CHAPTER VIII.
At eight-twenty Quentin was drinking in the fresh air of the new morning from the wharf, as Enid had promised to breakfast with him at nine. The situation seemed not nearly so bad as it had appeared the night before; Mathews would be over in the morning boat to relieve him of his charge, and it seemed less probable that Burlington would be able to track Enid by the one or two men who had helped her at Long Beach.
However, her manner worried him. There was a good deal that lacked explanation, and Quentin began to fear that her blindness was in reality due to a brain tumor; after all, she had only put him off when he had set the matter frankly before her last night. The thing that forced him to believe in her was her appeal to Mathews, for by quiet inquiries Quentin had found that the man was a retired lawyer of some prominence and of high repute. Yet it was a bitter job to quell his forebodings and compel himself to belief; his greatest aid in this was the remembrance of the girl's face. It haunted him, and filled him with strange longings—what a pity she had this affliction, he thought!
He roused himself at sight of a trim launch cutting in around the headland, and caught, the words "Long Beach boat" from a group of boatman lounging near by. As he made out the two figures sitting in the launch, Quentin started; it seemed as though a cold hand had gripped suddenly at his heart. Well he knew that erect, precise figure which had as usual retained its frock coat and silk hat, even on a launch trip.
As the boat drew in to the wharf, Quentin's sudden fear passed into exhilaration. He noted the rather flaccid face, the quick-darting blue eyes, the massive jaw under the crisp gray mustache, and laughed. Since Doctor Hall Burlington had come, Enid must have told him the true story, after all! He forgot all else in that swift thought even to the bound detective who lay in the shed behind the Mathews' cottage; and realizing that he must get Burlington off the track, he stepped forward to meet the launch as it drifted in.
"Hello, Burlington!" he called easily. "Got a hurry call?"
Burlington's quick blue eye picked him out, and the other waved a hand in reply. The launch drew up, Burlington seized Quentin's hand and mounted to the wharf, then tossed a gold piece to the boatman in payment.
"Morning, Quentin—you're just the man I want to see," and he took the younger man's arm. "Come along—are you on vacation?"
"Partly," responded Quentin, falling into step. He noted that Burlington's manner was not wholly free of agitation. "What's up—an operation?"
"No," and the other glanced around, then halted. "Are you free to help me a bit, Quentin? Professional confidence, understand."
Quentin met his eye and laughed lightly.
"I guess so, Burlington. I've a patient at the hotel, but my time's my own. You must be in a devil of a hurry, to come over in a little launch like that, man!"
"I am," and the other grimaced, then fell to mopping his brow. Gazing at him, Quentin felt sudden dislike of the man; to him Burlington had always seemed rather formal and precise, but now it was as though a mask had been stripped away. Quentin no longer doubted every word of Enid's story, and his mind raced desperately. He knew that at all costs he must keep Burlington from seeing that hotel register, and he suddenly resolved on a bold course.
"Did you come over yesterday?" The blue eyes shot into his suddenly.
"Yes—I brought over a girl from Los Angeles. Why?"
"You didn't happen to notice anything of a blind young woman on the boat, did you?"
"Sure," and Quentin laughed again, holding the blue eyes to his. "My patient is a young woman, and blind. What's the matter, Burlington?"
"Her name!" The other gripped his arm, his face flaming a dull red. "What's her name, Quentin?"
"Why—Miss Palmer," lied Quentin, as the name flashed into his mind. The older man's hand fell away, and he mopped at his face again with a sigh of relief.
"I beg your pardon, Quentin—I'm a little overwrought, I fancy." At the pause Quentin chuckled inwardly; his bold ruse had worked, and it was evident that the other man held no suspicions. Burlington hesitated, then laughed harshly, taking Quentin's arm again.
"I'm in rather a hard position, Quentin. I had charge of a girl—a blind young woman who's unfortunately afflicted with flightiness." He was getting back his usual precise air by this time.
"Yes?" encouraged Quentin.
"As I say, she is addicted to melancholia and odd conceptions—imagines that she's an abused heiress and all that. Nothing dangerous, but a very interesting case, no doubt due to a brain tumor. I'm hoping that an operation will fix her up first rate. But yesterday morning she got away—we had her under observation, you understand. From various persons I found that she had got to a San Pedro car and had been inquiring about the islands, and there seems to be no doubt that she came over here yesterday."
"Well, that's easily fixed," suggested Quentin craftily. "A word to the constable here and he'll be able"
"No, no!" Burlington cried suddenly, halting him again with evident haste. "She is very sensitive, and anything in the nature of a scene might throw her into hysteria, Quentin. It's a matter for me to handle personally, and if you'll give me your help I'll be very glad indeed."
"Certainly, I'll do whatever I can," and Quentin's cold gray eyes and resolute face gave no hint of the double meaning in his words. "How's Mrs. Burlington and Dolly? Have you had any breakfast?"
"No—they're all right," came the confused answer. Quentin had a hazy idea of getting Burlington off to one of the smaller hotels for breakfast. "You'd better take a day off and run out before long, old man; you look rather run down. By the way, I think we had better go up to the Metropole and start inquiries there, and I'll get a bite to eat."
Quentin's heart leaped. This was the very thing he had feared. If he could only keep Burlington away from the Metropole register, he might be able to waste time until the morning boat came in. And if Mathews did not come then, he would simply have to make an open break with Burlington and take Enid under his own protection—though he had a very hazy idea of the law in such cases. However, the main thing was to keep the two apart for a time.
"What was the girl's name?" he temporized, wondering how to manage things.
