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Other documents randomly have
different content
distant heights in readiness for the swift descent ending with the
high jump that only experts can accomplish.
Thelma seemed silent and distraite all the morning. At length I
asked her what was troubling her.
“I really didn’t know I was glum!” she replied. “Forgive me, Mr.
Yelverton, won’t you? I am awfully worried about Stanley. I really
think it is useless for me to remain here in Mürren any longer. I had
better go home to Bexhill.”
The suggestion seemed to confirm my suspicion that she knew her
husband’s whereabouts, and felt it useless to await any longer for
him.
“My time is growing short, too,” I said. “I fear I must be back at my
office on Monday. My partner writes that he is very busy.”
“Then you will go on Saturday—the day after tomorrow, I suppose?
If so—may I travel with you?”
“Certainly,” I said. And as she had not booked a sleeping-berth on
the Interlaken-Boulogne express, I promised that I would see after it
during the afternoon.
Later that day I found that Audley had left her with only about a
hundred francs, and she was compelled to allow me to settle her
hotel bill.
As we came up into the hall after dinner the concierge handed
Thelma a note, saying—“Mr. Ruthen has left, miss, and he asked me
to give you this!”
She held it in her hand for a second, and then, after glancing at me,
moved away and tore it open.
The words she read had an extraordinary effect upon her. Her face
went as white as the paper, and she held her breath, her eyes
staring straight before her. Then she crushed the flimsy paper in her
hand.
She reeled against a small table, and would have fallen had she not,
with a supreme effort, recovered herself, and quickly stood erect
again.
“Forgive me, Mr. Yelverton,” she managed to ejaculate. “I’m not
feeling very well. Excuse me, I—I’ll go to my room!”
And she turned and ascended the stairs, leaving me astonished and
mystified.
What, I wondered, did that farewell note contain.
I saw her no more till next day. She sent me a message by the
chambermaid to say that she was not coming down again and I
passed the evening gossiping with Major Burton and two other
“bobbing” enthusiasts.
By this time I had pretty thoroughly wearied of the eternal round of
pleasure. Thelma’s obvious distress and the extraordinary mystery
into which I had stumbled occupied all my thoughts and I could no
longer take the slightest pleasure in the gay life which seethed and
bubbled around me. It was therefore with a feeling of genuine relief
that I found myself at last in the restaurant car of the Boulogne
express, slowly leaving Interlaken for the long night run across
France by way of Delle and Rheims. Already we had left behind us
the crisp clear air of the mountains. The snow everywhere was half
melted and slushy and the train pushed its way onward through a
dense curtain of driving sleet.
We ate our dinner amid a gay crowd of holiday makers returning,
not only from Mürren but from Grindelwald, Wengen, Adelboden,
Kandersteg, and other winter sports centres. The talk was gay and
animated, merry laughter resounded through the long car. Yet
Thelma sat pale, silent and nervous and her tired eyes told their own
tale of sleeplessness and anxiety. She gave me the impression that
she had been crushed by some sudden and unexpected shock and
though more than once I fancied she was on the edge of confiding
in me, she remained almost dumb and was clearly disinclined to talk.
We arrived at Victoria on Sunday afternoon and I drove with her in a
taxi to Charing Cross. On the way she suddenly seized my hand and
looking straight into my eyes said—
“I really do not know how to thank you, Mr. Yelverton, for all your
great kindness towards me. I know I have been a source of great
worry to you—but—but—” she burst into tears without concluding
the sentence.
I drew her towards me and strove to comfort her, declaring that I
would continue to act as her friend and leave no stone unturned in
my efforts to trace Stanley.
At last, as we went down the Mall, she dried her eyes and became
more tranquil. We were approaching the terminus whence she was
to travel to Bexhill.
“Now—tell me truthfully,” I said to her at last, “do you, or do you
not, know where Stanley is?”
She started, her lips parted, and she held her breath.
“I—I deceived you once, Mr. Yelverton. I—I did once know where he
was. But I do not now.”
“Then you wish me to discover him?” I asked.
“Yes. But—but, I fear you will never succeed. He can never return to
me—never!”
“Never return to you? Why? Was he already married?” I gasped.
“No. Not that. Not that! I love Stanley, but he can never come back
to me.”
The taxi had stopped, and a porter had already opened the door. I
asked her to explain, but she only shook her head in silence.
Ten minutes later, I grasped her hand in farewell, and she waved to
me as the train moved off to the pleasant little south-coast resort
where her mother was living. Thelma Audley’s was surely a sad
home-going.
Back in my rooms high-up in gray and smoky Russell Square, I found
old Mrs. Chapman, with her pleasant face and white hair, had
prepared everything for my comfort. The night was cold and rainy,
and the London atmosphere altogether depressing and unpleasant
after that bright crisp climate of the high Alps.
I looked through a number of letters which had not been sent on
and, after a wash, ate my dinner, Mrs. Chapman standing near and
gossiping with me the while. My room was warm and cozy, and with
the familiar old silhouettes and caricatures upon its walls, the side-
board with some of the Georgian plate belonging to my grandfather,
and a blazing fire, had that air of homelike comfort, which is always
refreshing after hotel life.
After I had had my coffee, and my trusted old servant had
disappeared, I threw myself into my big arm chair to think over the
amazing tangle in which I had allowed myself to become involved.
