CROOKED PATHS
One cold evening I returned from the office after a heavy day which
had been devoted to the successful settlement of a very complicated
and serious action for libel against a provincial newspaper which we
represented.
As I entered my room, Mrs. Chapman, in her spotless black dress--just
as she always wore when my father was alive--followed me in, saying--
“Oh! Mr. Rex. A gentleman called about three o’clock. He wouldn’t leave
a card. He gave his name as Audley--Mr. Stanley Audley. He repeated it
three times, and told me to be sure to recollect the name. He said he
was extremely sorry you were not at home, but you were not to worry
about him in the least.”
I started, staring blankly at her.
“Wouldn’t leave a card? Wouldn’t he call again?”
“He seemed to be in a very great hurry, sir. He said he had come from
abroad to see you, but couldn’t wait and said he was very sorry. Only
I was to give you his urgent message.”
“What was he like?”
“Well, sir, he was a round, rather red-faced gentleman. He was
evidently greatly disappointed at not meeting you, but he impressed
upon me the message that he was all right, and that you were not to
worry about him.”
This was indeed a surprise.
It was evident that my caller was the man who had lived on the first
floor in Half Moon Street, and was the friend of the Stanley Audley who
had married Thelma!
What did that amazing visit portend? It worried me. Why should a
reassuring message be given to me by a man who was not the person in
whom I was interested, and whom I had never met? The whole affair was
becoming more and more obscure and mysterious. As a solicitor I had
been brought into contact with more than one queer affair, but the
Audley mystery was beyond anything in my experience.
“Couldn’t he call again, Mrs. Chapman?” I asked.
“No, sir. He said he had come to see you just for a moment, and that he
was sorry that he couldn’t wait. He had a taxi outside.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Chapman. I’m sorry I was not at home to see him. Did you
give him my office address?”
“I did, sir. But he said he had no time to go round to Bedford Row, and
that you would no doubt understand.”
Understand! What could I understand? I was more bewildered than ever.
Next day I called again upon Belton, in Half Moon Street, and
questioned him more closely about his recent “Box and Cox” tenants. But
he could tell me nothing more than he had already. Mr. Graydon and Mr.
Audley were close friends. That was all.
“Tell me something about their visitors,” I asked. “Did Mr. Graydon,
the gentleman who lived above, have many?”
“No, sir. Very few. Several of them I knew quite well when I was in
service--gentlemen from the clubs. One a Canadian millionaire, came
often, but Mr. Graydon never had any lady visitors except that young
lady we spoke about a short time ago--the lady whose photograph you
showed me, Miss Shaylor.”
“And Mr. Audley, who lived below?”
“Oh, he had quite a lot of callers--both ladies and gentlemen. He
was older than Mr. Graydon, and seemed to have quite a big circle of
acquaintances. They used to play bridge a lot.”
“Now, tell me, Mr. Belton. What is your private opinion about your
tenants?”
“Well, sir, as you are a solicitor”--he had gained that knowledge from
my card,--“I can speak quite frankly. Now that they are gone I don’t
mind saying I held them both in suspicion. They had plenty of money and
paid well, but I don’t think they were on the straight. That’s my firm
opinion and my wife thinks the same.”
“What first aroused your suspicion?”
“Their card parties. They weren’t always square. I’m sure of it. Mr.
Audley had an invalid friend, an old man named Davies, who came about
three times, and when he came woe betide those who played. I kept my
eyes and ears open when I served their drinks, and I’m sure I am not
mistaken.”
“An invalid!” I exclaimed. “What kind of man was he?”
“Oh! he was very lame, was Mr. Davies, sir. An old man, but as keen as
mustard on poker.”
“Did Mr. Graydon play?” I asked.
“Very little, sir.”
“Did he ever meet this Mr. Davies?”
“I think not, sir. Because on the first occasion Mr. Davies came I
recollect that Mr. Graydon was away in Norway. The next time he came,
Mr. Graydon was away in Paris. No,” he went on, “as far as I can
recollect Mr. Graydon never met Mr. Davies.”
