STRANGE SUSPICIONS
Try as I would I could not dismiss from my mind that old Doctor Feng,
if he was not actually the writer of the strange warnings I had
received, was in some way associated with the sender.
But what possible motive could he have? I could see none. I had no sort
of reason for thinking that he had any interest in Stanley Audley and
did not want him discovered, or that he had the smallest antipathy to
me personally: in fact he had invariably been extremely friendly. I
had, it was true, sensed a kind of latent hostility to Thelma, but this
appeared to be due more to the idea that I might make a fool of myself,
rather than to any active dislike of her. And I could see no kind of
reason why he should attempt to scare me by means of an anonymous
letter. Yet the suspicion stuck in my mind and refused to be dismissed.
Could the sender be Stanley Audley himself? Was he alive, yet for some
reason unable to come forward openly? He might have learnt something,
and suspected more, of my friendship with Thelma, and, in a fit of
jealousy, taken this means of trying to put a stop to it. This was
a possibility I could not ignore, yet I never, for a moment, really
believed it. On the other hand, I could not imagine anyone who could
possibly feel towards me the rancorous hate betrayed by the sending of
the letters.
I had worked myself into such a state that any real concentration
upon business had become impossible and at length my partner, quite
justifiably, took a strong line.
I had been engaged on an important right-of-way case in Derbyshire.
A committee of villagers had begun an action against a local Council
and I had been preparing instruction for the defense. Exasperated and
distracted by the evil shadow that had fallen across my life I was
bungling the business badly and at length had to turn it all over to
Hensman.
“Really, Rex,” he said, impatiently, “this can’t go on. I cannot
possibly do the whole work of the office.”
I handed him the second warning letter. He read it slowly, frowning
deeply the while.
“My dear Rex,” he said, “this thing is getting on your nerves. Cut it,
old man. Go up to Cromer and play golf for a week and think no more of
the girl, or the elusive bridegroom. Don’t mix yourself up with the
affair any more--unless--”
“Unless--yes, I know what you’re going to say. Unless I’m in love with
Thelma,” I replied. “She has a suspicion--only a suspicion, that her
husband is dead.”
“And then?” he asked. “And then I suppose you’d marry her--the widow of
a crook--”
“How do we know he is a crook?” I asked. “We have no proof of it.”
“Well, forged notes are pretty good evidence, aren’t they?” asked my
partner. “In any case you are quite unfit for work and it isn’t fair on
me--or you, either, for that matter.”
“But who can be sending me these threatening messages?” I asked him.
“Probably the wily husband himself. Wants a divorce, possibly. Perhaps
he will come to Hensman & Yelverton to file the petition!”
“You’re not serious!” I exclaimed pettishly. “You don’t see what all
this means to me--the upsetting of my life and of my profession.”
“I’m perfectly serious, anyhow, in saying this has got to end. We can’t
go on with one partner a passenger: things are getting behind. Cut the
whole affair. Your friend Feng, as any man of sense would have been,
was against it from the first. And how about that old invalid from
Constantinople? Have you heard from him?”
“Not a word. That’s a reminder. I’ll write to the Ottoman Bank and see
whether he is back again. But I don’t see how he can help.”
“He was back in London three days ago. Look!” Hensman said, passing me
over a cutting from the _Times_. “I cut it out intending to give it to
you.”
I took the narrow little strip and read the words:
“Mr. Hartley Humphreys has returned from Constantinople to the Carlton
Hotel.”
“By Jove! I’ll call and see him,” I said. “The paragraph escaped me.
Thanks.”
“Well, Rex,--do be careful. This obsession about your bride in distress
is interfering seriously with business. It’s all very well, but we--the
firm--have to get on and to live.”
His reproach, I felt, was amply justified. I might have quarreled with
another man in my present state of mind, but Hensman and I had been
friends for many years and I had a real and deep liking and respect for
him. He was the last man on earth with whom I could wish to quarrel.
“You’re quite right, old man,” I said at last. “It’s not fair on you.
I’ll try to pull myself together. You don’t want us to part company?”
“Don’t be an ass, Rex,” he replied with a laugh. “It isn’t so tragic
as all that. But you are playing with fire. Suppose Audley turns up
all right? You are getting yourself tied up in a hopeless knot and
my advice to you, once for all, is to cut yourself adrift from the
whole business and have nothing more to do with it. After all, Mrs.
