PLOT AND COUNTER-PLOT
Next day, Feng having left for Edinburgh to visit some friends, Thelma
and I traveled to London together. At King’s Cross I saw her into a
taxi, for she was going to Highgate to spend a few days with a girl
cousin, and myself went across to Russell Square.
Mrs. Chapman was greatly excited at my return, and was eager to know
exactly what had happened, for already Hensman had been round and told
her of my accident.
“Yesterday, about four o’clock, a gentleman called, sir,” my old
servant went on. “He was very anxious to see you, and seemed worried
that you were away. I told him I expected you back today. Then, after
hesitating a little, he asked leave to come in and write a note for
you. He’s left it on your table, sir.”
“Who was he?”
“I’ve never seen him before, sir. He was a tall man with a long hooked
nose, and a thin face deeply lined.”
It sounded very like a description of my affable friend from Bradford!
“Did you notice his tie-pin?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. It was a funny one--like a little eye.”
I dashed into my room where upon my blotting-pad lay a letter. This
I tore open and read. It was written in the same handwriting as that
mysterious letter to the Coroner, and upon a sheet of my own note-paper.
“_Do you refuse to be warned?_” it read. “_Drop your search for
Stanley Audley, or next time steps will be taken to prevent you from
escaping. It is known that you love Thelma, and that is forbidden,
for Stanley Audley still lives, and is watching you!_”
There was no signature. I took from my pocket the strange letter left
in my bedroom and compared them. The writing was exactly similar.
“How long was the man here?” I asked of Mrs. Chapman, on entering the
little kitchen of the flat.
“Oh! about ten minutes, sir. He seemed very busy writing, so I left
him.”
“Ten minutes!” I echoed. “Six lines of writing could not take that
time!”
Clearly there must be another reason why my home should have been so
boldly entered, so I dashed back to my room and on opening the drawers
of my roll-top desk I found three of them in disorder, as though they
had been hurriedly searched.
At once I realized what had gone. All the letters I had received from
Thelma I had kept tied up with pink tape because of my legal training,
I suppose. They had been lying in the bottom drawer on the right hand
side. It was not my habit to lock up anything from my old and trusted
servant, hence the desk had not been closed down. Had it been, the
drawers would have locked themselves automatically.
The letters were no longer there! The mysterious visitor had evidently
sought for and found them. Was the intention to place them in the hands
of the missing man? Or was it blackmail?
Every incident in the queer tangle of events seemed to add a further
puzzle to the mystery of Stanley Audley and his associates. An
intention to levy blackmail might explain the theft of the letter,
though they were innocent enough. But they did not explain the attack
on myself and the constant espionage to which I was subjected. Why
should I be marked down for assassination? That I had made a foolishly
romantic promise to act as guardian and protector of a pretty bride,
was not enough to answer that question.
Each day that passed since that fateful afternoon amid the silent
Alpine snows had increased the mystery which surrounded Stanley Audley.
Was he a crook, an associate of an unscrupulous international gang
of forgers--or was he after all, an honest man? If only Thelma would
speak! But it was obvious her lips were sealed, and I felt convinced
they were sealed by fear. Someone, it was obvious, had some hold over
her which enabled him to command her silence. It was her duty as a
wife, she claimed, to preserve her husband’s secrets inviolable. But
what was the secret?
I returned to the office next day depressed and puzzled to the last
degree. I was hardly conscious of what I was doing. As in a waking
dream I lived through the agony I had gone through at Stamford. Time
and again I seemed to feel that cold thing on my lips; the small,
evil-looking eye I had seen in my half-consciousness seemed to glare
balefully at me even in the broad daylight. And time after time,
as I sat in my office striving wearily to read letters and dictate
coherent replies, Thelma’s exquisite face appeared to float in the air
before me. Distraught and overwrought I realized at last that work was
hopeless and hurriedly left the office.
For hours I tramped the London pavements, tormented by thoughts of
Thelma, racking my brain for some possible way out of the horrible
position in which I found myself. It must have been far into the
morning before--quite automatically--I staggered homeward and flinging
myself, dressed as I was, upon my bed, fell into the deep stupor of
utter exhaustion.
Four days after my return to London I happened to be passing along Pall
Mall, when a sudden fancy took me to call upon old Humphreys. There
another surprise awaited me.
“Mr. Humphreys is away, sir--in Edinburgh,” the fair-haired clerk at
the key-office informed me.
Edinburgh! Old Feng had left me suddenly to go there! Was it a
coincidence, or were they meeting in Scotland for some purpose?