Was I falling in love with Thelma—falling in love foolishly and
hopelessly with a girl who was already married? I tried hard to
persuade myself that my feeling towards her was nothing but a deep
and honest affection, born of her sweet disposition and the queer
circumstances that had thrown us together. Stanley Audley,
whatever the explanation of his amazing conduct might be, had
trusted me and I fought hard in my own mind against a temptation
which I realized would, in normal circumstances, be a gross betrayal
of confidence. I had been brought up in a public school where “to
play the game” was the one rule of conduct that mattered and
hitherto I had prided myself on my punctiliousness in all the ordinary
matters of life. Was I to fail utterly in the first great temptation that
life had brought me?
I could not disguise from myself, try how I would, that even an
honest admiration for Thelma had its perils. As Dr. Feng had said, it
was dangerous. We were both young. I had hitherto escaped heart-
whole, Thelma was not only more than ordinarily beautiful but she
possessed a degree of charm and fascination—for me, at any rate—
that was well-nigh irresistible.
For a long time I paced my room in indecision. To act as Dr. Feng
had suggested would be to break off our acquaintanceship, treating
it merely as the passing incident of a pleasant holiday. But that, I
argued, was impossible. I had promised Audley to look after his wife
when everything seemed plain and straightforward: to desert her
now when she was clearly in difficulty and distress was unthinkable.
Yet to go on might—probably would—spell utter disaster to my
peace of mind, and make shipwreck of my honor.
Hour after hour passed and I seemed to draw no nearer to a
conclusion. But at length the glimmerings of a solution of the
problem began to draw in my mind. If I could but find Stanley
Audley I could cut myself adrift from the mystery and try to forget
Thelma as speedily as possible. This I determined honestly to try to
do, and I think I felt better and happier for the resolution. What I
failed to realize was the strength of the feelings that had me in their
grip. And ever and anon, like an inducement of hope, came the
resolution of Thelma’s declaration that Stanley could never return to
her. In that case—but I resolutely tried to push away from me the
thoughts that crowded into my mind.
Next day, after spending a couple of hours at Bedford Row with my
partner, Hensman, I set out on my first inquiry regarding Stanley
Audley.
I took a taxi to the house in Half Moon Street in which he had lived,
and there saw Mr. Belton, the proprietor.
He was a tall, bald-headed man in grey trousers and morning coat
and nothing could disguise the fact that he was a retired butler. “Yes,
sir,” he said in reply to my inquiry, “Mr. Stanley Audley lived here for
nearly two years. But he went abroad a short time ago, as I wired to
you, sir.”
“Well, the fact is, Mr. Belton, he’s disappeared,” I said.
“Disappeared!” echoed the ex-butler.
“Yes, I wonder if I may glance at his rooms.”
“Certainly, sir. But they are let again. Colonel Mayhew is out, so we
can go up. Mr. Audley sent all his things to store when he left, but I
was away at the time, so I don’t know where they went to.” He took
me to a well-furnished front sitting-room on the first floor.
“Do you recollect that he had a lady visitor—a tall, handsome, dark-
eyed young lady, whose name was Shaylor?”
“Certainly, sir. A young lady came once or twice to tea, but I don’t
know her name. And—well to tell you the truth, sir, his movements
were often very curious.”
“How?” I asked, with sudden interest.
“Well, he would walk out without any luggage sometimes, and then
a week later I would hear from him telling me to send on his letters
to some Poste Restante abroad. Once it was in Paris, another time at
Geneva and twice in Madrid. It always struck me as very curious that
he traveled without any luggage—or if he had any, he never brought
it here.”
“Curious,” I said. “Then he was a bit of a mystery?”
“He was, sir. That’s his photograph there, on the mantleshelf,” and
he pointed to a photograph in a small oval ebony frame.
To my amazement it was the picture of a man I had never seen in
my life.
“But that round-faced man isn’t Stanley Audley!” I exclaimed.
“Excuse me, sir, but it is,” was the ex-butler’s polite assertion. “He
lived here nearly two years.”
“He is not the Stanley Audley for whom I am searching, at any rate,”
I said.
“Well, he is the only Mr. Audley that my wife and I have had here.”
Suddenly I recollected that in my wallet I had a snap-shot of Thelma
on her skis which I had taken up on the Allmendhubel. I drew it out
and showed it to him.
“Ah! sir, that’s not the young lady who visited Mr. Audley. That’s a
young lady who came twice, or perhaps three times to see Mr.
Graydon.”
“What is Mr. Graydon like?” I asked eagerly.
In reply he gave me a very accurate description of Thelma’s
husband.
“Who, and what is Mr. Graydon?” I asked. “Tell me, Mr. Belton, for
much depends upon the result of this inquiry.”
“He’s a young gentleman very well connected—nephew of a certain
earl, I believe. He had the rooms above for about nine months, and
was very friendly with Mr. Audley.”
“And did he make mysterious journeys?”
“Yes, sometimes—but not very often.”
“Had he any profession?” I inquired.
“No. I understand that his father, who was a landowner in Cheshire,
left him with a very comfortable income. My wife and I liked him, for
he was a quiet, rather studious young fellow, though often at Mr.
Audley’s invitation he went out of an evening and did not return till
the early hours. But now-a-days with those dance clubs going, most
young men do that.”
“Well, Mr. Belton, may I see Mr. Graydon’s room?” I asked. In
response, he took me up to the next floor, where the sitting-room
and bedroom were even cosier and better furnished than the rooms
below.
“Mr. Graydon, when he left, laughingly said that he might be married
soon, but if he didn’t marry he’d come back to us. He told my wife
that he was going on a yachting trip to Norway with some friends,
and afterwards he had to go to Montreal to visit some relatives.”
“But the curious fact is that the man I knew as Audley is none other
than the man you know as Graydon!” I said.
“That’s certainly very mysterious, sir. Mr. Graydon must have
assumed Mr. Audley’s name,” Belton said.
