The mysterious Mr. Quin
"No, I did not, sir," said the Colonel emphatically, "but I expect
every servant in the place swore they did."
"Superstition was the curse of the Middle Ages," said Bristow. "There
are still traces of it here and there, but thank goodness, we are
getting free from it."
"Superstition," mused Mr. Satterthwaite, his eyes turned again to the
empty chair. "Sometimes, don't you think--it might be useful?"
Bristow stared at him. "Useful, that's a queer word."
"Well, I hope you are convinced now, Satterthwaite," said the Colonel.
"Oh, quite," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "On the face of it, it seems
odd--so purposeless for a newly married man, young, rich, happy,
celebrating his home-coming--curious--but I agree there is no getting
away from the facts." He repeated softly "the facts" and frowned.
"I suppose the interesting thing is a thing we none of us will ever
know," said Monckton, "the story behind it all. Of course there were
rumors--all sorts of rumors. You know the kind of things people say."
"But no one _knew_ anything," said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully.
"It's not a best-seller mystery, is it?" remarked Bristow. "No one
gained by the man's death."
"No one except an unborn child," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
Monckton gave a sharp chuckle. "Rather a blow to poor Hugo Charnley,"
he observed. "As soon as it was known that there was going to be a
child he had the graceful task of sitting tight and waiting to see if
it would be a girl or boy. Rather an anxious wait for his creditors
too. In the end a boy it was and a disappointment for the lot of them."
"Was the widow very disconsolate?" asked Bristow.
"Poor child," said Monckton, "I shall never forget her. She didn't cry
or break down or anything. She was like something--frozen. As I say,
she shut up the house shortly afterward and as far as I know it has
never been reopened since."
"So we are left in the dark as to motive," said Bristow with a slight
laugh. "Another man or another woman, it must have been one or the
other, eh?"
"It seems like it," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"And the betting is strongly on another woman," continued Bristow,
"since the fair widow has not married again. I hate women," he added
dispassionately.
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled a little and Frank Bristow saw the smile
and pounced upon it. "You may smile," he said, "but I do. They upset
everything. They interfere. They get between you and your work. They--I
only once met a woman who was--well, interesting."
"I thought there would be one," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Not in the way you mean. I--I just met her casually. As a matter of
fact--it was in a train. After all," he added defiantly, "why shouldn't
one meet people in trains?"
"Certainly, certainly," added Mr. Satterthwaite soothingly, "a train is
as good a place as anywhere else."
"It was coming down from the North. We had the carriage to ourselves.
I don't know why, but we began to talk. I don't know her name and I
don't suppose I shall ever meet her again. I don't know that I want to.
It might be--a pity." He paused, struggling to express himself. "She
wasn't quite real, you know. Shadowy. Like one of the people who come
out of the hills in Gaelic fairy tales."
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded gently. His imagination pictured the scene
easily enough. The very positive and realistic Bristow and a figure
that was silvery and ghostly--shadowy, as Bristow had said.
"I suppose if something very terrible had happened, so terrible as to
be almost unbearable, one might get like that. One might run away from
reality into a half-world of one's own and then, of course, after a
time, one wouldn't be able to get back."
"Was that what had happened to her?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite curiously.
"I don't know," said Bristow. "She didn't tell me anything, I am only
guessing. One has to guess if one is going to get anywhere."
"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly. "One has to guess."
He looked up as the door opened. He looked up quickly and expectantly
but the butler's words disappointed him.
"A lady, sir, has called to see you on very urgent business. Miss
Aspasia Glen."
Mr. Satterthwaite rose in some astonishment. He knew the name of
Aspasia Glen. Who in London did not? First advertised as the Woman with
the Scarf, she had given a series of matinées single-handed that had
taken London by storm. With the aid of her scarf she had impersonated
rapidly various characters. In turn the scarf had been the coif of a
nun, the shawl of a mill worker, the headdress of a peasant, and a
hundred other things, and in each impersonation Aspasia Glen had been
totally and utterly different. As an artist Mr. Satterthwaite paid full
reverence to her. As it happened, he had never made her acquaintance.
A call upon him at this unusual hour intrigued him greatly. With a few
words of apology to the others, he left the room and crossed the hall
to the drawing room.
Miss Glen was sitting in the very center of a large settee upholstered
in gold brocade. So poised, she dominated the room. Mr. Satterthwaite
perceived at once that she meant to dominate the situation. Curiously
enough, his first feeling was one of repulsion. He had been a sincere
admirer of Aspasia Glen's art. Her personality, as conveyed to him
over the footlights, had been appealing and sympathetic. Her effects
there had been wistful and suggestive rather than commanding. But now,
face to face with the woman herself, he received a totally different
impression. There was something hard--bold--forceful about her. She
was tall and dark, possibly about thirty-five years of age. She was
undoubtedly very good-looking and she clearly relied upon the fact.
"You must forgive me this unconventional call, Mr. Satterthwaite," she
said. Her voice was full and rich and seductive.
"I won't say that I have wanted to know you for a long time, but I _am_
glad of the excuse. As for coming tonight"--she laughed--"well, when I
want a thing, I simply can't wait. When I want a thing, I simply _must_
have it."