“We expect him back tomorrow night,” the young man added.
So I turned away.
Next day, knowing that Thelma was going shopping with her cousin in
the West End, I spent the afternoon wandering in Regent Street in the
hope of meeting them. I had telephoned to Highgate with the intention
of making an appointment and taking them to tea, but they had already
left. Thelma’s aunt, who spoke to me, had mentioned several shops they
intended visiting, and I had spent nearly an hour and a half in search
of them, when suddenly near the Oxford Circus end of Regent Street,
I noticed a rather shabbily dressed old man standing at a window,
examining the jewelry displayed.
Next second my heart gave a bound. It was Doctor Feng, but so well
disguised was he that I was compelled to look twice in order to
reassure myself that I was not mistaken. Gone was the erect alert
figure I knew so well. The man before me stooped heavily, with his chin
kept well down; Doctor Feng’s usually well-cut and well-tended clothing
had given place to garments utterly frayed and shabby, while the old
felt hat on his head was badly stained and worn.
Instantly I drew back in astonishment, not wishing to reveal myself.
For what reason was he idling there in that garb? He presented a
broken-down appearance, as if he were a professional man who had fallen
on evil times.
It was clear that his interest in the jewelry was only feigned, and
before long I saw he was keenly watching the entrance to a well-known
milliner’s, though from such a position he was not likely to attract
the notice of anyone emerging.
I stood there watching the watcher, for perhaps ten minutes. Then
Thelma and her cousin came out and turned towards Piccadilly Circus.
Feng at once moved slowly on, following their movements. I was within a
few yards of him, but so intent was his watch upon the two girls that
he never once turned round. Otherwise he would almost certainly have
seen me, for I knew his eyesight was remarkably good.
He watched them enter two shops, keeping himself well away from
observation. At last they entered a tea-shop. Then having apparently
satisfied himself that they had seated themselves, he strolled away.
In about a quarter of an hour he returned, and so suddenly did he
re-appear that I was half afraid that he must have seen and recognized
me. A few minutes later, however, it became clear that he had not, for
again he stood idly looking into a neighboring shop window.
When Thelma and her cousin came out they crossed the road, and walked
to Piccadilly Circus, where they entered a well-known draper’s. It was
then after five o’clock.
Again old Feng lounged outside while I, fearing recognition, remained
on the opposite side of the road near the entrance to the Café Monico.
The time passed slowly. The hurrying home-going crowds focussed upon
the Tube station where all had become bustle, and already half-an-hour
had passed. I watched the old man peer into the big shop every now
and then curiously impatient and anxious. It was plain that he could
not see the pair. He must have thought they were making extensive
purchases, for nearly three quarters of an hour elapsed ere it
seemed to dawn upon him that there were two exits from the shop into
Piccadilly!
His chagrin could be plainly seen. Ignorant, of course, that they were
being watched, the two girls had unwittingly eluded his vigilance and
calmly left by the other entrance.
He hurried round the corner amid the crowd awaiting the motor buses,
and then sped back again. It was plain that he was annoyed, and I
thought very considerably perturbed.
Realizing at last that they had eluded him he crossed the Circus and
entered a motor bus which would take him home to Barnes. Then, having
watched his departure, I turned away and walked thoughtfully back to
Russell Square.
On leaving the office early next afternoon, I called upon Hartley
Humphreys, at the Carlton. A page took me up in the lift and knocked
at the door. But before he did so I distinctly heard voices within and
recognized them as those of Humphreys and Feng. They were laughing
loudly together. When they heard the page knock, they instantly ceased
talking. I heard a door communicating with the adjoining room close,
and then Humphreys gave permission to enter.
The old financier sat alone and was most effusive in his welcome.
“So glad to see you, Yelverton!” he cried, grasping my hand. “Sit
down,” and he touched the bell for the waiter. “I’ve been north and
only got back last night. Next week I hope to move into that house at
Hampstead that I’ve bought. I’m sick to death of hotels. You must come
and see me there; come and dine one night.”
I thanked him and expressed great pleasure at his invitation.
Why, I wondered, had Feng hurriedly disappeared? He had passed into
that adjoining room which was a bedroom, and thence, I supposed, out
into the corridor. Or perhaps he was in the next apartment listening to
our conversation.
Over a whiskey and soda I told Humphreys of the desperate attempt
that had been made upon my life, and described all the circumstances.
Somehow I felt confidence in him, even though he had Harold Ruthen in
his employ. I suspected Feng the more because of the manner in which he
had kept secret watch upon Thelma.
“By jove!” said Humphreys, when I had finished. “You certainly had a
very narrow escape.”