“The whole affair is a complete mystery,” I remarked. “I wish you’d
tell me more that you know concerning this Mr. Graydon. What was
his Christian name, by the way? And when did you last see him?”
“Philip. He left us last September.”
“And the young lady who came to see him?”
“Oh! She was certainly a lady. Indeed, I rather fancied that I had
seen her several years ago, and that with her mother she once came
as guest of old Lady Wentbrook, in whose service I was. But I was
not quite sure, and I could not, of course, inquire. At any rate, she
was a lady, of that there could be no mistake.”
“And Mr. Graydon was a gentleman?”
“Certainly, sir. But I can’t vouch for Mr. Audley. They were friends—
and that’s all I know.”
“You had certain suspicions about Audley, and were not sorry when
he gave up his rooms?”
“Yes, sir, you’re quite right, I was.”
“And how about Graydon?”
“We were very sorry when he left, sir. My wife liked him immensely.
But she always said that he was somehow under the influence of Mr.
Audley.”
“Did you ever meet a Mr. Harold Ruthen?” I asked.
And from my wallet I took another snap-shot which showed him
with a party of skaters on the rink.
The ex-butler scrutinized it closely and replied:
“Yes. He’s been here. He was a friend of Mr. Audley’s. But I don’t
think that was his name. I believe he was called Rutley, or some
such name?”
“Did Mr. Graydon know him?”
“No, sir. Not to my knowledge. He came here once and stayed with
Mr. Audley while Mr. Graydon was up in Scotland shooting. But we’ll
go down below and show the photograph to my wife. She has a
better memory than I have.”
So we went into the basement, where I had a long conversation with
Mrs. Belton, a typical retired servant of the better class, shrewd and
observant.
That conversation definitely established several amazing facts which
served to make the mystery of Stanley Audley deeper and more
sinister than ever. It was clear—
(1) That Philip Graydon had, for some reason we could not
fathom, taken the name of Stanley Audley, while Audley
had passed as Graydon.
(2) That the movements of the two men were uncertain and
mysterious.
(3) That Harold Ruthen, also known as Rutley, was associated
with both Stanley Audley and the man Philip Graydon.
(4) That Thelma had married the man who, passing as Philip
Graydon, was really Stanley Audley!
After that amazing revelation I passed along Half Moon Street, in the
winter darkness, to Piccadilly in a state of utter bewilderment.
 CHAPTER VI
THE HAM-BONE CLUB

A few days later a client of ours named Powell for whom we were
conducting a piece of rather intricate business concerning a
mortgage of some land in Essex, invited me to join himself and his
wife at dinner at the Savoy.
Our table was in a corner near the orchestra and the big restaurant
was crowded. Sovrani, the famous maître d’hôtel knew all three of
us well and we dined excellently under his tactful supervision. After
dinner Mrs. Powell, a pretty young woman, exquisitely gowned,
suggested a dance in the room below. We went there and danced
until about half-past ten when Powell said:
“Let’s go to the Ham-bone.”
“The Ham-bone,” I echoed. “What on earth is that?”
“Oh!” laughed Mrs. Powell, “it is one of London’s merriest Bohemian
dance clubs. The male members are all artists, sculptors or literary
men, and the female members are all girls who earn their own living
—mannequins, secretaries, artists’ models and girl journalists. It is
screamingly amusing. Quite Bohemian and yet high select, isn’t it,
Harry?”
“I’ve never heard of it,” I said.
“Well, one gets a really splendid dinner there for half-a-crown,
though, of course, you get paper serviettes, and for supper after the
hours, you men can have a kipper—a brand that is extra special—
and a drink with it,” she went on.
“Yes, Leila,” laughed her husband. “The place is unique. Half the
people in ‘smart’ society, men as well as women, want to become
members, but the Committee, who are all well-known artists, don’t
want the man-about-town: they only want the real hard-working
Bohemians who go there at night for relaxation. Burlac, the sculptor,
put me up.”
The novelty of the idea attracted me, so we went in a taxicab to an
uninviting looking mews off Great Windmill Street, behind the Café
Monico in Piccadilly Circus. Walking up it, we passed through a
narrow swing-door, over which hung a dim feeble light and a big
ham-bone!
Up a precipitous flight of narrow stone steps we went until we
reached a little door where a stout ex-sergeant of police smiled
recognition upon my host, placed a book before him to sign and
relieved us of our coats.
In a room above a piano was being played by someone who was
evidently an artist and dancing was in progress.
The place might have been a cabaret in the Montmartre in Paris. I
thought I knew London’s night clubs fairly well—the Embassy, Ciro’s,
the Grafton, the Mayfair, the Royalty, the Twenty, Murray’s, Tate’s,
the Trippers, the Dainty, and others—but when I entered the big
whitewashed dancing room I found myself looking on a scene that
was a complete novelty to me.
The room was long and narrow. The walls were painted in stripes
representing oaken beams and set around them were many small
tables. The floor was filled with merry dancers, among whom I
recognized many people well-known in artistic and social circles.
Some of the men wore dinner jackets and many of the women were
in beautiful evening dress, but smart clothes evidently were
regarded as a non-essential, for a large proportion of the men wore
ordinary lounge suits.
As we stood watching the scene a tall, elderly man rose from a table
and cried:
“Hulloa! Leila! What a stranger you are!”
My hostess smiled and waved recognition, whereupon her friend—a
portrait painter whose reputation was world-wide, bowed over her
hand and said:
“Well, only fancy! It is really delightful that you should return to us!
We thought we’d lost you after you married!”
