have remembered you.”

Eileen gave him one of her pretty smiles. “You have nothing to reproach yourself with, Mr. Whitefield, so far as I am concerned. When my husband met you at the Negresco, I was not then married to him.”

The millionaire looked relieved. He felt it would have been a serious reflection on his good taste if he could have forgotten such a beautiful young woman.

Peyton, who, with his friend, had been an interested spectator of the little scene, nudged Aylmer. “I’ve been introduced to the Johnnie in London,” he whispered. “He is an old acquaintance of my father, in fact he is a client of ours. But I shan’t thrust myself upon him like Quentin. A bit bad form, I think, what? Besides, I don’t fancy Quentin wants us to be drawn into the circle; he intends to keep the millionaire as much to himself as he can. Fancy how pushing some of these quiet men are when they see the opportunity.”

But, if such were Quentin’s intentions they were destined to be frustrated by Whitefield himself. His keen glance happened to rest for a moment on young Peyton and remembrance suddenly stirred within him. He turned abruptly with the question:

“I am sure I’ve met that young man before, his face is quite familiar to me, but for the moment I can’t put a name to it. Do you know him?”

“Yes, we have made his acquaintance in the hotel. His name is Peyton; he is a junior partner of his father’s firm of stockholders, I believe a firm of considerable importance.”

“Of course, of course, I know the old boy well, I have known him for years in business.” He beckoned to the rather reluctant Peyton to come forward, and shook him heartily by the hand.

“Very pleased to see you, my young friend. Your father introduced you to me on my last visit to London. You remember me, don’t you? Why didn’t you make yourself known to me when I came in?”

Peyton, feeling himself rather abashed by the millionaire’s loud tones and confident gestures, muttered something about not wishing to intrude. Then his sense of humor came to his aid, and he said with a somewhat mischievous smile:

“Besides, Mr. Quentin took possession of you so quickly that I could hardly find an opportunity.”

Whitefield burst into a loud laugh; he was a bit boisterous, this tall, keen-eyed man at whose touch everything appeared to turn to gold. But he evidently appreciated the situation and saw the joke. Apparently, so did Mrs. Quentin by the peculiar smile which curled her pretty mouth.

“Well, it’s all right now, and I don’t think any the worse of a young fellow for being a bit modest. Is that a friend you were talking to? If so, bring him along. As some of us have met before, we may as well make a little party of it the short while I am here. We’ll get the waiter to give us a special table so that we can be together at meals.”

Aylmer was brought along and presented. Quentin seemed to grow rather quiet after the irruption of the two young men, a circumstance which confirmed Peyton in his belief that he had wanted to keep the millionaire to himself. But, before they went to dinner, he roused himself sufficiently to put a question to Whitefield.

“You don’t intend to make a long stay here, then?”

The American shook his head. “Three or four days at the outside, just want to see after a little bit of business, and then I’m off. For the matter of that, I don’t stay very long anywhere.”

At dinner he sat next to Mrs. Quentin, and certainly exerted himself to amuse and entertain his companion, a task in which he succeeded, to judge by the brightness of her demeanor and her frequent peals of silvery laughter. Aylmer watched her closely. Was she a flirt, he wondered, greedy for admiration wherever it came from? And yet, he flattered himself there was a subtle difference between her demeanor to Whitefield and her bearing towards himself. She was gay and vivacious enough, but she seemed more intimate with him than with the gallant and talkative American.

As was usual with him, Peyton had formed some impressions at dinner and before, which he communicated to his friend later in the evening.

“The great Cyrus doesn’t seem to bother much about anybody but Mrs. Quentin,” he remarked. “The husband was trying to get hold of him as hard as he could, but the old boy kept shaking him off. Perhaps my innocent little remark had opened his eyes a bit; when he came to think it over, he mightn’t have quite liked being rushed at like that. Still, I suppose he’s used to it by now, he’s quite a public character. For myself, I haven’t much use for millionaires, except as a beacon-light to ambitious youth to go and do likewise. Did you notice Mrs. Quentin’s smile when I made that little joke about her lord and master? No? It was a very subtle one. I think she was a bit annoyed at his obvious officiousness.

