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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
In "Paul Quentin," Fred M. White crafts a riveting tale centered on the intricate life of its eponymous protagonist, whose journey through ambition, love, and betrayal unfolds within the backdrop of early 20th-century Britain. White'Äôs prose is marked by a sharp psychological insight, vividly portraying Paul'Äôs internal struggles and societal pressures, while his narrative intertwines elements of romance and adventure, adeptly reflecting the era'Äôs literary context that often grapples with themes of identity and moral complexity. The pacing and intricate character development invite readers to explore the nuances of human relationships in a rapidly changing world. Fred M. White, a prolific author of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, was known for his vast contributions to popular fiction, spanning numerous genres from mystery to adventure. Having been involved in journalism, White'Äôs keen observational skills likely influenced his storytelling, enabling him to capture the zeitgeist of his contemporary society. "Paul Quentin" emerges from this fertile ground of experience, shaped by White'Äôs understanding of human nature and his capacity to navigate the intricacies of moral dilemmas. This novel is a must-read for anyone interested in classic literature that combines psychological depth with thrilling narrative arcs. White's exploration of ambition and the human condition resonates deeply, making it a timeless work that continues to engage and provoke thought for modern readers.
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Paul Quentin
Table of Contents
I - THE YELLOW DINNER
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."
II - JEKYLL OR HYDE?
Dugdale nodded, but wondered where he had heard the name of Quentin before. It came to him later as he strolled back towards his humble rooms. He recollected that it had appeared in the papers a good deal of late. Nobody seemed to know quite who he was or whence he came. Even his nationality was more or less obscure. But he was supposed to be rich and eccentric. He was credited with the invention of more than one scientific appliance, and was supposed to be in England now with a view to developing something or other which was to revolutionise the uses of electricity. The man had travelled a vast deal in foreign parts and was believed to possess an intimate knowledge of the East and its mysterious ways; in fact, so Dugdale had gathered, he was a scientific adventurer, ambitious to make his mark. And, Dugdale admitted, a man with a face like Quentin's was capable of any intellectual achievement. His fascinating yet curiously repellant countenance was constantly before Dugdale on his way homewards.
He was conscious, too, that he did not feel all the gratitude he should. He was glad enough to get the money; indeed, at the moment he would have taken it from anybody. In a thoroughly illogical way, however, he wished that it had come from someone else.
At any rate, his duty lay plainly enough before him. He would have to go to Quentin's place to-morrow to thank him for his kindness and return the balance of the money. It was not until he reached home that he recollected he had no notion of where Quentin was staying. But that matter might be solved by a visit to a friend of his, a free-lance journalist, who knew everybody and where everybody was to be found. Quentin had been somewhat shy of interviewers, but Macpherson had managed to get enough out of him to form an attractive column for his favourite paper.
Macpherson proved communicative. He gave a graphic description of Quentin, and where he could be seen. An hour later Dugdale knocked at the door of a gloomy-looking house in Glover Street, where a staid housekeeper in black opened the door and shook her head dubiously when Dugdale asked to see Mr Quentin.
"I don't know whether you can see him or not, sir," the woman said. "As a rule, he dislikes callers, and gives orders that they are not to be admitted. But perhaps you would like to see his secretary, Mr Grenadus?"
"He would do as well, perhaps," Dugdale said.
He was shown into a pleasant room on the second floor at the back of the house, beyond the window of which was a conservatory filled with gorgeous tropical flowers. There was no view beyond these. The glass of the conservatory was stained a pale pink, so that the light from the room itself was dim and almost sombre. The apartment was magnificently furnished in Oriental style, and reminded Dugdale of a place in Smyrna where he had once passed a few weeks. A man seated at a writing-table rose and bowed slightly, and Dugdale half extended his hand. Then he drew back with a puzzled expression.
"I beg your pardon," he murmured. "For the moment I thought I was speaking to Mr Quentin himself."
The man smiled. His features certainly bore a remarkable likeness to those of Quentin. There was the same refinement, the same clearness of outline, the same suggestion of intellectual strength. There was the strong jaw and straight red mouth, but the hair was a curly black and the eyes were dark brown, with specks of yellow in the iris. No doubt a relation of Quentin's, Dugdale thought; then realised that it was no business of his in any case.
"We are rather alike," the stranger smiled. "But my name is Grenadus. I am Mr Quentin's private secretary, and you may say anything to me you would say to him. But why take the trouble to come here, Mr Dugdale? I assure you there was no hurry. Mr Quentin is only too pleased to be in a position to accommodate you. No thanks, please."