“My dear Charlie,” she laughed—for it was a rule in the Ham-bone
that every member addressed every one else by his or her Christian
name, and “Charlie” was a Royal Academician—“I am an old
Hamyardian: I was one of the first lady members.”
“Of course. You’ll find Marigold here. I’ve just been chatting with her.
She’s round the corner, over yonder. But she’s funny. What’s the
matter with her? Do you know?” he added in a low, serious voice.
“No, I didn’t know there was anything wrong,” replied my hostess.
It was easy to realize that here in this stable converted into a club
was an atmosphere and an environment without its like in London or
elsewhere. The denizens of that little circle of Bohemia cared for
absolutely nothing and nobody outside its own careless world whose
boundaries were Chelsea and the Savoy Club.
Ordinary social distinctions were utterly and completely ignored.
Gayety was supreme and in the merry throng I caught sight within a
few minutes of a well-known London magistrate before whom I had
often pleaded as a Solicitor, a famous scientist, the millionaire owner
of a great daily paper. Several leading members of the Chancery Bar,
an under-secretary of State and quite a sprinkling of young scions of
patrician families.
They were men and women of the intellectual type who cared
nothing for the vicious joys of the ordinary night club. They came in
frank enjoyment of dancing and music and the fried kippers, as
custom decreed, in order to comply with the kill-joy law that
ordained that they must eat if they wanted a drink! Everything,
apparently, was free and easy gaiety. Yet it was at least as difficult to
become a member of the Ham-bone as to gain admission to any of
the most exclusive clubs along Pall Mall. Money was no sort of
passport: only personality, ability or the true inborn spirit of
Bohemianism could open the portals of the Ham-bone.
The “master of ceremonies” was a well-known landscape painter,
whom every one addressed as “George,” a smart figure in the brown
velvet jacket of his profession. He chaffed and joked with every one
in French, revealing a side of his nature certainly unsuspected by the
general public to whom he usually presented a grave and austere
front. But this was the key-note of the Ham-bone: every one seemed
to “let himself go” and the stilted social etiquette of our ordinary
world seemed as far off as if we had been in Limehouse or Poplar.
I was dancing with Mrs. Powell, when, suddenly, she halted before a
small table in a corner where there sat alone a beautiful dark-haired
girl in a smartly cut dance-frock of black charmeuse.
“Mr. Yelverton,” she said, “will you let me introduce you to my
dearest friend, Marigold Day?” And to the girl she said, “Marigold,
this is Mr. Rex Yelverton, the gentleman of whom I recently spoke to
you.”
Somberly dressed, her white neck and bare arms in vivid contrast
with her dead-black frock, she was almost wickedly beautiful. Her
well-dressed hair, across which she wore a bandeau of golden
leaves, was dark; her scarlet mouth was like the curling underleaves
of a rose, her lips with the true arc-de-cupidon so seldom seen, were
slightly apart, and between them showed strong white teeth. Her
eyes were large and deeply violet and they held a fascination such
as I had seldom before seen.
“We’ll be back presently,” said Mrs. Powell, as we slipped again into
the dance. “I want to have a chat with you.”
“Who’s that?” I asked, as soon as we were a few feet away.
“Oh, that’s Marigold. We are fellow-members here. She was in
business with me before I married. Isn’t she very good-looking,
don’t you think?”
“Beautiful,” I declared.
“Ah, I see,” laughed my partner. “You are like all the other men.
They all admire her, and want to dance with her. But Marigold is a
queer girl: I can never make her out in these days. Once she was
very bright and merry, and always gadding about somewhere with a
man named Audley. Now there’s a kink somewhere. She accepts no
invitations, keeps herself to herself, and only on rare occasions
comes here just to look on. A great change has come over her. Why,
I can’t make out. We were the closest of friends before I married, so
I’ve asked her the reason of it all, but she will tell me absolutely
nothing.”
“Audley,” I gasped. “Where is she at business?”
“At Carille’s, the dressmakers in Dover Street. She’s a mannequin,
and I was a typist there,” she replied. “And now Mr. Yelverton, you
know what was my business before I married,” she added, with a
laugh.
“Pretty boring, I should say, showing off dresses to a pack of
unappreciative old cats,” was my remark.
“Boring isn’t the word for it,” Mrs. Powell declared, “I couldn’t have
stood her work. You should see our clients—uneducated, fat, coarse,
war-rich old hags who look Marigold up and down, and fancy they
will appear as smart as she does in one of Monsieur Carille’s latest
creations. How Marigold sticks at it so long I can’t make out. She
ought to be awarded the prize medal for patience. I could never
amble about over that horrid grey carpet and place my neck, my
elbows and hands at absurd angles for the benefit of those ugly old
tabbies—no matter what salary I was paid!”
At that moment we found ourselves before the table where her
husband was seated, smoking and drinking coffee with Sava, the
young Serbian who was perhaps the greatest modern caricaturist.
Belgravia is good; Bohemia is better; the combination of both is
surely Paradise! Sava’s conversation was as perfect as his
caricatures: he had seen life in every capital in Europe and was a
born raconteur. For a time he held us engrossed with his witty
comments on the men and matters of half-a-dozen countries, all of
which he knew to perfection.
Never have I seen so truly fraternal a circle as that little backwater
of Bohemianism. Every one was at his ease: there was no such a
thing as being a stranger there. The fact that you were there—that
some member had introduced you and vouched for you—broke
down all barriers and men who had never before met and might
never meet again met and chatted as freely as if they were old
friends and with an utter disregard of all the vexing problems of
wealth, rank, profession and precedence.
Presently my hostess took me back to the mannequin in black whom
I new realized must be wearing a copy of one of the famous man-
dressmaker’s latest creations.