Audley is not in actual want and whatever may have happened at Mürren
she has no shadow of claim on you any further. Certainly there is no
kind of reason why you should run yourself into any danger for her
sake. I can’t help thinking that there is more behind the matter than
we know and that those letters are meant seriously. If you were in
any way legitimately involved I would not suggest you should show the
white feather--indeed, I would come in with you myself to the limit.
But put the question to yourself: is there any real reason, apart from
your infatuation for the girl--herself a married woman, why you should
continue to take a hand in a very perplexing and unprofitable business.
If we knew Audley was dead and you are really fond of the girl, it
would be, I quite admit, a different thing.”
I could not pretend that there was any flaw in his logic. Yet I was
still restless and dissatisfied. I went home with him that night and
dined with his wife and himself in their quaint little cottage home
at Hampton. As I sat in that small low-pitched room--for the house
was composed of two old-world cottages knocked into one--I envied my
partner his domestic happiness.
When I got back to Russell Square I sat down before the big fire old
Mrs. Chapman had left me and for the thousandth time went over the
affair from the beginning seeking to recall any trivial circumstance
that might throw some light upon it. As to the personal threat, I
recklessly made up my mind that I would not allow it to influence me at
all: I would not run the risk of being fooled by a practical joke on
the one hand, or, on the other, weakly run away if there were any real
danger.
I decided that, in any case, I would see Dr. Feng, show him the letters
and, if necessary, ask him bluntly whether he were the sender.
So at eleven o’clock next morning the maid at the comfortable house
in Barnes showed me into the Doctor’s sitting-room, and a few seconds
later Feng, with a smile of welcome, entered with outstretched hand.
“Well, Yelverton, so pleased to see you,” he said, inviting me to a
chair. “And how are things going with you?”
“Oh, pretty much as usual,” I replied rather moodily.
I hesitated a moment and then I took from my pocket the second letter
of warning.
“Look, Doctor,” I said, “I’ve received this. What do you think of it?”
As he read it I watched him closely. It was evident he was keenly
interested. It struck me, too, that he was unmistakably surprised and
my suspicion that he might have been the writer faded instantly.
“I wonder who could have sent you that?” he exclaimed. “Somebody who is
jealous of your attentions to little Mrs. Audley.”
His eyes met mine, and I thought I saw a curious look of mystery in
them.
“I thought it possible that you might have been the sender,” I said,
with a laugh.
“Me!” he replied, starting. “Whatever causes you to suspect that?
Ah!” he added a second later. “I notice the postmark is that of
Hammersmith--just across the bridge! No, my dear boy, I assure you that
I am not the sender.”
By his manner it was plain that he was telling the truth.
“I remember your many warnings, Doctor. That is why I suspected,” I
said apologetically.
“Well, I hope you don’t believe that I’m guilty of sending you such
silly nonsense. Personally, if I received such a letter I should take
no notice of it. You’re not alarmed, surely? It’s only some silly joke,
perpetrated, perhaps, by one of Audley’s mysterious and undesirable
associates.”
“I wish I knew whether Audley were alive or dead!” I said bitterly.
“His wife has heard that he is dead, yet I can find no evidence at all
that this is so.”
“She told you that he could never return to her,” Feng remarked.
“Yes; but that is another puzzle upon which she refused to throw any
light,” I replied.
“Oh! by the way,” Feng exclaimed suddenly. “You recollect old Hartley
Humphreys at Mürren? He wrote to me a few days ago and I went to dine
with him at the Carlton. He’s just back from Constantinople, and do you
know, his lameness is quite cured. He’s been to some German specialist
who has put him right. He was enquiring about you.”
“I’d like to see him again,” I said. “He is quite a pleasant old
fellow.”
“Go and call. He’d like to see you, I’m sure. He was interested in your
romance, and asked me how it had ended. I pretended ignorance, for I
did not know how much you would like him to learn. I never care to
obtrude in other people’s affairs.”
“I will certainly go and see him,” I said. “It’s good news that he is
cured.”
“Yes. He walks without a stick and seems rejuvenated.”
Next day I went to the Carlton and sent up my card, after which I was
conducted to a handsome private sitting-room on the second floor. As I
approached the door, I saw disappearing along the corridor, the back
of a man whom I could have sworn was Harold Ruthen. I recognized him
mainly by his walk, his grey felt hat, the well-cut brown suit and the
drab spats. But he had turned the corner and disappeared before I could
make sure.
In the room old Mr. Humphreys rose to meet me.
“Well, Mr. Yelverton! This is indeed a pleasure! I was asking the
Doctor about you only the other day. I had mislaid your address. I’m so
glad you’ve called.”
“The Doctor told me you were here,” I said.