"This is extraordinary," Dugdale murmured. "I see you know everything, and I will be quite free with you. It was exceedingly considerate of Mr Quentin to help me; indeed, I am at a loss to know why he should assist me at all."
"Quentin is a law unto himself," the private secretary said. "He never does anything like other people. Of course, I can't say, but I fancy he is interested in you. I understand you have a good record, and that you are looking out for something to do. Now I wonder if you would like to undertake a commission for my employer? I must tell you that there is an element of danger about it. You will have to be discreet and silent and do exactly as you are told. In this matter you may see Mr Quentin or you may not. At the present stage everything is left to me."
"Anything that is honest," Dugdale began. "I am——"
"Oh, quite so," Grenadus interrupted with a queer smile. "That goes without saying. If you are willing to undertake this commission I shall be glad to engage you at once. Let us assume that you have had a retaining fee of fifteen pounds, and that you are to be paid at the rate of two hundred pounds a year for expenses. Does that satisfy you, Mr Dugdale?"
"It is more than satisfactory," Dugdale replied.
"You have a deal to learn," Grenadus continued with the same dry smile. "You might have asked double the money and got it. But that does not concern me. We must have a gentleman, which you are, a man of courage, where again you fulfill the requirements. That, you can be discreet and silent, your record in South Africa shows. I believe you are well acquainted with Mr Theo Isidore."
"Oh, assuredly," Dugdale said with a red face. "My experiences with him seem to be unfortunate. I don't know whether he really sent for me last night or whether I was a victim of a cruel hoax. But it serves me right. I ought never to have written to that man."
"You appear to dislike him, then?"
"Very much indeed. He is a thoroughly bad lot despite his money. When I first knew him he was in a very different position from what he now fills. I should never have approached him at all except that I was penniless and reckless, and now, thanks to Mr Quentin——"
"Quite so, quite so," the secretary broke in. "We won't go into that again. Perhaps you wonder why I mentioned Mr Isidore's name, but I am coming to that. I suppose, like everybody else in London, you know all about the 'Marlborough Magazine.' Whatever you may think of Mr Isidore, you are bound to admit that it is a wonderful publication. Those coloured illustrations are perfect works of art. One wonders how much Isidore will drop over the venture. But, still, that is no business of ours."
"I have seen the first number, of course," Dugdale said. "I see there is a flaming account in to-day's papers of the Yellow dinner at the Blenheim last night. Isn't that a copy of the second number on your table?"
Grenadus smiled as he stretched out a long thin hand and took up the magazine, the yellow cover of which was now familiar enough to the public. He turned over the highly-calendered pages till he came at length to the oracle of which he was in search. He beckoned Dugdale to his side.
"I want you to look at this," he said. "Perhaps you have already read the number?"
"Not yet," Dugdale admitted. "You see I couldn't afford to buy it, and I haven't been in one of the libraries."
"Well, take this away with you. I want you to read the story entitled 'The Purple Curtain.' Like the rest of the contributors, the writer prefers to remain anonymous; indeed, that is the stipulation which Isidore makes. The story is a good enough one of the dramatic kind, though I am afraid there is nothing in it which is likely to help you in the search which you are about to undertake on our behalf. Still, one never can tell, and you had better read the story carefully. But what I wish to call your particular attention to is this illustration. As you see, it represents a pretty girl looking out of the window of an old-fashioned house. In one corner is an old piece of French furniture on which stands a vase. Now tell me, have you ever seen a vase like that before?"'
Dugdale turned with the greatest interest to the picture. On the face of it there was nothing out of the common, but the deep impressive note which had now come into Grenadus's voice was not without its effect. The picture in the 'Marlborough Magazine' was a striking one. The girl's figure stood out lithe and dimly grey against the background, but what did appeal to Dugdale was the vase in one corner, which was drawn with an elaboration of detail that left nothing to be desired. The vase appeared to be some two feet in height, and was supported by three ormolu dragons quaintly intertwisted. The colours stood out with a fidelity and realism which pointed to the original being an actual work of art. The pedestal was slightly chipped, and a small fragment of the cover was missing.
"Evidently of great value," Dugdale murmured. "Yes, I saw something like it years ago, when I managed to gain admission to the Summer Palace at Pekin."