“Then this Mr. Davies was a person to be avoided?” I suggested.
“Distinctly so, sir. He was a shrewd and clever gambler, and I feel
certain that he was in league with Mr. Audley. Indeed, I know that on
the morning after one of their sittings they divided up a thousand
pounds between them. It had been won from a man named Raikes, a
manufacturer from Sheffield.”
“So they shared the spoils?” I said. “But tell me more about this
interesting invalid.”
“Well, sir. He was a grey-bearded man of about sixty I should think,
and he walked with difficulty with two sticks. He seemed to lisp when
he spoke.”
It struck me at once that the ex-butler’s description would have fitted
old Mr. Humphreys very closely, except that Humphreys did not lisp. I
had no reason for thinking that Humphreys could have known Graydon, but
he might have done so and he certainly was a very keen poker player.
“Had he a rather scraggy, pointed beard and did he wear in his tie a
blue scarab pin?” I asked.
“No,” was Belton’s prompt reply, “he had a round beard and I never saw
him wearing a scarab pin.”
Now old Mr. Humphreys always wore an antique pin of that description;
I never saw him without it. He was immensely proud of it and used to
declare it was a mascot that brought him good luck. He had a wonderful
story of how he obtained it from some old Egyptian tomb. So the chance
of Mr. Davies and old Humphreys being identical seemed a coincidence
almost too peculiar to be true. Yet I could not get rid of a suspicion
that they were one and the same person.
“You are quite certain that he never met the young gentleman you knew
as Mr. Graydon?” I asked Belton.
“I’m quite certain of that, sir. One day Mr. Audley asked me not to say
that Mr. Davies had been there, and asked that I would keep his visits
a secret from young Graydon as he did not wish them to meet. There was,
I remember, a lady named Temperley, who sometimes came with Mr. Davies.
She was a stout, dark-eyed, over-dressed woman whom I put down as a
retired actress. She had a young, thin rather ugly daughter, a girl
with a long face, and protruding teeth. Both mother and daughter seemed
to be on terms of close friendship with Mr. Davies.”
“Davies was an invalid. How did he get up these stairs?”
“With difficulty, sir. I used to help him up, and sometimes Mr. Audley
helped me,” was the ex-butler’s reply. “At poker he was marvelous.
I’ve seen poker played in several families in whose service I’ve been,
but I never saw a finer player. He was more like a professional than an
ordinary player for amusement.”
“And your tenant, Mr. Audley?”
“He was a fine player, of course. He used to have friends in at night
and sometimes they would play till dawn.”
“And did Mr. Graydon never play?” I asked.
“Very seldom; the parties usually took place when he was away.”
It was quite evident that Stanley Audley, alias Graydon, was a person
of mystery and his friends were as mysterious as himself. After a
moment’s reflection I decided to take Belton fully into my confidence
and tell him the whole story.
“Now, look here, Belton,” I said, “you may be able to help me
considerably. I will tell you the whole story so far as I know it, and
perhaps you will be able to remember further facts that may help.”
So I related to him everything that had happened since I first met
Stanley Audley and his bride at Mürren.
Belton listened in silence. When I had finished he asked me one or two
questions.
“Well, sir,” he said at last, “I think you had better see my wife. She
may know something more.”
He fetched Mrs. Belton and briefly outlined to her the facts I had
given him.
“You see, Ada,” he said, “the gentleman who called himself Audley here,
was not the Mr. Audley who married the daughter of Commander Shaylor.
Mr. Graydon is her husband. Isn’t it a puzzle?”
“It is,” replied his wife. Then, after I had made my explanation I
begged her to tell me any further fact which might be of service in my
inquiry. She hesitated for a moment and at last said:
“Don’t you recollect, Jack, that Mr. Graydon, before he came to us,
lived at Seton’s, in Lancaster Gate. He was very friendly with Mr.
