GROWING SUSPICIONS
I had been fortunate enough in my life to escape many of the shadows
that lie in wait for most men. No serious betrayal of friendship had
come to make me bitter or cynical: I did not--as even my profession
might have taught me to do--look upon men with suspicion and distrust.
I preferred to give them my confidence.
But in spite of this I found myself growing more and more distrustful
of old Feng, more suspicious of his motives, more convinced that, for
some reason I could not fathom, he was playing a double game.
I knew that he was on a footing with Thelma quite different from what
he allowed me to believe. So much their secret interview at Bexhill had
shown me. And his attitude towards the attempt made upon my life went
to increase my distrust.
Had it not been that the handwriting of the note left beside my bed
differed so completely from my own--why no attempt to imitate my
hand had been made completely puzzled me--I should undoubtedly have
been charged with attempted suicide. The local police if not very
brilliant, were keen enough on the affair. I wanted to give them a
detailed account of everything that had led up to the attack on me--to
tell them the whole amazing story. To have done this would have shown
them that there was far more behind the affair than they could possibly
imagine. They, of course, looked upon the matter as being within a very
narrow circle. I knew, as Feng knew, that much more complicated issues
were involved.
Feng, however, strenuously opposed my proposal to tell the police
anything more than the barest facts, which, indeed, could not be
concealed. I wondered why, and asked him.
“It will serve no good purpose,” he argued. “These local policemen
have already confessed their ignorance of the man from Bradford. He
was not seen to leave by train, and as, from your description of him
his appearance was rather striking, I think, we may assume he did not
go that way. Probably he had a car in readiness and escaped unnoticed.
If you tell the police more than they know already you must inevitably
drag Mrs. Audley and her husband’s affairs into a very unpleasant
publicity. No, let us keep our own counsel.”
I remained in hospital two days longer. Thelma and Feng visited me
each day and I could not help noticing the queer bond of understanding
that seemed to have grown up between them. Not a word was said by
either of them to indicate that they were more than mere friends
but--perhaps my growing suspicions were responsible--I seemed to see or
to imagine evidence that their association implied very much more than
I was intended to believe. Feng had always opposed my association with
Thelma--had seemed, indeed, decidedly hostile to her. His hostility,
at least, had apparently evaporated. Yet I found he was as strongly as
ever opposed to the continuance of my intimacy with her.
Did he fear for me? Did he fear for her? Did he fear for both of us?
I could not tell. But there was no mistaking the advice he gave.
“Look here, Yelverton,” he said to me a few hours before I was to leave
the hospital, “you have had a very narrow escape. You owe your life to
the merest chance and you may not be so lucky in the future.”
“In the future!” I echoed. “Surely you don’t think there will be
another attempt to get me out of the way?”
“Indeed, I do,” he replied very gravely. “I don’t pretend to understand
the reason, but I should think it must be perfectly clear that your
friendship with Mrs. Audley is involving someone in a danger so grave
that they will not stick at trifles to avert it.”
“But how on earth can my friendship with Thelma affect anyone else to
such a degree as that?” I demanded, with some heat. “Stanley Audley
might perhaps object, but even he could hardly imagine that it was a
cause for murder. And even if he did the rather elaborate plot evolved
by someone would hardly have been the line he would have chosen.”
Feng shook his head. “You can rule Stanley Audley, as the husband, out
of your reckoning. But what about Stanley Audley, the bank-note forger.
Suppose he and his associates know that your constant efforts to find
him might mean bringing the whole gang to justice? Desperate men would
not hesitate at murder when the stakes involved are so great. My own
belief is they fear that by your continued friendship with Mrs. Audley
you will pick up a hint that will set you--and the police--on the right
track. Probably they think that is your real motive. Take my advice--I
mean it very seriously--and cut yourself adrift from the whole thing.
Go back to London, take up your work afresh--and forget Thelma ever
existed.”
“I can’t and I won’t,” I declared passionately. “I’m going to try to
get the man who attacked me, and I’m going to try to find Stanley
Audley. Thelma thinks he is dead. I’m going to leave no stone unturned
to find out the truth. If he is really alive and returns to her--well,
I should have to keep away. In the meantime I want to discover the man
who tried to murder me.”
“He will be discovered some day, you can be quite certain,” was Feng’s
reply.
His tone surprised me completely: there was in it a curious ring of
certainty entirely unexpected. It was as if he knew with certainty and
positive conviction.
