ESTABLISHES SOME CURIOUS FACTS
When I met Thelma next morning I noticed that she was pale and
obviously nervous and ill at ease. I longed to question her, but to do
so would have been to reveal the fact that--unintentionally, it was
true--I had been eavesdropping.
It was now plain that the man Ruthen, whom I had thought to be a mere
hotel acquaintance of Stanley Audley’s, was, in truth, something more,
whether friend or enemy I was still not quite sure. Thelma’s attitude,
it was true, suggested the latter, though Ruthen had professed friendly
motives. His attitude towards her thoroughly incensed me. But I
realized that there must be some reason, unknown to me, why Thelma
never acknowledged him when I was present. It was evident too that she
hated and possibly feared him and that she, at any rate, regarded him
as her husband’s enemy.
She made no mention of the telegram from her husband that Ruthen had
referred to and, as she had not denied having received it, I assumed
that Ruthen’s information was correct. It might have been, of course,
a reassuring message, but if this was so there was no apparent reason
why she should not have told me about it and her obvious anxiety and
nervousness seemed entirely to contradict the suggestion that it could
have contained any good news.
That morning we took our skis up the cable railway to the Allmendhubel,
a thousand feet further up the mountain side, and thoroughly enjoyed
our sport on the steep snowy incline above the village. A ski-jumping
competition had been arranged for the afternoon and we spent an hour
watching the competitors “herring-boning” and “side-stepping” as they
climbed over the snow up the 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.