"Elsmere—Enid Elsmere," came the answer, and his last doubts of the girl fled away. "Still, she might not use her own name, Quentin. The easiest way to track her will be by her blindness."
"Well, look here," and Quentin halted in desperation. "I'll run up to the Metropole and arrange to get away, and also make inquiries. You cover the Stamford and Hermosa, and I'll meet you at the latter place for breakfast. How's that?"
Burlington drew a hand across his heavy lips and nodded.
"All right, Quentin. Hadn't you better have a description of the young woman?"
"It might help," smiled Quentin, thinking that he needed little description of the person in question. He glanced at his watch and found that he still had fifteen minutes to spare. "There'll be no trouble in locating her, though."
"Hope not," grunted Burlington, the blue eyes darting around them until Quentin felt some uneasiness lest Enid come forth for a morning stroll. "However, I know exactly the clothes she wore when she got away. She's a rather small young woman, about twenty-two in appearance, though in reality she's not so old; black-haired and gray-eyed, wearing a deep red dress of some soft stuff, with a dark-gray wrap."
"Eh?" Quentin suddenly felt as though his entire structure had been riven asunder. "Just go over that again, if you don't mind."
The other repeated his description, but Quentin was only sparring for time, trying to keep his amazement concealed. Those few words had staggered him, swept him out of his depth.
"Good heavens!" he thought, groping after some fragment of sanity in the wild mix-up. "Enid is violet-eyed, brown-haired, and has a white dress—and she's pretty near as tall as I am! Am I crazy, or is Burlington?"
There was nothing but the most precise earnestness in the other man's manner, however. He would have no reason to give a false description of the girl, reflected Quentin; but this thought led him into a new maze of probabilities. It was unlikely in the extreme that there would be more than one blind girl out of the lot, for that would be stretching coincidence too far. Yet the detective had been after a blind girl, his own charge was blind—or said she was blind, and here Burlington was after another one!
So far, the only one of the three who had materialized was his own girl. She had claimed to be Enid Elsmere; but was she? She did not answer Burlington's description, and Quentin felt a swift and horrible doubt of her. Was she the woman pickpocket, after all? Had she deliberately builded on the name of Enid Elsmere, with some knowledge of the state of things in Burlington's household on which to base her structure of lies?
The only other possibility was that Burlington had given him a false description, and this seemed utterly improbable, out of the question. There was no reason for it, and Quentin looked up with helpless struggle in his eyes.
"Go ahead to the other two places, Burlington. I'll meet you and we'll either breakfast at the Hermosa—or come back to the Metropole."
The other strode off with a curt nod. Quentin's last words had been born of a desperate idea, a frantic effort to cut this whole weird Gordian knot at one blow. If Burlington had given him the true description of his ward, then the girl at the Metropole was posing under an assumed name.
In that case, a meeting between them would only serve to show her that Quentin had pierced through her deception, and it would undoubtedly provoke a straightforward explanation between them.
On the other hand, if Burlington had lied in his description and she was the real Enid Elsmere, the thing would come to a show-down then and there. Burlington would be taken in his own net, and if he attempted to claim the girl, Quentin decided that he himself could then step in with some semblance of right.
"Just the same," he thought, as he leaped up the hotel steps, "I'll stick by her. If she's a pickpocket, I'll be a whole lot mistaken; but whatever she is or does, I'll give her one more chance to come across with the truth. By George, I can't believe that she has been deliberately acting a part all this time!"
Prompted by a sudden thought that he might find two Enid Elsmeres registered, he strode over to the desk only to have the hope destroyed. Also, the day clerk made a reference to the envelope waiting for Osgood which showed that he was inclined to be suspicious, and Quentin hastily assured him that the detective would call for it that day. He turned to the elevator, wondering miserably how he was going to get out of the net that he had tangled around himself.
At Enid's door he found her waiting for him, and her quiet poise, her air of utter confiding trust in him, almost shook him from the resolution he had taken. Yet—at sight of him did a shadow of alarm flit over her face, as though she read the conflict in his eyes, or did she merely sense it subconsciously?
He laid this to his imagination, however, when he took her hand and answered her greeting, trying to keep his voice level. As he led her from the elevator across the lobby, toward the dining room, he spoke lightly.
"If you don't mind, I'll get you seated, then I'll run over to the Hermosa and bring back a chap I want you to meet, Miss Elsmere."
Try as he would, he could not keep his voice quite firm, and the glance she flashed him only heightened his self-accusation. Then she nodded and smiled.
"Certainly—I'll be glad to meet any of your friends."
"We won't call him a friend," laughed Quentin uneasily, beginning to reproach himself already. "Anyway, you sit down here and I'll be right back. Oh, yes—I think that I'll introduce you as Miss Palmer, too. Your absent girl friend won't object to that, I trust?"
"As you please, doctor," she replied, seating herself.
Quentin hurried away, a little chilled by those final words. He found Burlington waiting for him on the steps of the Hermosa, precise and dignified as ever, but with uneasiness resting in his never-quiet blue eyes.
"What luck, Burlington?"
"None, so far. You did not find her at the Metropole?"
"No, but my patient is waiting to breakfast with us. Come on over, and after breakfast, if nothing has happened, we'll soon locate your patient."
Burlington nodded, his eyes resting on Quentin for a second; then with a rather patronizing manner which was peculiarly offensive to the younger man, he took Quentin's arm, and they walked back to the other hotel.
The next five minutes would take him out of the labyrinth, thought Quentin—in one way or the other.