“Mr. Yelverton wants a partner, Marigold,” my companion exclaimed
gayly, whereupon her friend smiled and rising at once, joined me in
a fox-trot with an expression of pleasure upon her face. She was a
splendid dancer.
“Mrs. Powell has told me of your acquaintance with Mr. Audley,” I
said, after a few minutes of the usual ball-room chat. “I wonder if it
is the same man I know. He used to live in Half Moon Street.”
She clearly resented the question. “Why do you ask?” she
demanded.
“Because I’ve lost sight of my friend of late,” I replied.
“Well, Mr. Audley did live in Half Moon Street, but he has gone
away,” she replied. And I thought I detected a hint of tragedy upon
her face.
 CHAPTER VII
IN THE WEB

As we danced Marigold told me something more about herself. She

lived, I found, with three other business girls at a boarding house in
Bayswater, going by tube to Dover Street each day. She had met
Audley and for a time they had been rather friendly, seeing a good
deal of each other. I guessed, though of course she did not tell me,
that the friendship bade fair to ripen into something deeper. Then
Audley had suddenly disappeared.
As our dance ended Mrs. Powell came up and we all went up the
narrow wooden staircase to the balcony where, as we enjoyed our
Bohemian supper, we could watch the dancing below.
It was just before midnight, when the fun was fast and furious and
the “Hamyardians,” as the merry circle call themselves, were
enjoying themselves in the wildest and most nonsensical fashion,
that Marigold Day, glancing at her wrist watch, declared that she
must go. I went down with her to the door.
“Can’t you tell me some more about Audley?” I asked just before she
entered her taxi.
She shook her head. “Don’t ask me, please,” she said and she
entered the taxi and was driven away towards Bayswater.
“Well, what do you think of Marigold?” asked Mrs. Powell, as I
resumed my seat at the supper table.
“She’s altogether charming, of course,” I replied, “but rather—well, I
don’t quite know the word. I should almost say mysterious: at any
rate she seems to be troubled about something and trying to hide
it.”
“That’s it, exactly,” declared my hostess. “During the past few
months she seems to have become an entirely different girl. As you
know, we were the closest of friends. She seems to live in constant
dread of something, but she absolutely refuses to tell me what it is.
Indeed, she declares there is nothing wrong, but that is nonsense.
No one who knew her six months ago could fail to realize that
something is very wrong indeed.”
“Do you know anything about her friend, Mr. Audley,” I ventured to
ask.
“Not very much,” said Mrs. Powell. “Of course, I have met him.
Marigold was getting very fond of him, I believe, but she will not talk
about him.”
Powell came up and declared it was time to go and I had no
opportunity of questioning Mrs. Powell any further, much as I wished
to do so. However, I determined to see her again and also to meet
Marigold Day and see whether either of them could give me further
details about Audley. Was he the real Audley? I wondered, or the
man who had taken his name.
A few days later I received a letter from Mrs. Shaylor inviting me to
go to Bexhill.
I was in two minds about accepting. I wanted to see Thelma—
wanted to help her and certainly did not want to lose touch with her
as I might if I refused to go. But was it wise?
Of course, inclination conquered prudence and I went. I found that
she and her mother lived in a pretty red-roofed, red-brick detached
house, with high gables, and a small garden in front. It stood in
Bedford Avenue, close to the Sackville Hotel and facing the sea.
Mrs. Shaylor, a pleasant, grey-haired woman of a very refined type,
greeted me warmly and thanked me cordially for what I had done
for her daughter in Mürren, while Thelma expressed her delight at
seeing me again.
I got a chance during the morning of speaking to Mrs. Shaylor alone
and asked her if Thelma had heard anything more of her husband.
“Not a word,” was Mrs. Shaylor’s reply. “It is a most disastrous affair
for her, poor girl. The suspense and anxiety are killing her.”
“She does not look so well,” I replied. I had, in fact, been struck by
the change in the girl. She was paler and thinner and it was evident
the strain was telling on her rather heavily.
“I understand you did not know very much of Mr. Audley,” I said.
“Very little indeed, unfortunately,” was Mrs. Shaylor’s reply. “Thelma
met him when she was staying with her aunt at the Majestic at
Harrogate, and they became friendly. He appeared to have
considerable means for he gave Thelma some very beautiful jewelry.
He came down here once, saw me, and asked if he might marry her.
He told me certain things about his relations in India, and she
seemed so entirely devoted to him that I gave my consent to their
marriage in three months. But, judge my surprise when a fortnight
later they were married secretly and left next day for Switzerland for
their honeymoon.”
“Then you really know very little of him, Mrs. Shaylor?” I asked.
“Very little indeed. It was a most foolish and ill-advised marriage. He
seems to have lied to her here and then deserted her.”
“I must say I liked what I saw of him,” I said, “and I wonder
whether we are right in thinking that he really deserted her in the
ordinary meaning of the word. It looks like it, of course, but it has
occurred to me, though I have only very slight grounds to go on,
that he is being kept away from her by some influence at which we
cannot guess. He really seemed devoted to her and genuinely sorry
to have to leave her.”
“Well, she certainly seems devoted to him and will not hear a word
against him. But what can one think under the circumstances?”
The drawing-room opened on to a wide verandah and across the
promenade we could see the rolling Channel surf beating upon the
beach. The winter’s day was dull and boisterous and now and again
sheets of flying spray swept across the promenade.
“He pretended to me that he was an electrical engineer,” I remarked,
“but I have found out that the firm for whom he said he worked
knows nothing of him.”
