Читать книгу Paul Quentin - Fred M. White - Страница 3

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John Dugdale was more than anxious. He was brave enough in ordinary circumstances, but the idea that he would presently be handed over to the police as a swindler paralysed his nerve centres and set him trembling from head to foot like a weak woman. It occurred to him suddenly that no one would believe what he said, while the telegram in his pocket proved nothing. It was a humiliating position to be placed in, and Dugdale felt that his testimonials and his public services in South Africa would count for very little when he came to stand in the dock and tell his story to a magistrate.

He toyed moodily with the flowers on the dinner-table. In a dreamy sort of way he noticed how well the vivid crimson of the carnations blended with the shades of the electric lights. Everything was daintily appointed. The dinner had been excellent, the coffee a poem. The amber and gold liquid in his liqueur glass trembled and shimmered in the light.

Dugdale, immaculately dressed, was as fine and handsome a figure as any in the dining-room of the Blenheim Hotel that night. He glanced at the pink and silver menu and calculated that his dinner would cost at least three sovereigns. And beyond one solitary sixpence he had not a single coin in the world.

He would have to explain matters soon. He would be compelled to send for the manager and describe how the unfortunate situation had come about. In confirmation of his story he had the telegram from Mr Theo Isidore in his pocket. Mr Isidore was a well-known frequenter of the restaurant, and a customer to be respected. A millionaire, he had more or less made the place. Most of his dinner-parties there were described at length in the Press. They were feasts of Lucullus—nothing in the extravagant days of ancient Rome could have been more wickedly costly. Dugdale had looked forward to dining this evening with the epicure. He had known Isidore years ago when the latter had been a struggling business man with a dubious reputation. The two had never cared for one another; in fact, there were many reasons why Dugdale did not care to disguise his contempt for the man who, by an unexpected turn of Fortune's wheel, had been lifted into power and position.

There were few things to-day in which Isidore had not taken a part. At the moment he was engaged in an attempt to 'corner' the English Press and get every journal of note into his own hands. But this Dutch-American was not having it entirely his own way, for there was a powerful combination against him, and the public were watching the combat with the keenest interest. Isidor's new venture, the 'Marlborough Magazine' had caused a tremendous sensation. When it appeared it looked like being a brilliant success from the start. This was the engine by which he hoped to hoist his schemes, the means by which he was going to kill the rest of the magazine products in the market. Readers had been promised a magazine the like of which they had never seen before; nor, were they disappointed.

The publishing world stood aghast when the first copy of the 'Marlborough' was issued. On the face of it, the enterprise spelt ruin. It was magnificently turned out. The price was popular and the illustrations throughout were in colour. Nothing better had ever been done since the days of Baxter. It was impossible to produce a magazine like this without colossal expense, but apparently Isidore knew his own business and boasted that the magazine had come to stay. That day it had become known that the second monthly part of two millions had all been sold out, and in honour of the occasion Isidore was entertaining his editor and staff and some of his contributors at the Blenheim that night. The proprietor himself was not present; indeed, he rarely showed himself to his subordinates except in the way of strict business. The staff could go and make merry if they liked and he was ready to meet the expense.

Dugdale sat nervously in his chair watching the brilliant group at a table near his. To him it was a strange coincidence that he should be sitting worried to his wits' ends, whilst the servants of the man who had brought all this trouble about sat happy and contented so near to him. He wondered vaguely if they would help him.

Delicate and awkward as his position was, it was capable of explanation. Dugdale had returned from South Africa, despondent and almost hopeless. He had been searching for employment until his last sovereign had gone. He had put his pride in his pocket at length and written to Theo Isidore for assistance. He was prepared to do anything in the way of honest work, however menial. No reply had come for the best part of a week, and then appeared a belated telegram asking Dugdale to meet him at the Blenheim at eight o'clock on that evening to dinner.

Here was a chance at last, but it cost Dugdale every farthing he possessed to get his wardrobe together and make the kind of appearance expected in so fashionable and exclusive a restaurant. Now, as he waited for his host, a telegram arrived to say that Isidore had been detained and that Dugdale was to go on with his dinner.

