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.