“That is what he also told me. But I have reason to believe that he is
in fact a young man of considerable fortune. Yet, if so, why has he
deserted poor Thelma?”
“I am doing my level best to find him, Mrs. Shaylor,” I said. “Some
very great mystery enshrouds this affair, and I have, in your
daughter’s interest, set myself to solve it.”
“I’m sure all this is extremely good of you,” she said, gratefully. “We
are only women, and both of us powerless.”
I paused for a moment. Then I said:
“I really came down here, Mrs. Shaylor, to put several direct
questions to you. I wonder if you will answer them and thus lighten
my task. I am a solicitor, as perhaps you already know.”
“Certainly. What are they?”
“Has your daughter ever known a man named Harold Ruthen?”
The lady’s face changed, and her brows contracted slightly. “Why do
you ask that?” she asked.
“Because it has a direct bearing upon the present situation.”
“Well—yes. I believe she has, or had, a friend of that name. A man
who lives in Paris.”
“Was he a friend of Audley’s?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Have you ever heard of a girl named Marigold Day—a mannequin at
Carille’s?”
“Never.”
I paused. Then I bent towards her and said, very earnestly, “Has it
ever struck you, Mrs. Shaylor, that your daughter knows just a little
more concerning Stanley Audley than she has yet told us?”
“Why do you ask that question?” she inquired.
“Well—because somehow it has struck me so,” I said. “And I will go
a little further. I believe she knows where her husband is, but—for
some reason or other—fears to betray him!”
“Is that your suspicion?” she asked, in a low strained voice.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Mr. Yelverton,” she said very slowly. “I admit that it is mine also!
I’ve questioned Thelma time after time, but she will tell me nothing
—absolutely nothing!”
“Are there any more facts you can tell me—anything to throw further
light upon these strange circumstances?” I asked her.
“No,” was her reply. “I’m afraid I know nothing else. Thelma is
worried. I feel terrified lest the real truth—whatever it may be—
concerning her husband, be disclosed.”
Thelma came in and we talked of other matters. She made great fun
of my position as her “temporary husband” at Mürren and seemed in
better spirits than when I came down.
After luncheon we went for a stroll together through the driving
health-giving breeze to Cooden Beach, and then back for tea.
Thelma wore a serviceable golf suit, thick brogues and carried a
stick, while her Airedale “Jock” ran at our side.
On the way I told her of my adventure at the Ham-bone Club. She
was much interested in the queer pranks of the Hamyardians and to
find out how much she knew, I told her about Marigold Day: in fact I
deliberately “enthused” about her. I watched her closely, but it was
evident Marigold’s name meant nothing to her. Then I went on the
more open tack and tried to get some further facts from her. It was
in vain: she seemed as determined to keep her knowledge to herself
as I was to get at the truth.
At last, as we neared the house, I made a direct attack.
“Now look here, Thelma,” I said, “do be frank. You know where
Stanley is, don’t you?”
She went pale: it was evident that it had never struck her that I
might guess at the truth.
“Why do you say that?” she asked sharply.
“Because I am certain Stanley has enemies and wants help.”
“Enemies!” she said, with an attempt to laugh “why should he have
enemies? What do you mean?”
“All that I have said. Cannot you trust me? If your husband is in
hiding for some unknown reason I should not betray him.”
“I have promised to say nothing,” she said blankly. “I cannot break
my promise.”
“Why does he not return to you?”
“There is a reason—he never can. We must live apart in future.”
“Why?”
She shrugged her shoulders, and after a few moments of hesitation
replied—
“There are certain facts, Mr. Yelverton, that I am forbidden by
Stanley to disclose. I have told you that we cannot be united again.
That is all. Please make no further inquiries.”
“But I will. You have been left in my care,” I asserted.
“If you do!—if you do it—it may be at your peril,” she declared, in a
hard unnatural voice, looking curiously at me as she opened the
gate. “Recollect, Mr. Yelverton, that my words are a warning.”
“But why?” I cried.
“I—I unfortunately cannot tell you,” was her reply, and we re-
entered her charming home together.
I returned to London more mystified than ever. The dual personality
of Stanley Audley, combined with the fact that his wife undoubtedly
knew of his whereabouts; her steadfast determination not to
disclose one single fact, and the strange threats I had heard Ruthen
utter, all combined to puzzle me beyond measure.
For a couple of days I did my best to attend to business, but
constantly I found my mind dwelling on the mystery of Stanley
Audley. I could not concentrate on legal problems and most of my
work fell on Hensman’s shoulders.
On the third night, after my visit to Bexhill, when I returned to my
rooms from the office, I found, lying upon my table, a typewritten
note which had been delivered that afternoon. It bore the
Hammersmith postmark.
Tearing it open I read some lines of rather indifferent typing, as
follows:—
“You have formed a friendship with Mrs. Thelma Audley. I
warn you that such friendship, if continued, will be at the
cost of your own life. Divert your love-making into another
direction. I have no personal animosity against you but
you are placing yourself in the way of powerful interests,
and you will be removed if necessary.”
I read and re-read this strange message. Thelma’s warning leaped to
my mind. Was there, then, a real risk to myself in the strange coil?
Then something—sheer obstinacy I suppose—came to my help and I
declared to myself that I would go ahead with my self-imposed task;
that nothing—least of all mere cowardice—should induce me to give
it up.