Quite contented, he examined the menu and dined as he had not done for years. Like most men with a good digestion and a clear conscience, he appreciated the perfectly-cooked food and exquisite wines, and it was not till he was finished that he began to grow anxious. A waiter was hovering about him in a slightly suggestive manner; indeed, the man's thoughts were plainly expressed on his face. A dull colour rose to Dugdale's cheeks as the waiter pointedly asked if there was anything else he could get. Dugdale caught his lower lip between his teeth.

"Yes," he said, "I will have another liqueur."

For a moment the waiter hesitated and Dugdale knew exactly what was passing through his mind. As the man turned slowly away Dugdale walked across to the flower-decked table, where the staff of the 'Marlborough' were dining.

"Excuse me, sir," he said to the man at the head of the table, "but can you tell me where I can get in touch with Mr Isidore? I came here by appointment to dine with him, and he has wired to me that he has been detained. You see, it places me in a very awkward position. I have dined and if Mr Isidore fails to put in an appearance I shall be responsible for a sumptuous repast. Unfortunately, I have—that is—well, to be frank, I haven't the cash to pay for it."

The chairman listened superciliously.

"How long is it since you received the telegram?" he asked.

"About an hour ago," answered Dugdale, conscious that the rest of the party were listening with smiles of malicious amusement. The president laughed.

"Won't do, my friend," he said curtly. "Mr Isidore is in Paris. He has been there a week."

The coldly-uttered words struck Dugdale like a whiplash. He felt the blood creeping to his face again. A wild desire to smash the glasses and upset the flowers and damage the smug faces around possessed him. True, he had not been called a swindler in so many words, but that was exactly what the man at the head of the table meant to imply. Dugdale crept back to his own seat and glanced despairingly about the room. Presently his eyes lighted upon one man seated alone, a slim, tall man, with a dead-white face lighted by a pair of fine clear blue eyes. He looked like a man who had just come back from the other side of the grave, and the pallor of his face was rendered all the more striking by the silvery brilliancy of his abundant hair. He might have been an invalid, who had come there for rest and recreation. There was something wonderfully powerful about his face, too. His chin was square and resolute, with a smiling mouth that seemed capable of hardness and determination. On the whole it was a fascinating face, but at the same time there was something about it that repelled Dugdale. If a man could be said to possess the beaute du Diable this was visible on the features of the stranger. Evidently he had been listening and intuitively Dugdale felt that he was enjoying the situation. Dugdale moved uneasily in his chair, for the waiter was coming back with a sheet of paper in his hand, which gave Dugdale a chill down his spine. He braced himself for an effort.

Someone detained the waiter for an instant, and Dugdale had time to make up his mind what to do. He saw the tall man with the silver hair and blue eyes rise from his seat and walk languidly away. A moment later another waiter came along and handed Dugdale a small leather case, the corners of which were bound in gold. Dugdale looked at it in a dull, mechanical fashion.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the waiter, "but you dropped this. A gentleman who has just been dining here saw it fall from your overcoat pocket and picked it up. There was a crush in the vestibule at the time, and he had some difficulty in identifying you, sir. He says that for a time he forgot he had your note-case in his pocket, but hopes his absent-mindedness has caused you no inconvenience."

Dugdale's fingers closed convulsively over the note-case. He waved the waiter aside and pressed his finger on the turquoise snap. Inside the case were three five-pound notes and a scrap of paper, obviously torn from a news-sheet with a few words, scribbled in pencil:—

"May a stranger be permitted to be of service to you? He appreciates the position you are in and trusts you will use the enclosed and return it at your own leisure."

The flowers and lights and shimmering crystal whirled round Dugdale for a moment. Then a thrill of gratitude brought the tears to his eyes. He knew perfectly well whom he had to thank for this. He recognised the delicate way in which the thing had been done. He no longer envied the noisy party at the opposite table, the luxurious Yellow dinner which would be duly chronicled in every paper to-morrow. He forgave the editor of the 'Marlborough' his insolent suggestion. His coolness had returned by the time the waiter arrived with the bill.

"It is evident that Mr Isidore is not coming," he said, "and I had better pay for the dinner myself. By the by, do you know who was that gentleman at the table with the orchids? The tall gentleman with the white face and silver hair."

The waiter took the banknote with ill-concealed relief.

"Oh, yes, sir," he said. "I know who you mean. That was Mr Paul Quentin. You must have heard of him, sir."