“Excellent! Sit down. Have one of these Turkish cigarettes. They
are real Turkish, for I brought them home with me. You can get no
first-class Turkish cigarettes except in Turkey itself. As you know,
the export of the best tobacco leaves is forbidden. The second quality
only goes to Europe.”
I took one of the thin little rolls of golden tobacco, and lighting it
pronounced it to be exquisite.
“Well, and what you have been doing since I left Mürren--carrying on in
your profession, I suppose? And how about that charming little bride?
Did her husband come back?”
“No,” I replied. “He has not yet returned to her.”
“What!” cried the old man, opening his eyes widely. “Not back! Then
he deserted her and left her upon your hands!” he added. “A rather
dangerous situation for a young man--eh?”
I smiled.
“It is a tragedy,” I said, a few moments later. “The poor
broken-hearted girl is back with her mother at Bexhill.”
“And you see her sometimes, I expect.”
“Very rarely,” I answered. “But I am still seeking for traces of the
missing man.”
“Curious that he didn’t come back. He seemed quite a nice young fellow
and devoted to his wife. There is a mystery somewhere. I wonder what
really happened.”
“It is impossible to conjecture--unless he is keeping out of the way
for some unexplained reason.”
A moment later the door opened and Dr. Feng walked in. I was rather
surprised at his coming up unannounced. When he saw me he looked
annoyed for a moment, but only for a moment. Then he laughed and said--
“Well, I didn’t expect to find you here, Yelverton!”
“We were discussing little Mrs. Audley and her missing husband,”
Humphreys explained.
“Yes, some silly ass who is jealous has sent Yelverton two letters of
warning, threatening him with death if he continues his search for
Audley or his acquaintanceship with his wife,” the doctor said.
Humphreys laughed, and exclaimed--
“What rubbish! The letters must be a joke.”
“I think they are meant in earnest,” I said.
In the meantime the doctor had taken a chair before the fire, and
proceeded to light his pipe. It struck me suddenly that, so far from
being, as I had believed, mere hotel acquaintances, these two were
great friends.
This surprised me. The doctor had told me that he had made a formal
call in response to a letter, but as we sat there it was plain they
were on terms of close intimacy.
“I’ve had the agent round this morning about that house in Hampstead I
told you about,” Humphreys said. “Ruthen is seeing after it for me. I
fancy I can get it a bit cheaper than they want. As I’ll be in London
for quite a year now, I prefer a house to hotel life.”
Mention of the name of Ruthen caused me to prick up my ears. I had no
idea that the young man who so constantly pestered Thelma with his
questions was acquainted with Humphreys.
“Yes,” agreed the doctor. “I think you will be better off in a house
than in hotels. I always find the latter very wearisome and restless.”
“It’s quite a nice place,” Humphreys remarked. “A bit big perhaps, but
I shall often have some relatives staying with me. Ruthen is quite of
my opinion that it would just suit me.”
“So he told me yesterday,” said the doctor. “I met him at lunch with
Andrews.”
Here was another surprise. I learned that three men whom I had believed
to be practically strangers to each other were on terms of intimate
friendship.
I remained for about an hour and then left the pair together. Old
Humphreys begged me to call upon him again.
Two days later he rang me up at the office and asked me to dine with
him. I accepted and we had dinner together in the Savoy restaurant,
and afterwards watched the dancing in the room below. The old fellow,
always a pleasant companion, had certainly become rejuvenated since the
winter at Mürren.
“Isn’t it splendid!” he remarked when I referred to his cure. “Old
Professor Goltman, in Dresden, has worked a miracle. I can now get
about quite well, and I feel quite twenty years younger.”
“You look it,” I declared, for he certainly seemed an entirely
different man from the decrepit invalid who wheeled himself in his
chair, and had often to be carried upstairs.
Thoughts of Mürren reminded me that Harold Ruthen had been there for a
few days at the same time as the invalid. Evidently they must have met
there and their acquaintance must have been renewed in London, where
Ruthen was now acting on Humphreys’ behalf in regard to the house.
It struck me too, that if I mentioned Ruthen I might be thought too
inquisitive. But I decided to watch closely, for I was beginning to
grow distrustful of both the doctor and his friend: of Ruthen I had
never been anything else. My suspicions were greatly strengthened by a
curious circumstance which occurred about a week later.
Though I had struggled against it I had decided to go down and see
Thelma again, and put to her certain other questions which I hoped
would induce her to give me her entire confidence. The fact was that I
could not keep away from her, try how I would.
I little dreamed of the consequences that visit was to have!