 CHAPTER VIII
DOCTOR FENG’S VIEW

I am not going to deny that at first that strange warning perturbed

me a good deal. After all, I make no claim to be a hero and not even
a hero likes threats of death, even though they be anonymous. At
the same time, I never proposed, even in thought, to give up my
quest. For, whether I wished it or not, I could not shake myself free
of Thelma’s influence: my day-dreams were themselves on the fancy
that some day, in some way, she would be free. More and more I
began to think that she had married Audley so suddenly under an
overwhelming girlish impulse; perhaps her mind had been made up
by some story he had told her to justify haste and secrecy. If this
were really so, would her love survive desertion and a separation
which she herself apparently regarded as permanent? It would be
strange, indeed, if it did.
So, through the dark March days that followed, I worked at the
office half the day, while the remainder I devoted to seeking traces
of the mysterious young man who had lived in Half Moon Street
under the name of Graydon.
Mrs. Powell and her husband had been suddenly called abroad. But
Marigold Day was an obvious source of possible information and to
make further inquiry of her I wrote asking her to dine with me one
evening at the Cecil.
She accepted, and we ate our dinner at one of the tables set in the
window of the big grill-room overlooking the Embankment. She
again wore her plain black dress which enhanced the whiteness of
her arms and shoulders and laughed merrily at me across the table
as we chatted over dinner.
I hesitated to refer to Audley directly after the conversation of our
previous meeting, but I asked her suddenly whether she happened
to know a man named Harold Ruthen.
“Harold Ruthen?” she echoed, “Yes, but why do you ask?”
“Because he was a friend of Audley’s,” was my reply. “Do you
happen to know him?”
“Certainly. I saw him only a few days ago. He’s looking for Audley—
he believes he is in Paris.”
“Now, I wonder if the Mr. Audley you know is the same man as my
friend. Will you describe him?”
She did so, and the description made it clear that he was indeed
Thelma’s husband.
“Yes,” I said. “He is no doubt the same.”
“He was well-known at the Ham-bone, where every one called him
Stanley,” she said. “But I can’t think why he disappeared and has
never written to me. A girl told me that he’d married. But I don’t
believe it.”
“Why not?”
“For the simple reason that he had asked me to marry him,” was the
startling reply.
“Was Ruthen on very friendly terms with him?”
“Yes. But Stanley did not like him. He used to tell me that Ruthen
was not straight, and I know he avoided him whenever he could. I
suppose we all hate most those we fear most.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked in some surprise at her philosophy.
“Well,” she said, “I always had a suspicion that Stanley went in fear
of Ruthen. Why, I don’t know.”
“That’s curious. What made you think so?”
“From certain remarks he once let drop.”
“Then Audley may be hiding purposely from that fellow?” I
exclaimed, as I recollected that queer conversation between Ruthen
and Thelma.
“I have thought that possible, but even then, he could easily write to
me in confidence, and tell me where he is,” said the girl.
“Where does Ruthen live?” I enquired.
“In Whitehall Court,” and she gave me the number.
“You have no idea what his profession may be?”
“Like Stanley—he is independent.”
“Audley is a rich man, isn’t he?” I asked.
“No doubt. When we first met he gave me some very expensive
presents merely because I happened to look after a girl he knew
who was suffering from pneumonia. He’s an awfully generous boy,
you know.”
“The fact is, Miss Day, I am doing all I can to discover Stanley
Audley. Can you tell me any other facts—anything concerning his
other friends?”
“He had another friend named Graydon, living at the same chambers
in Half Moon Street, a rather stout, round-faced man. But he has
also left London, I understand.”
“Graydon!” I ejaculated. So it seemed that the pair exchanged
names when occasion required. At Half Moon Street Audley was
Graydon, but outside, he took the name of the man who lived on the
floor below!
What could have been the motive?
I afterwards took my pretty companion to the theatre, and, later, she
took me to Ham-Bone Club, where we danced till nearly two.
From members there, I gleaned several facts concerning Stanley
Audley. He was apparently a rich young “man-about-town,” but
surrounded, as all wealthy young men are, by parasites who
sponged upon his generosity. Of these Harold Ruthen was
undoubtedly one.
Days passed, and although I went hither and thither, making
inquiries in all likely quarters, I could obtain no further knowledge.
Stanley Audley had disappeared. I felt more convinced than ever
that Thelma possessed knowledge she feared to disclose.
In my perplexity, I thought, at last, of old Dr. Feng. Perhaps he
would be able to help me. I wrote to him in care of his solicitor and
received a prompt reply asking me to go and see him at an address
in Castlenau, Barnes.
The house was just across Hammersmith Bridge. The anonymous
letter I had received had been posted, I remembered, at
Hammersmith. It was a queer coincidence.
Doctor Feng’s house, I found, was of a large, old-fashioned detached
residence which, a century ago, had probably been the dwelling-
place of some rich City Merchant who drove each morning into
London in his high dog-cart, his “tiger” with folded arms seated
behind him.
A maid conducted me to the front sitting-room, a large, well-
furnished apartment, where a big fire blazed.
“Well, Yelverton!” exclaimed the old doctor, rising, and putting out
his hand. “And how are you? I went to see my sister down at
Mentone, but the weather on the Riviera was simply abominable—a
mistral all the time. So I came back and took up my quarters here.
Comfortable—aren’t they? Sit down. It’s real good to see you again!”
I stretched myself in a deep comfortable chair beside the fire, and
we chatted for a time about Mürren.
“I wonder where Humphreys is?” he remarked. “He wasn’t a bad
sort, was he? And how about your temporary bride—the ‘Little Lady,’
as you called her!”
“Well, doctor,” I said, “that is really what I came to see you about.
The whole affair is a tangle and I wondered if you could help me. I
have found out a lot of things about Stanley Audley that are
certainly most disconcerting and mysterious.”
He passed a box of cigars. “Have a smoke over it,” he said, “if I can
help you I will. But first tell me what happened after I left Mürren.”
