# A Discord in Avalon/Chapter 4
### CHAPTER IV.

There came a rush of feet, a vociferous burst of voices, and Quentin was hilariously pulled up to the cool veranda by the two men who had rounded the clubhouse walk, golf bags in hand.
"You're a nice one to give us the slip like that!" cried Bunt Green, forcing him into a Singapore chair, while Tommy Wells sent a steward clattering away after drinks. "Think you're kind of privileged because you've a few initials after your name, eh? Cut it out, doc, cut it out—do you get me?"
Quentin forced himself into coherence. He saw that the pair of them had been dividing punishment between golf balls and Scotch, according to their wont, and he felt suddenly as if he had stepped into unclean waters.
"Not by about umpty miles, Bunt," he returned, looking at his challenger with the calm deliberation of one who understands his fellow man, even though he misses the drift of things. "Sorry I missed the early boat, fellows——"
Green interrupted him with a roar of laughter, while Tommy Wells, with the flabby chops on either side of his double chin dancing with mirth, leaned over the table and howled. Wells was a bit past the talking stage, but Bunt Green winked in a wisely understand- ing way and slapped Quentin on the back with another roar.
"Zow-wee! Did you get that, Tommy? Don't he look like an innocent little lamb, though? Just like little Willy when he says 'I didn't did it,' and wipes the jam off his nose."
"You—you'zh make him flush wish—wish shame," blurted Wells thickly, but it was resentment and not shame that drove the red into Quentin's face.
"Come across, boys," he urged easily, making the best of it. "Throw me a line, for I'm on the rocks."
He felt there was something behind this that he could not understand.
"Innoshence abroad—hic—innoshence——" began Wells, then slumped back in his chair as the steward brought the drinks. Quentin waved him away impatiently.
"Say, what's the matter with you chaps?" he inquired calmly. "Wells, you'll go off with a snap one of these days; I've warned you already about drinking as you do, with your high blood pressure."
"Oh, Tommy's all right," grinned Bunt Green, lighting a cigarette with an unpleasant twinkle in his eye. "Innocence abroad is right, doc. Didn't suppose that we might take it into our heads to meet that boat, did you? They do say this is a great little ol' place for a honeymoon."
"Who's—who's zhe skirt?" inquired Wells heavily, leering.
In a flash Quentin understood—and the comprehension was sickening to him. The mere thought of Enid Elsmere, pickpocket or no, in connection with these sodden scions of wealth was repulsive to him.
"I think you'd better explain yourselves," he said, dangerously quiet.
"Still playing the game like a little man," complimented Bunt with mock ceremony. He made a wabbly curtsy which drew another howl of laughter from his friend, waved his cigarette somewhat unsteadily, and winked again. "Oh, don't bother to explain, old man. You see, we met that boat—and that's all."
"Sure, tha'sh all," repeated Wells vaguely, spilling half his Manhattan over his white flannels, and laughing again at himself.
Quentin had tried to contain his anger, but the half-veiled inference drove his gray eyes hard and cold. He regretted his hasty acceptance of the invitation to this visit from men he hardly knew, yet he could not have foreseen this exact occurrence.
"I think you two chaps had better get a couple of brain dusters instead of more whisky," he said coldly. "If we're going to——"
"Look here," and Green drew himself up with the swift exasperation of a good-natured man more than a little under the influence, "do you mean to insinuate that I'm not sober, doc?"
"No," returned Quentin bluntly. "I mean to insinuate that you're just about plain drunk, Green. If you're going fishing to-night, you'd better get to bed for a few hours and get a bit sobered up. Same to you, Wells."
Wells laughed vacantly, but Green flung his cigarette over the railing and got shakily to his feet, anger in his face.
"You're drunk yourself, doc. You're blind drunk, and I'm going to put you to bed——"
"Shut up, you fool!" broke in Quentin roughly ,as another party of golfers passed their table with curious glances.
For answer, Green caught the whisky bottle from the table and swung it full at him. Quentin rose from his chair, caught the wildly swinging arm, saved the bottle, and then very determinedly flung Green down into his chair, where he lay gasping for air. He turned to the hurrying stewards.
"You'd better take care of Mr. Green and Mr. Wells at once," he said quietly, then turned and walked off.
"Wait!" implored Wells, trying to rise. "Wait, doc—I shay, ol' man——"
Quentin strode back to the street, unheeding, and drew a long breath. He felt as though he needed cleansing before going back to Enid Elsmere.
The thought stopped him like a blow. What was he to do? It seemed to be a cold certainty that she was not only the pickpocket in question, but that she had neatly "touched" him for most of his money. He had ten or twelve dollars left, but no more.
"By George, though, I can't believe it!" he cogitated, walking slowly along. "Yet the thing fits together so damnably! Her hand was at my coat pocket when I first noticed her, and if she had been stalling to remove my suspicion she couldn't have done it better than she did. Then she caught at the name I gave Osgood and it sure took a lot of work to get the story out of her! She either made it up on the spot, which seems most likely, all things considered, or else she was telling God's truth. I'm blest if I know what to believe!"
With that, he sat down on a bench to think it over. Glancing at his watch, he found that he had half an hour before the last boat left for the mainland. Unless he was to catch it, he must stay overnight, and twelve dollars would hardly stand the strain of two rooms at the Metropole. Yet, if his doubts were correct, she would not wait for his return—and then there was the Mathews affair, which might have been a lie also.