I glanced at him sharply. “You seem very certain of it,” I said.
“Well, I am pretty certain,” was his reply, with a curious expression
on his usually inscrutable face. And once again came to my mind the
uncanny conviction that the old fellow really knew a great deal more
than he would tell me. My suspicions of him redoubled.
“Drop it, my boy,” he said kindly enough. “If you had taken my advice
at first this would never have happened.”
Then for the twentieth time he went over with me every detail of the
description of the mysterious stranger from Bradford. What motive lay
behind the ceaseless questioning I could not imagine. Feng was not
a policeman, he strongly opposed telling the police any more than
we could help, yet he discussed the man from Bradford as though he
expected to meet him in the street next day and arrest him on the
instant.
But for what I had seen myself, but for the unmistakable “human eye”
scarf-pin that I had unmistakably seen when in the throes of what was
so nearly my death agony, I should have hesitated to believe that the
mysterious man from Bradford could have been concerned in the attack
on me. Anyone less like a criminal it would be difficult to conceive.
His keen, cheery countenance, indelibly stamped on my recollection;
his frank, engaging manner; his open, goodfellowship and gay-hearted
discussion of any and every subject of interest that cropped up, all
tended to give the lie to the suggestion that he would be a murderer in
intent if not in fact. But that scarf-pin! It could not be mistaken.
There could not by any stretch of coincidence be two such pins in that
Stamford hotel on the same night. And upon that pin I had undoubtedly
looked during that awful night when I so nearly lost my life.
Another thought had flashed upon my mind. Young Mr. Pearson had
driven from Duddington to see me. I had never spoken to him before
and instantly I knew that his was not the voice I had heard upon the
telephone. Then I knew whose voice had come to me over the wire. It
was that of the man from Bradford. I wondered I had not thought of it
before. But I was sure my recollection was right.
On that last afternoon, when the hospital doctor pronounced me fit to
travel back to London, I took a walk with Thelma through the town, and
out along the pretty road which leads to Great Casterton. We soon left
the road by a footpath which took us up the hillside and into some
delightful woods, part of the ancient far-reaching Rockingham Forest.
There we rested together on the trunk of a big fallen elm.
Around us the sun’s rays slanting through the foliage, fell upon
the gray lichen of the huge forest trees and the light green of
the bracken, while the damp sweet smell of the woods greeted our
nostrils--that delightful perfume which seems peculiar to rural England
in summer.
“Mr. Yelverton,” exclaimed my pretty companion, gazing suddenly into
my eyes. “I--I want to ask you to forgive me. This wretched affair has
happened all through me. I alone am to blame for it.”
“Blame!” I echoed, as I took her hand--“what do you mean? You are
certainly not to blame. It seems I have a secret enemy who tried to
kill me--I don’t know why; I have done no one any harm that I know of.
But to say you are to blame is absurd.”
“Doctor Feng says you should have taken heed of the warning that was
sent you concerning myself,” she replied. “He thinks, too, that
another attempt will probably be made upon you--so do be careful.”
“But why? Tell me why,” I demanded.
She spread out her hands in a little gesture of helplessness and drew
her cream-colored sports coat more closely around her. She looked very
sweet and dainty in a close fitting little pull-on hat of cherry color
in fine pliable straw, a summer frock of pale gray silk striped with
cherry to match her hat, and gray suede shoes and stockings.
It never struck me at the time that if she really believed Stanley to
be dead she would have worn mourning.
“Doctor Feng is very concerned about you,” she declared. “Has he told
you anything?”
“No,” was my reply.
“Well, he seems very upset about something. I can’t make it out.”
“Neither can I!” I replied. “The whole affair of Stanley’s flight and
the subsequent happenings are beyond my comprehension, Thelma.”
“His flight!” she exclaimed in a startled voice. “You surely don’t
think that he has left me intentionally?”
“Then why doesn’t he write to you or return?” I asked pointedly.
“Perhaps,” she suggested gently, “there are circumstances that prevent
him doing either.” I had thought she would have been offended.
“No,” I said, “he is your husband. His duty is clearly to tell you
where he is and why he has not returned. I am sure he would if he
really loved you,” I added recklessly.
She was plainly startled now. Whatever she knew--and I was sure she
knew more than she would tell me--the idea that her husband did not
really care for her was clearly new and overwhelming. She gazed at me
white-faced and wide-eyed.
