Читать книгу Paul Quentin - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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Beads of perspiration broke out on Dugdale's forehead and an unusual glow suffused his cheek. He was aware of a sudden feeling of shame, but, uneasy as he was, he saw that the girl was moved by something besides anger and contempt. There was a look of almost pitiable appeal in her eyes. Even at that moment Dugdale was conscious of her beauty. She looked so dainty and refined and thoroughbred in her simple black dress. She was out of keeping and yet absolutely at home in those quaint old surroundings. Really, she was part and parcel of the picture. She seemed to be a kind of spirit of the place. The casement windows, the dull ceiling rafters, and this sombre flash of gold and silver and jewels in the bow-fronted window appeared to be all part of the same exquisite melody. As Dugdale lingered, the old man recovered himself, his business instinct being aroused anew. He passed a trembling hand over the yellow dome of his head. His grey beard was wagging up and down as if his toothless gums were chewing some indigestible food.

"My dear," he protested in a thin, piping voice, "why do you want to send the gentleman away? Probably he is a good customer, and we need them sorely, oh yes, so very sorely. What would you have, sir? We have everything here; not that they belong to us, oh no. We are far too poor for that. The great houses trust us, and we sell upon commission."

But Dugdale was not listening. He turned to Rachel Varna with an imploring look in his eyes.

"I must see you for a moment," he whispered.

Just then a customer rustled into the shop. She came with a whirl of silks and floating draperies, haughty and imperious, and subtly scented. A pair of horses jingled their silver harness at the door. Dugdale recognised the newcomer as a Society leader. He wondered what she was doing. It made no difference to her that a stranger was present, for she produced a bundle of banknotes and threw them carelessly on the counter.

"I want my emeralds, Joseph," she said. "Do you hear? I want them at once! Here is the money."

With a delicate tinge of pink on her cheeks, Rachel turned to Dugdale and motioned him to a long, low room at the back of the shop. As he stood there he could hear everything that was being said. He began to understand now that Joseph Varna was something more than a mere retailer. He was evidently a financier, and did considerable business with Society women in need of money. The shop was out of the way and therefore all the more convenient. Dugdale thought he knew where Rachel obtained her beautiful dresses, and how she could afford to indulge her social fancies.

There was something in the room that attracted Dugdale's attention to the exclusion of everything else. It was lighted only from the roof. A long counter ran round three sides of it, and china and bric-a-brac of every kind and description were displayed. It did not need an authority to inform Dugdale that he was looking at an almost priceless collection, for his inherent artistic instinct told him that. There were plates and dishes and cups and vases from all parts of the world, some quaint and crude, others dainty and exquisite in their colouring. As Dugdale made a more careful examination he saw that, for the most part, these objects were damaged. Seated at one end of the room, working away with blue and paint, and some strange white powder, was a young, sullen-looking man with an enormous thatch of rusty red hair. From the way the man's long, dexterous fingers worked, he was evidently an expert. He was putting a three-cornered patch in a Nanking plate with a neatness and dexterity that fairly astonished Dugdale. The latter made some complimentary remark, but the workman shook his head and touched his ears slightly. Then he pointed to his mouth, from which signs Dugdale concluded that he was both deaf and dumb. He fell to his work again, taking no further notice of Dugdale.

A moment or two elapsed before Rachel Varna came in. She looked worried and anxious, and did not appear to be listening to the pretty things that Dugdale was saying about the contents of the room. She realised his meaning presently.

"Oh, yes," she said absently. "Nearly all the damaged china of real value in London passes through our hands. Our assistant is the finest workman in the world. Look at this."

She picked up a dainty plate of the Ming dynasty and handed it to Dugdale.

"You cannot see a flaw in it," she said. "And yet, when that plate came to us, it was in four pieces. Do you know, Mr Dugdale, I am sorry you came here."

"Why so?" Dugdale asked.

"I may go farther," the girl continued, "and say that I am sorry I ever met you. I ought to have declined to give you any information, but I happened to know what you were doing, and what you are after. I know you are poor and ambitious, and that you are anxious for something to do. But you had far better have gone on as you were, far better have starved than taken service under Paul Quentin. I am betraying my trust by saying so much, but I like you, and it is my duty to warn you. I pray you to stop before it is too late. Make whatever excuse you like, say anything so long as you refuse to carry out Paul Quentin's orders."

"You have said too much or too little," Dugdale replied sternly.

"I can tell you no more. I dare not tell you more."