Seton, who you remember was butler to old Lord Kenhythe at Kenhythe, in
Kirkcudbrightshire. You went there one shooting season from Shawcross
Castle, to oblige his lordship.”
“Oh! yes, of course!” exclaimed her husband. “Really, Ada, you’ve a
long memory!”
“Well, I was head-housemaid once at Shawcross Castle. You forget that!
But, don’t you recollect that young Mr. Graydon was very friendly with
Mr. Seton. I don’t know why he left there and came to us, but I fancy
it was because there was such a row at a party he had there, and he
wouldn’t apologize, or something like that.”
“Ah! I remember it all now, of course, Ada,” exclaimed the woman’s
husband. “Yes, you’re right--perfectly right! If there’s one man in
London who knows about Mr. Graydon it’s Mr. Seton.”
He gave me the address of Lord Kenhythe’s ex-butler, and an hour later
I called at a large private hotel facing Hyde Park, near Lancaster
Gate, with a scribbled card from Belton.
The man who received me was a tall, very urbane person with small
side-whiskers. He took me into his private parlor in the basement,
where I told him the object of my visit.
“Yes, sir. I know Mr. Philip Graydon. A very estimable young gentleman.”
“Who is he?”
“Well, his father was the great Clyde shipbuilder, whose works are at
Port Glasgow--the firm of Graydon and Hambling. When his father died,
about two years ago, he left him a quarter of a million.”
“You know him well?”
“I did, sir. His father used to shoot with his lordship regularly, and
Mr. Philip often came with him.”
I briefly told him that I was making inquiries into certain very
curious circumstances, and said--
“I want your private opinion, Mr. Seton. Is there anything peculiar
concerning Mr. Graydon? I ask this because on his marriage he took the
name of Audley.”
“His marriage! I didn’t know he’d married, sir.”
“Yes. And he is missing. It is on behalf of his wife, who is a friend
of mine, that I’m making these inquiries.”
“Mr. Graydon married!” he repeated. “Pardon me, sir, but whom did he
marry?”
“A young lady named Shaylor.”
“Ah!” he ejaculated. “Yes, I know. He was very fond of her--very fond!
Her mother is a widow in very straitened circumstances, I’ve heard. But
do you say he’s missing?”
“Yes. He disappeared while they were on their honeymoon in Switzerland.”
“And where is his wife now?”
“With her mother in Bexhill. But tell me, Mr. Seton, Mr. Graydon as you
call him, was with you for some months, wasn’t he?”
“For nearly a year and a half, sir.”
“And during that time did a man named Audley ever visit him?”
“Yes, a round-faced man who lived at Belton’s. He visited Mr. Graydon
first about six weeks before he left me to go and live at Belton’s.”
“Why did he leave you?”
“Well, he had a bachelor party one night--they were very noisy and I
remonstrated with him, and--well, he’s only young, sir--and the fact
is he insulted me. So I gave him notice. But we’re still the best of
friends,” said the ex-butler.
And then Seton sprang on me perhaps the greatest surprise of my life.
“Now I know your reason for wanting to see Mr. Graydon,” he said. “I
may as well tell you he is here now.”
“Here!” I gasped excitedly, “do you mean he is staying here?”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply, “he’s in number eighteen. He came here
yesterday quite unexpectedly.”
At last I had run Thelma’s mysterious husband to earth!
“He came in half-an-hour ago,” Seton went on, “and I gave him a letter
which came for him by express messenger. I know he’s upstairs. If you
would like to see him, I will send up.”
“No, thanks,” I said. “Under the circumstances I think I would prefer
to go up unannounced if you have no objection.”
“Not in the least,” replied Seton. “Number Eighteen is on the second
floor.”
So I eagerly ascended the wide, thickly-carpeted stairs. I had no
very clear idea as to how I should approach the man I had known as
Stanley Audley, but I was determined to demand an adequate explanation
of why he had married Thelma under an assumed name and so cruelly
deserted her, and, if necessary, to back my demand by a threat of legal
proceedings.