“Yes. But fortunately the dose given was not fatal, though the doctor
has told me that had I swallowed a few more drops I should certainly
have died.”
“But the letter to the Coroner!” remarked the old man. “Your enemy took
care to complete the picture of suicide, didn’t he?”
“I should have had some difficulty in disproving the charge of
attempted suicide if it were not for the handwriting,” I said. “The
assassin did not reckon on the chance that I should escape and prove
the letter to be a forgery!”
Then I told him of the visit paid to my rooms and the theft of Thelma’s
letters.
“Ah!” he said. “It is your association with that little lady which has
brought you into danger. Depend upon it there is some secret connected
with Audley that, at all hazards, has to be kept--even if it involves
plotting your death. You have had a pretty severe warning and if I were
you I should certainly heed it. Whatever the secret may be--and it
clearly must be something very serious--it evidently does not concern
you personally and if you drop the whole affair you will be safe
enough. Surely there is no reason why you should run any further risk?”
“It concerns Thelma,” I said doggedly, “and for her sake I have
determined, no matter at what risk to myself, and no matter who
threatens me, to elucidate the mystery of Audley’s dual rôle, and his
curious disappearance. For the future at least I shall be forearmed.”
The old man, with knit brows, shrugged his shoulders dubiously.
“Of course I can quite understand, Yelverton,” he said at last with
a smile. “You have fallen in love with her. Oh! it is all very
foolish--very foolish, indeed. I suppose you have discovered a good
many things concerning Stanley Audley?”
“Yes, many curious facts which require explanation,” I said.
“Really?” he asked, interested. “What are they?”
In response, I told him one of two strange things I had discovered
concerning the missing man, at which he expressed himself utterly
astounded.
“I really don’t wonder that the remarkable affair has bewildered you,”
he said at last. “I had no idea that Audley was such a man of mystery.
I thought he had merely left his bride and hidden himself because he
grew tired of her.”
“No. He is hiding because of his fear of somebody--that is my opinion.”
“Have you any idea where he is?”
“Not in the least,” I replied frankly, at the same time recollecting
that his friend, Ruthen, whom I so disliked, was also in search of
Thelma’s husband.
“But don’t you think that his wife knows his whereabouts?” he asked.
“I cannot form a decided opinion,” was my reply. “Sometimes I think she
does; then at others I feel sure that she firmly believes that he is
dead.”
“You do not believe they hold communication in secret?”
“I think not.”
“What causes her to believe that he is dead, I wonder?”
“Because she obtains no news from him and somebody has told her
so,” was my reply, reflecting that Feng might be listening to our
conversation.
Slowly he placed his cigarette-end in the ash tray at his elbow and
drained his glass.
“Well, Yelverton,” said the calm old cosmopolitan who was once such a
confirmed invalid and whose lameness had happily been restored, “after
all, I don’t see how Audley’s movements concern you--except for one
thing--your indiscreet affection for his wife. Of course the position
does not please you--it is natural that it should not please you--but
if I were you I would drop it all. I agree with Feng that for you to
continue can only lead to unhappiness. More than that you run a great
risk at the hands of some unknown persons whose desperation is already
proved by what happened at Stamford. Something more serious may yet
happen. Therefore,” he added, regarding me very seriously, “were I in
your place I would run no further risk.”
“I know your advice is well meant, Mr. Humphreys,” I declared. “But I
have made up my mind to solve this mystery, and I will never rest until
I have done so.”
“For Thelma’s sake--eh?” he asked, or rather snapped impatiently.
“Perhaps.”
“Then, of course, you must make up your mind to take the consequences.
You have asked my advice, and I have given it. But if you pursue an
obstinate course,” he said, stroking his thin gray beard as though in
thought, “if you are so foolishly obstinate you will have yourself
alone to blame should disaster fall upon you. I honestly believe that
if you continue, you are a doomed man!”
His tone of voice struck me as highly peculiar: he might almost have
been passing sentence of death upon me!
I had no reason to doubt his friendliness, yet his intimate
acquaintance with Feng, whom I distrusted, puzzled me more than ever.
“What causes you to think that another attempt may be made upon me,” I
asked again, looking very straight at my companion.
“Has not the past proved the existence of some mysterious plot against
you--that some person or persons are determined that you shall never
learn their secret?” he asked again very seriously. “Complaisance is
always the best policy before anything we cannot alter.”
I saw the force of his argument, of course, but with firmness replied--
“Nothing shall deter me from solving this mystery, Mr. Humphreys.
Nothing.”