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.