“If he really cares for me!” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
I could not bear this. “Of course he cares for you,” I said with a
laugh meant to reassure her, “but he ought to write to you anyhow.
Perhaps he has done so.”
I gazed at her as she sat at my side on that glorious afternoon. Above
us a pair of wood doves were softly cooing, while a thrush annoyed at
our presence, uttered his clattering alarm-note to his mate. Village
chimes sounded somewhere across the Welland valley, together with the
shrill whistle of a railway engine.
“Thelma,” I whispered at last. “Do tell me the real and actual truth.”
I looked into her grey eyes. They were as unclouded, her cheeks as
cool, her candor and serenity as undisturbed as when, on that winter’s
day amid the high-up snows she had shyly thanked me for offering to
look after her during her husband’s absence. I, on the other hand,
felt like a fool. My heart, though I had done my best to steel it to
endurance, was torn by a thousand conflicting feelings. Wild ideas
rushed through my brain. Was it possible that in her secret heart she
was not altogether sorry to be rid of Stanley Audley? Had she married
him hastily in an outburst of girlish passion, only to find out her
mistake when desertion and solitude brought her opportunity for
reflection? Was this the real explanation of her mysterious declaration
that her husband would never return to her? And if so was there still a
chance for me?
“Thelma,” I said softly, taking her hand in mine. “I want to speak to
you, but--but I hardly know how to say it. Since you left Mürren you
have never been frank with me--never confided in me--never told me the
truth.” Then, after a pause I went on. “Remember I took upon myself
a sacred trust, to see after you. I have carried out my promise to
Stanley as any honest man should carry it out, but it seems that by
doing so, I have brought a deadly hatred upon myself. Why? I ask you,
Thelma--why?”
She drew a long breath, her hand trembled in mine and her eyes grew
troubled.
“Mr. Yelverton,” she said at last in a trembling voice. “The question
you ask me is very, very difficult for me to answer. There are, I
confess to you at once, some things which I am bound for my husband’s
sake to conceal, and therefore I know you will not ask me to divulge
them. I can’t tell you more. You nearly lost your life because of me. I
was to blame and I am very sorry.”
“But why?” I demanded. “Why ‘because of you?’ How do you come into it?
Neither of us has done any harm.”
“I--I don’t know. Dr. Feng says you have secret enemies and that it is
because of me. That is all I know.”
“But where is Stanley?”
“I don’t know; if I did he would be here. But I believe he is dead.”
“But have you any fresh evidence?” I asked, eagerly. “You know the man
who was killed in France was not Stanley.”
“I know only what I have been told.”
“But who told you?” I persisted.
“A friend. For certain reasons the strictest secrecy has been imposed
upon me. Please do not question me further. You have been my dearest
and kindest friend and it is very hard to have to prevaricate with you.”
“Thelma,” I said. “I have all along striven to be your friend, though
circumstances have been so much against me. I made a promise to
Stanley, and I have endeavored to keep it.”
“And at what a cost!” she exclaimed. “Yes! I thank you awfully, for
you have been the best and dearest friend any girl has ever possessed.
Yet you have narrowly escaped losing your own life because of your
chivalry!” and her face flushed slightly.
For the second time my discretion went to the winds.
“Thelma!” I cried, “don’t talk of chivalry. Can’t you see the real
reason? Can’t you realize that I love you? Can’t you love me a little
in return.”
Her cheeks grew hot. “I--I don’t know,” she stammered. “It wouldn’t be
right. I am married already.”
The girl’s transparent innocence was amazing. Not a shadow of a thought
of wrong crossed her mind. She gazed at me as candidly and sweetly as
if she had been my sister.
“But Thelma,” I pleaded, “suppose Stanley is really dead; could you
care for me a little?”
For a few seconds she sat silent, then she answered in a low voice
broken by emotion. “Before I can answer that we must learn the truth.”
My heart gave a great leap. There was hope for me.
“I will find out,” I declared, “whatever the cost.”
“But, Mr. Yelverton, please be careful,” she said. “Dr. Feng is
terribly apprehensive. He evidently thinks you are in great danger and
doesn’t want me to see you.”
“But why should he be?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I cannot make him out at all. Sometimes I think he knows
more than he will ever admit about Stanley.”
But I cared nothing for Feng. My heart was singing. Thelma’s words
acted as a spur to my decision to continue my investigations. I
determined once more and for all to play for the biggest stake. If I
lost I must accept my fate philosophically. If I won--!