“A lot,” I replied. “You know Thelma’s husband left for London. Well,
he never came back.”
“The young cad,” said the doctor. “But, after all, I more than half
expected it.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, hesitatingly, “shall we say his sudden departure was
rather suspicious? To put it plainly the excuse was a bit thin. Would
any firm let an employee start on a honeymoon and three days later
find he was the man for an important appointment such as Audley
spoke of? Of course, such a thing might happen, but a more
probable excuse would have carried more conviction. To me it
suggested a story made up suddenly, in default if anything better, to
explain a departure forced upon him by some much less welcome
reason. However, I had no reason for saying this at the time and,
after all, I might have been wrong. But as things have turned out it
seems I was right and I am very sorry for his wife. After all,
whatever her husband may be, she is a charming girl—much too
good for him, anyhow. But go on, tell me what you have found out.”
I frankly told him, and as he smoked he sat back listening
thoughtfully without a word of comment.
At last, when I had concluded, he asked—
“Have you seen Harold Ruthen?”
“Not yet. He is an enemy of Thelma’s.”
“What makes you think that?” he asked, whereupon I told him of the
curious conversation I had overheard.
He bit his lip and smiled mysteriously, but said nothing. It was,
however, plain that what I had described greatly interested him.
“And little Mrs. Audley will tell you nothing—eh? She refuses. She is
evidently hiding some secret of her husband’s. Don’t you think so?”
“To me, she seems in deadly fear lest I should discover her
husband.”
“Oh! I quite agree, Yelverton,” the old man said. “There’s more
behind this curious affair than we’ve hitherto suspected. A man
doesn’t leave his young wife in the hands of a stranger without some
strong and very doubtful motive. Depend upon it that you were
marked down as the victim.”
“Not by Thelma!” I protested.
“No, she has been your fellow victim.”
“But the motive of it all?” I asked in dismay. “What is your opinion,
doctor?”
“The same that I formed when you first told me of your offer of help
—that you’ve been a silly idiot, Yelverton. Didn’t I point out at the
time the risks you were running?”
“Yes, you did,” I replied, “but I still intend—at all hazards—to get to
the bottom of the affair.”
Feng hesitated, and then, looking me straight in the face, said very
seriously—
“If you take my advice you will drop the whole affair.”
“Why?” I asked, in surprise.
“Because those men who lived at Half Moon Street and their friends
are evidently a very queer lot. In any case you ought to cease
visiting Mrs. Audley.”
I paused, recollecting that strange warning I had received, of which
I had not told him.
“But, after all,” I protested, “we are very good friends. Surely I ought
to help her by finding her husband?”
“When she probably knows where he is all the time!” scoffed Feng.
“I don’t see what good you will do that way.”
“Anyhow,” I said shortly, “I’m not going to see her left in the lurch
like this if I can help it.”
“Really, Yelverton, I don’t see what good you think you can do. We
both believe she knows where he is. If that is so why should you
interfere? Of course, what you tell me about the girl Day is very
interesting and may throw a good deal of light on Stanley Audley’s
character. But, after all, men change their minds and if Audley
preferred Thelma to Marigold, there was no reason why he should
not have asked her to marry him.”
“None the less, take my advice, drop the whole thing. You haven’t
the shadow of a legal right to interfere. The men who lived in Half
Moon Street, quite obviously a shady lot, have fled, evidently
frightened of something and apparently your temporary bride is as
frightened as they are. I don’t see why you should run any risk in
the matter.”
“But what earthly risk do I run?” I asked. “Surely I am capable of
looking after myself.”
“Considerably more risk than you imagine, unless I am very much
mistaken,” he replied gravely.
I wondered for a moment whether my mysterious warning had come
from the doctor himself. But what could he know about the affair? I
could not read anything in his inscrutable face, but his manner
certainly suggested that he was in deadly earnest, and, to my
intense surprise, he suddenly let fall a remark, quite unintentionally,
I believed, that, I realized with a curious suspicion, showed that he
knew Thelma and her mother were living at Bexhill. Here was indeed
a new complication. I made no sign that I had noticed his slip, but
sat as if thinking deeply, as indeed I was.
How, and for what purpose, had he obtained that information. He
had professed not to know what had happened after he had left
Mürren.
The idea flashed through my mind that he and Thelma were acting
in collusion to “call me off,” but this seemed so absurd that I
dismissed it at once.
“Now, look here, Yelverton,” he said presently. “You’ve not told me
everything.”
“Yes I have,” I protested.
“You haven’t told me that you’ve fallen deeply in love with little Mrs.
Audley. That is why I warned you—and still warn you—of rocks
ahead.”
“I did not think that necessary,” I said with some heat. “That is
surely my own affair!”
“Certainly,” he said, dryly, in the paternal tone he sometimes
assumed. “But remember my first view of the situation was the
correct one. I thought you extremely indiscreet to accept the trust
you did. It was a highly dangerous one—for you.”
“But you agreed afterwards that I did the right thing,” I argued.
“You acted generously in the Little Lady’s interests, but you have
certainly fallen into some extraordinary trap. That’s my point of
view,” he answered. “In any case, you are in love with a wife whose
husband is absent. That is quite enough to constitute a very grave
danger to both of you. So, if I were you I’d keep away from her.
Take my advice as an old man.”
His repeated warning angered me, and I fear that I did not attempt
to conceal my impatience. At any rate I took my leave rather
abruptly, and as I walked in the direction of Hammersmith Bridge I
felt more than ever puzzled at his attitude, and more than ever
determined not to deviate from the course upon which I had
embarked.