“Another little thing I noticed,” went on this very keen observer after a slight pause. “There was a distinct look of disappointment on Quentin’s face when Whitefield said he was only going to make a short stay. What was the reason of that, I wonder? He can’t want anything out of the old boy, a dilettante sort of chap like that. Not that he would be likely to get it if he did. Whitefield’s reputation is too well known. It is said that mustard isn’t in it with Cyrus J. Anyway, he’s awfully gone on the wife. I expect that’s why he’s putting up with the rest of us. I wonder how that hangdog Martyn likes the state of affairs? What an infernal wet blanket the fellow is! He’s neither one thing nor the other, neither a ladies’ man nor a man’s man. What Quentin can see in him beats me.”

That evening the fair Eileen danced a good deal, dividing her favors pretty equally between Aylmer and the American, who was a very good performer and as light on his feet as a young man.

“He’s not in it, of course, with you,” she told Aylmer later. “But he’s wonderful for his age. He seems a very wonderful sort of person altogether. From what Richard tells me you would think a man who is so wrapped up in money-making would despise the frivolous side of life.”

But it seemed that, in his less strenuous moments, the American was very much attracted toward the frivolous side of life. He loved the fleshpots, he liked philandering with pretty women, he cut a good figure in the ballroom, he appeared to be one of those who make money largely with the idea of giving themselves a good time.

Peyton’s surmise that the beautiful Mrs. Quentin was the magnet was justified later on in the evening. When she intimated that this must be her last dance, Whitefield protested, declaring, with the egotism peculiar to the man, that he was ready to go on for another hour. The night was yet young, he declared, darting at her a look of intense admiration. However, finding her firm in her refusal, he very soon left the little circle, making as his excuse the fact that he had a great deal of work to get through before he went to bed. In vain did Quentin, in his most conciliatory manner, urge him to join them in the lounge for a drink and a smoke. He was a great lover of the pleasures of the table, and he was always in a most benignant frame of mind after dinner. Night, he declared emphatically, was by no means the ideal time for work.

The keen-faced millionaire fixed his hawk-like gaze on him, and there was just a shade of contempt in his voice as he spoke. He had drunk a great deal more than the other man, but he had a cast-iron head and the digestion of an ostrich, and he might have been drinking water for all that his speech and appearance suggested to the contrary.

“That’s a fine theory for idlers,” he said. “But we men of business work hard and play hard. When we’ve played a bit too hard, we have to work double tides at any hour of the night or day. As Mrs. Quentin is so obdurate, I shall stop playing and get back to work.”

He made no secret of his admiration, perhaps the possession of his millions made him speak the blunt truth without regard for the feelings of less distinguished people, to which class he, no doubt, relegated Quentin.

But that placid gentleman did not appear at all to resent the fact that his wife seemed the only one who counted in the millionaire’s estimation. When he had departed, he gave utterance to some very eulogistic remarks on him.

“A splendid fellow,” he said with very evident sincerity. “It is a privilege to sit in the company of a man like that. For inherited wealth I don’t care a snap of my fingers. But for a man who has worked his way up till he has become a power in the land, I have an unstinted admiration. I have never enjoyed an evening more in my life. It was a delight to hear him talk to us.”

Peyton gave his friend a sly glance at this last remark. Aylmer knew what was passing in his mind. During the whole of that evening, the great magnate, Cyrus J. Whitefield, had directed practically the whole of his conversation to Mrs. Quentin. To the others he had addressed the briefest of observations.

They adjourned to the lounge, and half an hour later they were conscious of a certain stir and bustle in the hotel. In a few moments the rumor ran round that a singularly daring robbery had been committed while the guests were sitting at dinner.