"I am flattered," Dugdale answered. "But it is impossible to do what you suggest. I have taken Mr Quentin's money, and have already spent some of it. Besides, I am under obligation to him. He did me a great service two nights ago and I cannot forget it."

"Are you sure of that?" the girl asked.

She might have said more, but the old man was calling from the shop, and Rachel held out her hand. Dugdale had ample food for thought as he walked slowly along the street, for that strange and earnest warning was ringing in his ears. Logically, it was foolish enough, and yet it tallied exactly with his own instincts. He could not have told why, but though he had never spoken to the man, he nevertheless disliked and distrusted Paul Quentin. On the other hand, the man had come to his assistance at a critical juncture, and had helped him in a most considerate fashion. Then there flashed across Dugdale's mind a suspicion so shrewd and at the same time so unworthy, that he felt ashamed of his thoughts. Suppose the whole affair had been cleverly engineered! Suppose Quentin had sent the telegram purporting to come from Theo Isidore! Suppose the incidents had been stage-managed! Dugdale put the matter from his mind sternly.

"I am getting too suspicious," he muttered. "Besides, I dare say Rachel's reason was only a woman's one after all. Still, I am glad I went down to that little shop, because my visit there has given me a clue. I am certain it was the lid of the missing Dragon Vase that I saw on the counter. Now where did the old man say it was going? Silver something or other, wasn't it?—Oh, yes, Silverdale. I'll just look Silverdale out in Bradshaw and start my campaign there tonight."

It was getting dark before Dugdale seated himself in the corner of a second-class carriage on his way to Silverdale. He had not read the story in the 'Marlborough Magazine' which was so singularly connected with the Dragon Vase, but he recollected that he had a copy of the magazine in his pocket. He took it out presently, and turned to the story in question.

It was by no means a bad romance, and had for its motive the perilous position of a young girl who desired to convey to a third party some idea of her danger without betraying the fact to the villain of the piece who was present at the time. The work was neatly done, and Dugdale was interested in spite of himself. He came to the crux of the story where the explanation was given in a few words. The paragraph seemed to appeal to him, and the sentences ran through his brain in an odd kind of jingle, just as one is haunted by some nonsense rhyme which recurs again and again with irritating frequency.

From this point Dugdale read no farther. The yellow-covered magazine was suddenly wrenched from his hand, and laid dogs' eared and tattered upon the opposite seat. He speedily realised what had happened. For the express had pulled up with a series of jolts and jerks. There was an awful silence for a moment, and then arose cries and groans and pitiable appeals for assistance. The second-class carriage was tilted on one side, and to Dugdale's astonishment he saw that the blue cloth cushions were torn and twisted. He caught a glimpse of the next compartment through a fracture in the panelling and noticed that one of the pictorial advertisements had been torn through the middle. The floor of the carriage was gleaming with splinters of glass, and Dugdale was wondering where the jagged cut in the side of his face had come from. Then the electric light went out, and all the horrors of darkness were added to the catastrophe. There were gleams of swaying lanterns by and by, and a hoarse voice from the gloom proclaimed that things were not as bad as might be expected. Dugdale wondered whereabouts he was. As far as he could calculate, he must be very near to his destination. He looked at his watch, but in the collision it had stopped.

Dugdale pulled himself together, and managed to scramble out through the window on to the cutting below. Though dazed and bewildered, in a mechanical kind of way he slipped on his overcoat, and even placed the 'Marlborough Magazine' in his pocket. A knot of men had gathered round two or three inanimate objects lying on the grass. A worried railway guard announced that the engine had left the line, and that three of the passengers had been injured.

"Can I do anything?" Dugdale asked.

"Of course, you can," the guard replied. "You can go and summon assistance, Lord knows, we want it badly enough."

Dugdale's eyes were getting accustomed to the gloom. He scrambled up the bank and crossed a meadow towards the main road. It was close upon eleven, but he had not the least notion where he was, for the district was absolutely unfamiliar. All he could do was to make for the nearest house, and rouse the occupants. With luck, he might strike a decent establishment where they had grooms and horses, and possibly a motor or two. With such assistance it would not be difficult to beat up all the doctors in the neighbourhood. Other men had started out at the same time as Dugdale, and he could hear them calling to one another as they made their way across the meadows.