"Absolutely correct," Grenadus said in the same curiously dry voice. "There were only two of those vases ever made—the one you saw at Pekin; the other forms the subject of this illustration. That was drawn from the real thing itself. The vase mysteriously disappeared some years ago from a private collection, and has never been heard of since. That it is still in existence this drawing in the 'Marlborough Magazine' clearly proves. Now, I want you to take this away with you and study that priceless piece of china till you are familiar with it in every detail. When you feel competent to deal with the matter I will give you your instructions."
"But I am equal to that now," Dugdale urged. "Did I not indicate the origin of the vase at a glance? And if I saw the real thing I should not be at all likely to be deceived, seeing that I recognised it from a water-colour drawing."
"True," Grenadus said thoughtfully. "And now, before you begin, there is one thing I must warn you against. On no account are you to make any inquiries through the publishers or printers of the 'Marlborough Magazine.' That is a sine qua non. Now, if you will excuse me for a moment, I will go into Mr Quentin's room and speak to him. I should like to consult him before going farther. Of course, it is a mere matter of form."
Grenadus disappeared, leaving Dugdale hopeful but anxious. The secretary came back a moment later with a smiling air. He took a cheque book from a drawer and filled in a draft for fifty pounds. This he handed to Dugdale with an intimation that it was for current expenses.
"But what am I to do?" the latter asked.
"Do!" Grenadus echoed. "Don't you understand? It will be your task to find the Dragon Vase."
III - A DAUGHTER OF THE SOUTH
On the face of it, the commission looked simple, but from the very first Dugdale could not rid himself of the feeling that there was something sinister and underhand in it. Probably Quentin was a crank and a faddist, a china maniac who did not care about showing his hand. And so far as Dugdale could see, when he had traced the Dragon Vase, his mission was at an end. At the same time, it was like searching for a needle in a haystack and for the moment he was utterly unable to tell how to begin proceedings. He spent the best part of the day in thinking the matter out, deciding at length that Macpherson was the person most likely to help him. He found the genial Scotsman taking his ease at one of the minor literary clubs, and under the seal of secrecy disclosed the matter to him.
"It is very strange," Macpherson said. "Still nothing ought to surprise an old hand like myself, and I'll not say a word about it to anybody, my boy. What you want to get hold of is an expert in Oriental china. I don't mean a man who writes books which he gets up in the museums. You want an authority who is accustomed to handle these things. If you have got nothing particular to do this evening, I can put my hand on the very person you want."
"Is he a dealer?" Dugdale, asked.
"It isn't a he at all, sonny; it is a lady. She is a bit of a mystery, too. Frankly, I don't like this commission of yours much, and I only hope it won't get you into trouble. Paul Quentin is a queer sort, and there is something behind him that I can't make out. You know I interviewed him for our paper. I was with the man for the best part of an hour. It seems impossible that I could have made a mistake in the description of him. Murray, of the 'Telephone,' tells me that the Paul Quentin he saw was entirely different from my man. My man had a pallid face and grey hair, wonderful silver-grey hair it was, too, Murray swears that his Quentin had fair hair and grey eyes. But you have seen Quentin?"
"Only just for a moment," Dugdale said. "It was at the Blenheim Restaurant, as I told you. Most assuredly he had silver-grey hair and blue eyes, as you say. When I called upon him in Glover Street he was not to be seen, and I got my commission from his secretary Grenadus."
"Well, I don't like it," Macpherson repeated. "If you ask me, you are in with a funny lot and you had best be careful. Still, needs must when a certain gentleman drives, and I dare say you will come out of it all right. What you should do first is to see this china expert, who will tell you more in an hour than you can teach yourself in a month. If you have nothing on hand to-night I can introduce you to the lady."
"She is a friend of yours?" Dugdale asked.
"Well, no, she isn't. She is a mystery. But no one worries about that when London is full of them. She calls herself Rachel Varna. She is a rare beauty of the Southern type, marvellously intellectual and vivacious. There isn't a better dressed girl in London, but no one knows who she is or where she comes from. It is my belief she is a kind of Cinderella. She is to be met with at nearly all the smart subscription dances. She always leaves early and nobody has the least idea where she lives. I know she is a great authority on china, because when I was writing a series of articles about certain eminent collections Rachel was of the greatest possible assistance to me. I don't believe there is a single branch of the subject of which she is ignorant. You had better treat her quite in the spirit of bon camaraderie, but don't be inquisitive and don't follow her. Meet me here to-night at ten o'clock, and we shall go to the Magpie Dance at the Whitehall Rooms, where Rachel is sure to be in evidence. The Magpies are a colony of artists who have more money than genius, but their little dances are wonderfully well done, and you are certain to enjoy yourself."