"Oh, Lord!" he groaned, dropping his head and staring at the ground. "What kind of a balled-tip ruddy mess have I stumbled into? If I convict her in my own mind, and skip out for home, my conscience will prick forever after. If that impossible tale of hers is true, she needs help mighty badly. I think I'd sooner be taken for an easy mark, though, and lose a little coin in the process than be scared out of helping a person who might be in need of me. Well, what do I stand to lose, anyhow?"
His money was gone in any case. In half an hour he could return to the hotel, and if the girl had slipped away he would simply take her room till the morning, for he had enough money left to cover it. If she was still there it would be a fairly sure indication that his suspicions were unjust,, for she would hardly remain to meet the Mathews unless she was sure of her ground. In which case, Mathews could foot the bills.
Quentin shook his head hopelessly as he remembered that his only means of identifying himself should need arise lay in that missing bill fold that contained his cards, money, and letters. However, he had nothing worse in prospect than an overnight stay on the island.
"I'll do it," he said, rising at last. "I'll let the gods decide. If she's at the hotel, I'll give her eyes a test or two and abide by the result. And I'll go the limit, too—I'll neither think wrong of her nor say wrong of her, and if that confounded bull shows up again I'll give him something to think about."
With that he flung back his shoulders—and found the detective, Osgood, coming toward him with calculating eye. Quentin paused, angry at himself and at the man, but Osgood nodded coolly and confidently.
"Sorry to trouble you, doc—say, is that Miss Elsmere with you a blind lady?"
"She is," returned Quentin coldly. "She is also a relative——"
He stopped suddenly. If the girl's story were true, no word must get out of her relationship to Hall Burlington, at least until she had been placed with friends. Osgood stared at him curiously.
"Yes?"
"She's a relative of friends of mine, and in my care professionally," continued Quentin. "Why are you interested in her? Do you take her for that woman pickpocket?"
"Well, I'd take her in all right if it wasn't for you," grinned Osgood. "O' course, your word goes with me, doc. You ain't got a card with you?"
Quentin laughed despite himself, and reported the loss of his pocketbook. To remove any possibility of suspicion remaining, he went on to say that Miss Elsmere could be identified by Mr. Mathews, at which the other nodded.
"All right, sir; all right. I'll report that pocketbook of yours—sorry you got stung, doc. It was prob'ly on the launch, while you was looking over the rail. Well, much obliged, and sorry I troubled you."
Quentin nodded, then wondered how Osgood had known he was on the launch—unless the detective had been trailing him. He looked after the man, who was going on up the avenue, and then thoughtfully continued his way down the hill.
The last steamer of the day had gone, and it was with no little suspense that he requested the desk clerk to call up Miss Elsmere's room with his name.
"Go right up, doctor," came the answer, and Quentin walked to the elevator with a song in his heart. The die was cast—a simple test or two, and he would doubt no more.
She greeted him with outstretched hands, her maid remaining in the alcovelike bedroom, and the frank delight in her face was so wholly unassumed that Quentin's heart smote him. He found that she was tired, and preferred talking quietly to going forth upon the island again, and she was genuinely glad to hear that his fishing trip had been "unavoidably" called off, and that he could remain with her.
So, dismissing the maid, he took her down to the palm-shaded corner in the lobby, where they sank into the soft chairs and talked. He not only made one or two simple tests, such as passing his finger close before her eyes, but he also told her of the loss of his pocketbook and frankly asked if she had any money. Her childish ripple of laughter disarmed his last suspicions, and she smilingly replied that she had ten dollars, which satisfied Quentin that for the night at least they would be able to pull through.
While they talked, during the hour that remained before dinner time, she told him more of her story and of her life under the roof of Doctor Burlington. The fact that she was of age mattered nothing, for as a dependent the physician had been given the custody of her person and the use of her income; while an appeal to the courts would of course result in her release, she had been kept in rather gilded seclusion, Burlington evidently knowing nothing of the clear, incisive brain which lay behind her broad brows.
"I wonder now that I had the courage—or rather, that I never had the courage to slip away before," she said finally. "It is so good of you to help me—and I am so sorry that I must be such a burden upon you——"
"Never mind that," returned Quentin soothingly. "We'll take a stroll to the Mathews' cottage to-night, and if they haven't come back I'll leave a note telling of your presence here. Unless they return to-night or in the morning, we're apt to have trouble, I fancy. Burlington will trace you here easily enough, through the men who helped you at Long Beach and San Pedro—but don't worry," he added quickly, as her face shadowed over, "I've three days of freedom; I'll wire my housekeeper for money to-night, and we'll soon tumble your worthy uncle off his high horse."
So, having quite restored her cheerful optimism, he tucked her hand under his arm, and they went in to dinner together for dinner clothes have little place in Avalon.
"Well, what will you have to start with?" he smiled, picking up the carte.
"Anything plebeian and understandable," she retorted. "You order, please."
"Certainly," he answered, mentally thanking himself that he had learned the trick of ordering for a fair companion. Dolly had been wont to assure him that a woman could not help adoring a man who could order fittingly without questioning her—and he smiled to himself at the thought. He was beginning to wish that Enid Elsmere could take a lesson or two in adoration from Dolly Burlington.
Having ordered, he laid aside the card—and looked up to see Bert Osgood calmly sitting three tables away, apparently paying them no attention whatever. But it suddenly occurred to Quentin that if this blind girl were in reality afraid of justice, she could find no better refuge than the Hotel Metropole, sheltered as the patient of a surgeon of some little repute.
With a little shock, he crushed the thought down sternly, and a song rose once more in his heart at the smile of the girl-woman who sat across the table and gazed at him with eyes that saw not.