"Any excuse that has brought me such a charming lady guest must be
welcomed by me," said Mr. Satterthwaite in an old-fashioned gallant
manner.
"How nice you are to me," said Aspasia Glen.
"My dear lady," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "may I thank you here and now
for the pleasure you have so often given me--in my seat in the stalls."
She smiled delightfully at him.
"I am coming straight to the point. I was at the Harchester Galleries
today. I saw a picture there I simply couldn't live without. I wanted
to buy it and I couldn't because you had already bought it. So--"
She paused. "I do want it so," she went on. "Dear Mr. Satterthwaite,
I simply _must_ have it. I brought my checkbook." She looked at him
hopefully. "Everyone tells me you are so frightfully kind. People _are_
kind to me, you know. It is very bad for me--but there it is."
So these were Aspasia Glen's methods. Mr. Satterthwaite was inwardly
coldly critical of this ultrafemininity and of this spoiled-child pose.
It ought to appeal to him, he supposed, but it didn't. Aspasia Glen had
made a mistake. She had judged him as an elderly dilettante, easily
flattered by a pretty woman. But Mr. Satterthwaite behind his gallant
manner had a shrewd and critical mind. He saw people pretty well as
they were, not as they wished to appear to him. He saw before him not a
charming woman, pleading for a whim, but a ruthless egoist determined
to get her own way for some reason which was obscure to him. And he
knew quite certainly that Aspasia Glen was not going to get her own
way. He was not going to give up the picture of "The Dead Harlequin" to
her. He sought rapidly in his mind for the best way of circumventing
her without overt rudeness.
"I am sure," he said, "that everyone gives you your own way as often as
they can and is only too delighted to do so."
"Then you are really going to let me have the picture?"
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head slowly and regretfully. "I am afraid
that is impossible. You see--" He paused. "I bought that picture for a
lady. It is a present."
"Oh! but surely--"
The telephone on the table rang sharply. With a murmured word of
excuse, Mr. Satterthwaite took up the receiver. A voice spoke to him,
a small, cold voice that sounded very far away.
"Can I speak to Mr. Satterthwaite, please?"
"It is Mr. Satterthwaite speaking."
"I am Lady Charnley, Alix Charnley. I daresay you don't remember me,
Mr. Satterthwaite; it is a great many years since we met."
"My dear Alix. Of course I remember you."
"There is something I wanted to ask you. I was at the Harchester
Galleries at an exhibition of pictures today. There was one called 'The
Dead Harlequin'--perhaps you recognized it--it was the Terrace Room
at Charnley. I--I want to have that picture. It was sold to you." She
paused. "Mr. Satterthwaite, for reasons of my own I want that picture.
Will you resell it to me?"
Mr. Satterthwaite thought, _Why, this is a miracle_. As he spoke into
the receiver he was thankful that Aspasia Glen could only hear one
side of the conversation. "If you will accept my gift, dear lady, it
will make me very happy." He heard a sharp exclamation behind him and
hurried on. "I bought it for you. I did indeed. But listen, my dear
Alix, I want to ask you to do me a great favor if you will."
"Of course. Mr. Satterthwaite, I am so _very_ grateful."
He went on: "I want you to come round now to my house, at once."
There was a slight pause and then she answered quietly, "I will come at
once."
Mr. Satterthwaite put down the receiver and turned to Miss Glen. She
said quickly and angrily, "That was the picture you were talking about?"
"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "the lady to whom I am presenting it is
coming round to this house in a few minutes."
Suddenly Aspasia Glen's face broke once more into smiles. "You will
give me a chance of persuading her to turn the picture over to me?"
"I will give you a chance of persuading her."
Inwardly he was strangely excited. He was in the midst of a drama that
was shaping itself to some foredoomed end. He, the looker-on, was
playing a star part. He turned to Miss Glen.
"Will you come into the other room with me? I should like you to meet
some friends of mine."
He held the door open for her and, crossing the hall, opened the door
of the smoking room.
"Miss Glen," he said, "let me introduce to you an old friend of mine,
Colonel Monckton. Mr. Bristow, the painter of the picture you admire so
much." Then he started as a third figure rose from the chair which he
had left empty beside his own.
"I think you expected me this evening," said Mr. Quin. "During your
absence I introduced myself to your friends. I am so glad I was able to
drop in."
"My dear friend," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "I--I have been carrying
on as well as I am able but--" He stopped before the slight sardonic
glance of Mr. Quin's dark eyes. "Let me introduce you. Mr. Harley Quin,
Miss Aspasia Glen."
Was it his fancy--or did she shrink back slightly. A curious expression
flitted over her face. Suddenly Bristow broke in boisterously: "I have
got it."
"Got what?"
"Got hold of what was puzzling me. There is a likeness, there is a
distinct likeness." He was staring curiously at Mr. Quin. "You see it?"
He turned to Mr. Satterthwaite. "Don't you see a distinct likeness to
the Harlequin of my picture--the man looking in through the window?"
It was no fancy this time. He distinctly heard Miss Glen draw in her
breath sharply and even saw that she stepped back one pace.
"I told you that I was expecting someone," said Mr. Satterthwaite. He
spoke with an air of triumph. "I must tell you that my friend Mr. Quin
is a most extraordinary person. He can unravel mysteries. He can make
you see things."