"I shall be glad of the chance," Dugdale said grimly, "especially when I think of the time I have had lately. I'll be here at ten."
Punctuality was not one of Macpherson's virtues, and it was nearly eleven o'clock before the Whitehall Rooms were reached. Some two hundred people were gathered on enjoyment bent, and for the most part they appeared to be carrying out the programme successfully. Quite a sprinkling of well-known society people were present. There were plenty of smart toilettes, one of which stood out conspicuous from the rest and arrested Dugdale's eye immediately. It was a dress of coral pink, wonderfully light and artistic, and worn by a dark girl with raven hair, and the most magnificent pair of eyes Dugdale had ever seen. The girl was seated by herself and watching those around her with infinite amusement. There was a faint smile on her lips and a suggestion of lazy scorn in her eyes. Dugdale jerked his head in her direction.
"I suppose that is not Miss Varna by any chance?" he whispered.
"Oh, yes, it is," Macpherson responded. "Come along and I'll introduce you at once. You are in luck."
The girl looked up with a dazzling smile that fairly thrilled Dugdale. There was no scent about her, but she seemed to diffuse an atmosphere which was peculiarly her own. Dugdale could compare it with nothing he had ever noticed before.
"Why are you not dancing?" Macpherson asked.
"For the simple reason that there is no one in the room I happen to know," the girl said, in a low, sweet voice. "And you don't dance yourself, do you?"
Macpherson shook his head resolutely.
"No," he said; "but perhaps my friend here does. I wonder if you would help him. To be candid, I brought him here to-night on purpose to see you. This is Mr John Dugdale, and for the moment he is interested in Oriental china. He is looking out for a certain type of vase, and I told him he could not do better than ask your advice. He is a novice at the game."
The dark eyes flashed with kindly interest.
"I'll do what I can," Rachel said. "Besides, I don't feel a bit like dancing this evening. Now you run away and leave Mr Dugdale to me."
Dugdale sat down by Miss Varna's side feeling that the gods were kind to him. He was by no means insensible to the beauty of the girl. It flattered him to find that she was taking an interest in his adventure.
"It is rather a strange story," he said, "and I am afraid I must not tell you how it came about. But I am looking for a peculiar form of Dragon Vase, of which only two are known to exist. One is in this country, the other I know is in the Summer Palace at Pekin, because I saw it with my own eyes. Perhaps you can guess what I mean?"
As Dugdale turned eagerly to his fair companion he saw to his surprise that the beautiful carmine flush had faded from her face and that her cheeks paled to the hue of old ivory.
"The Dragon Vase," Rachel Varna said in a whisper. "Do you really mean what you say, Mr Dugdale? But, no, it is impossible, incredible. We must be thinking of different things. Would you mind describing the object of your search?"
"I can do better than that," Dugdale replied. "I can show you exactly what it is like. I can send you a drawing of it if you are interested. Possibly you have seen a copy of this month's 'Marlborough Magazine?'"
Once more the white and the roses were at war in Rachel Varna's cheeks, and she was breathing rapidly through parted lips. Dugdale noticed the uneasy fluttering of her hand.
"There is no need to ask further questions," she said. "I see we are both thinking of the same thing. I have seen the 'Marlborough Magazine' for this month, and an illustration of the story called 'The Purple Curtain' contains a drawing of the Dragon Vase, in every respect——"
"That's it," Dugdale said, eagerly. "The very thing. It is rather strange that I should have seen one of the pair in the Summer Palace at Pekin and that I should be in search of its fellow. But I suppose you know the history of these wonderful specimens of Chinese ceramic art?"
"I may say without boasting that there is practically nothing about china that I don't know," the girl replied. "I am in a position where I am bound to learn all about it. From my childhood I have been brought up in the midst of artistic things. Is it a secret who your principal is in this matter?"
The question was asked with a vivid eagerness that puzzled Dugdale. Rachel Varna seemed to be hanging on his rely.
"I am afraid I cannot tell you that," he said regretfully. "I am very sorry to appear discourteous, but that must be my secret. I suppose there is no doubt that the vase drawn in the 'Marlborough Magazine' is actually the fellow to the one in the Summer Palace at Pekin. It seems fascinating, but isn't it possible that the 'Marlborough Magazine' artist copied it during a flying visit to Pekin?"