His luck seemed to be in from the start. He had not proceeded more than two hundred yards along the main road before he came to a trim-looking lodge inside a pair of handsome iron gates at the head of a well-kept drive which, doubtless, led to a house of importance. Dugdale thundered on the door of the lodge, but no reply came. The people were away, or the place was empty. With a sigh of impatience he turned from the door, and hurried along the drive until he came to the house. Here his errand was not likely to be in vain, for there was a light in the big hall, and in the long low windows on either side of the entrance. He seemed to have found the sort of house he was in search of. Away to the right amongst the trees, he could see the roofs and pinnacles of a large range of stabling. It was a fine house, too, long and low, and creeper-clad, nestling in the midst of towering elms, thick and sombre in their summer foliage. Dugdale was shy and retiring as a rule, as globe-trotters are often apt to be. But he gave a long pull at the bronze pendant and heard the clang echoing in the distance. Though the house was full of light and brilliancy, there was no response to his imperious summons, and he rang the bell again and again.

"Are they all drunk or dead?" Dugdale muttered savagely. "I couldn't make more noise if I tried. Well, I must go and investigate for myself."

The people of the house could not have gone to bed, and left the lights up, for one or two of the windows were open, and the conservatory was finely illuminated. Dugdale could see the gleam of the electrics as they shone through the ground glass in the sides of the big winter garden.

He was reckless and desperate, as the quaint handle on the front door yielded to his touch, and he entered a great square hall which carried upwards to the roof. Galleries looked down into the hall and all were brilliantly lighted. Dugdale had made no mistake in the house, for all around were evidences of luxury, refinement, and artistic taste.

But it was no time to admire the pictures and china, or the marvellous daintiness of the floral decorations. Dugdale was feeling very like a man who has been invited to spend a weekend at a country house, only to find that his host and hostess have gone off without giving notice of their change of plans. These people, he thought, had no business to be so careless and callous with death and destruction so close at hand.

With this sentiment uppermost in his mind, he opened one of the oak doors leading from the hall. A slit of light underneath the door impelled him to do this. He expected the room would be a blaze of softened illumination.

He was not far wrong. The apartment, was the drawing-room—a magnificent apartment, panelled in oak and lined with priceless pictures. It reminded him of a show house where trippers and holiday-makers are allowed on certain days under the guidance of a watchful cicerone. But about this room there wasn't the cold preciseness which one usually associates with show houses. To begin with, the place was pleasantly warm. It was fragrant with blooms, lavishly displayed in bowls and glasses. A log fire burned on the wide hearth; in fact, the room was too warm and Dugdale was grateful for a breeze that fluttered in through the conservatory, and played with the purple silk blinds which hung over the entrance thereto. With a mixture of diffidence and thankfulness Dugdale encountered some one at last.

"I beg pardon for intruding like this," he stammered. "I would not have come, but for sheer necessity."

The woman by the fireplace said never a word. She glanced at the intruder in a dull, listless way, almost as if she had not seen him at all. She was seated by the side of the blazing logs in an upright carved oak chair of the Stuart period. Annoyed as he was, Dugdale did not fail to notice the exquisite carving of the chair, and how perfectly it suited the woman sitting in it.

She was tall and slim. Her face was coldly beautiful, and her skin was pale to the verge of whiteness. Her eyes were large and dilated, and though she sat unmoved, Dugdale fancied she was breathing quickly, as if under the influence of some powerful emotion.

She was in evening dress, too, attired in a robe that was black and soft and clinging. She was none the less beautiful because she was devoid of jewellery. Nevertheless, Dugdale could not avoid thinking that diamonds would become her, that she should have a collar of the flashing stones about her throat, and a star or two in her raven hair.

"Do you hear that, Dr Prince?" the woman said. "Don't you think you had better go at once?"

For the first time Dugdale saw that the lady in the oak chair was not alone. Standing on the other side of the fireplace, half in the shadow, was a tall spare man with clean-shaven face and refined intellectual features. He might have been an actor, but it was not so that Dugdale placed him. He had, perhaps, too severe a professional air for that. His grey frock suit fitted too well, his tie and collar were too plain and restrained. On the whole, Dugdale would have guessed him to be a doctor of the Harley Street stamp. He stood with the faint suggestion of a smile upon his face, and gave Dugdale the impression of activity, strength and courage. There was nothing about him to suggest the abnormal, except for the tightness of his lips, and a strange flickering gleam in his steel-blue eyes. And Dugdale knew intuitively that the woman in the armchair was afraid of the man by the fireplace, and would have given much to be rid of his presence. Dugdale repeated his remark.

"I am sorry," the man said, "but it is impossible. I cannot leave at present. I don't know whether you are nervous or not, sir, but I have a smallpox patient in the house. In the circumstances, you will understand how I am situated."