"No, I don't think so," said the girl promptly. "I don't see how any artist could paint a vase like that from a casual glance. It would have to be done elaborately and carefully. And, besides the colouring is absolutely correct. A photograph would be altogether useless. You may be quite sure, Mr Dugdale, that the artist used for his model the missing Dragon Vase."
"Oh, it is missing, then?" Dugdale asked.
Rachel Varna laughed a little awkwardly.
"I didn't mean to say that," she said. "The vase in question was stolen some years ago from the collection of a wealthy man who is now dead. The robbery caused a great sensation at the time, because the piece of china is unique. There is nothing like it in Europe for size, for colouring or beauty of outline. If the Dragon Vase came into the market now I should not be in the least surprised to find that it fetched six figures. You are incredulous."
"Well, I am," Dugdale admitted. "Six figures!"
"Well, why not? More than one piece of china has changed hands lately for sixteen or seventeen thousand pounds. You would have collectors from all over the world after it. And think what a splendid opportunity it would be for the millionaire to advertise his wealth!"
"I hadn't thought of that," Dugdale confessed. "At any rate, you know now what I am looking for, though I cannot tell you the name of the person on whose behalf I am engaged. Perhaps you can tell me where the missing vase is?"
Dugdale put the question half in jest. He was surprised to see how seriously it was taken. There was something almost of terror on the girl's face as she turned her splendid eyes on him.
"You must not ask that," she whispered. "It is not fair. I have told you all I can for the present. I have let you know that the thing you are looking for is more valuable than half a dozen historic diamonds. It is a thousand pities that there is a flaw in the cover of the vase, but in the course of a few days I hope to see that matter——"
The girl paused and bit her lip, conscious perhaps that she was saying too much. Then she turned the conversation gaily but resolutely and began to talk of other things with wit and brilliancy. Dugdale was too fascinated by the grace and beauty of his companion to keep a cool, level head. He had never seen any one like Rachel Varna before. He had never seen a girl at once so beautiful and so alluring. He had a fair knowledge of society and its ways. He knew that the girl was perfectly dressed and that there was no flaw in her manners. He laid himself out for enjoyment. But, with all his questions, he left off at the end of an hour as wise as he had begun. Who Rachel Varna was he had not the least idea. He went off presently at a hint from the girl that she would like an ice, and when he came back she had vanished. Macpherson, with an amused look in his eyes, indicated the vacant seat.
"Gone 'like the baseless fabric of a vision leaving not a wrack behind,'" he quoted. "My dear fellow, for the sake of your peace of mind do not allow your thoughts to dwell upon Rachel Varna. She is like some beautiful dragon-fly; she emerges from the pool of obscurity to dazzle and coruscate, and when you think you have her in your hand she becomes elusive as a beam of sunshine."
Without knowing why, Dugdale felt irritated. It seemed to him that he had been fooled. He managed to avoid Macpherson, and presently took his overcoat and left the rooms. He was restless and uncomfortable. He could not get Rachel Varna out of his mind. He would not have hesitated to follow her, if he had had the chance. Hardly knowing in which direction he was walking, he strode along till the streets began to get meaner and narrower, the roads more dirty, and the locality less desirable. In front of him a woman in a black cloak trudged along. Dugdale vaguely noticed her stout, serviceable boots and heavy cloak. Out of the darkness there came one of those prowling night hawks who render the dark hours of London hideous and repulsive. The first whine for assistance turned to a threat as the villain realised that he had the lonely passenger entirely at his mercy. There was a little cry for assistance, and Dugdale crept silently forward. The next moment the man was lying on his back in the gutter, and the woman, with a broken murmur of thanks, hurried along.
Only for a moment had Dugdale caught sight of her face, but it sufficed. Despite the middle-class garb and the thick respectable boots, he recognised the delicate features of Rachel Varna. He dropped back feeling satisfied that the girl was secure in her disguise. It was not for him to show that he had penetrated that disguise, for he had made up his mind to follow her home. He dropped behind until the figure of Rachel Varna was nearly out of sight and then saw her disappear into an overhanging doorway at the side of a low-browed shop which bore over the casement window the name of Varna, and the information that he was a dealer in gold and silver and precious stones. For the present Dugdale had learnt enough. He would look round casually in the morning and drop into the shop on some pretence or another on the off-chance of seeing Rachel again.
