THE CRYSTAL CLAW

[Illustration: The fatal candle flickered as its heat caused the
fragile balloon to expand.]

  THE
  CRYSTAL CLAW

  BY
  WILLIAM LE QUEUX
  AUTHOR OF “MADEMOISELLE OF MONTE CARLO,”
  “THE VOICE FROM THE VOID,” ETC.

  _Frontispiece by_
  GEORGE W. GAGE

  NEW YORK
  THE MACAULAY COMPANY

  COPYRIGHT, 1924
  BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY

  _Printed in the United States of America_

CONTENTS

  CHAPTER                                 PAGE

      I MID SILENT SNOWS                     9

     II A TEMPORARY BRIDE                   26

    III THE DEADLY FOEHN                    44

     IV WHISPERS OF WOMEN                   59

      V ESTABLISHES SOME CURIOUS FACTS      74

     VI THE HAM-BONE CLUB                   88

    VII IN THE WEB                          97

   VIII DOCTOR FENG’S VIEW                 107

     IX CROOKED PATHS                      119

      X IN ROOM NUMBER EIGHTEEN            131

     XI LOVE VS. HONOR                     143

    XII STRANGE SUSPICIONS                 158

   XIII SPUME OF THE STORM                 171

    XIV IN THE NIGHT                       191

     XV MORE DISCLOSURES                   204

    XVI GROWING SUSPICIONS                 218

   XVII PLOT AND COUNTER-PLOT              231

  XVIII MISSING                            244

    XIX AT HEATHERMORE GARDENS             254

     XX THE CHILD’S AIR-BALL               267

    XXI WHO WAS DOCTOR FENG?               278

   XXII THE SECRET DISCLOSED               298

THE CRYSTAL CLAW

THE CRYSTAL CLAW

CHAPTER I

MID SILENT SNOWS

“Yes, an extremely pretty girl,” remarked old Dr. Feng, bending towards
me and speaking softly across the _table-à-deux_ at which we were
dining at the Kürhaus hotel at Mürren, high-up in the snow-clad Alps.
“A honeymooning couple, no doubt,” he went on--“nice place this for a
honeymoon!” and the white-haired old Chinese who--most unusual in one
of his race, had a long white beard--smiled as he poured out a tiny
glass of white curaçao, the only form of alcohol I ever saw him indulge
in.

I glanced across in the direction he indicated and saw seated in a
corner, a pretty dark-haired grey-eyed girl of twenty. She wore a
flame-colored dance-frock, and was laughing happily as she chatted
with a good-looking young man, perhaps six years or so her senior.
The young fellow was smart and distinguished-looking and the girl was
very handsome, with irregular features, and singularly expressive
eyes, but hers was a nervous, restless physiognomy that rather chilled
one at first sight. The expression in both their faces told the truth
quite clearly. They were, indeed, newly wed, and they had that evening
arrived on the funicular railway from Lauterbrunnen, in the valley
below, by the service which had left Victoria station the previous
afternoon.

“Yes, a very handsome pair,” I agreed. “I wonder who they are?”

“Don’t inquire. When you marry, Yelverton, you won’t like people to be
inquisitive. All newly-married people are super-sensitive, you know,”
declared my companion.

Dr. Feng Tsu’tong, despite his seventy years, did not look a day more
than sixty. Much above the common height for a Chinese he possessed
features of the type which seldom show many signs of advancing age.
Erect and virile he carried himself like a much younger man and of his
activity and endurance I had had ample proof, for, in our frequent long
tramps and ski expeditions across the snow, he had shown me more than
once that his muscles were equal to my own, despite the great disparity
in our ages.

He was a highly-cultured and widely read man. I imagined when I first
met him, as I found to be the case when I knew him better, that he
must have left China many years before, for he spoke perfect English,
though with a slight American accent. His quaint philosophy had made
an instant appeal to me. Though he was much older than I, his mental
outlook was surprisingly young and we had become constant companions
and very firm friends in quite a short time. I have seldom met a
man in whom I felt such complete confidence and sympathy as in this
old Chinese doctor. We spent much time together, often taking long
expeditions afoot or on ski or sometimes as partners in a game of
curling of which he was passionately fond.

Our acquaintance as a matter of fact had been a casual one. I had left
London blanketed under fog and rain and after a twenty-four hours’
journey by rail had found myself in Mürren--that winter paradise of the
young, opposite the towering Jungfrau with its attendant heights, the
Monch and the Eiger, high-up in a glittering world of sunshine, snow
and silence. The scene looked almost like a typical Christmas card. We
were so high up that by day the sun shone brightly from a sky as blue
and cloudless as that of Cannes, there were ten feet of powdery snow
everywhere and the crystal-clear air was as bright and invigorating as
champagne.

Giacomo, the smiling head waiter, had placed me with Dr. Feng at a
small table set in the window in the great _salle à manger_. We had
taken to each other at once and had become companions, not only at
meals, but on the superb ice-rink which was in perfect condition as was
flooded and re-frozen each night. There we skated or curled, or we took
excursions on the wonderful rack-railway up to the Allmendhubel, or
else over the snow to what is known as the Half-way House, or else down
to the Blumen-tal.

Mürren in winter is _par excellence_ a sports centre for young people
who indulge in skating, tobogganing, _lugeing_ and skiing, the winter
sports that are, in these post-war days, happily eclipsing the exotic
pleasures one obtains on the Riviera. There, in the Bernese Oberland,
the vice of gambling hardly exists save in the form of occasional
bridge as a relaxation after the day’s sport.

Each winter the Kürhaus hotel is a centre for the ever-growing band
of enthusiasts who meet there for the bright social life and superb
out-door sport which Mürren affords. These are the people who truly
enjoy themselves healthfully. Skiing and similar pursuits demand
perfect physical fitness and at the Kürhaus one is in the centre
of wholesome out-door exercise by day and in the evening of a gay
merriment which only seems to round off and complete the pleasures of
days spent in the open air on the towering mountain slopes. At Mürren
one finds a winter life that cannot be excelled in Europe.

The scene was wonderfully attractive. All around us were the great
hills clothed in virgin snow, dotted here and there with merry parties
of girls whose bright sports costumes provided startling splashes of
color against the white background. Everywhere pretty lips laughed in
the sheer joy of young exuberant life. Everywhere merry conversation
rang out from dawn to dusk, everybody seemed to be active, healthy and
happy.

But beneath all the fun and frivolling I had found a deeper, more
serious note. It was struck for me by Dr. Feng.

More and more I found myself falling under the spell of the old man’s
mentality. More and more I realized how much we had in common. A native
of Yunnan, he had left China when about thirty--chiefly, I gathered, on
account of political troubles. The range and variety of his knowledge
was encyclopædic: there seemed to be hardly a subject on which he could
not talk brilliantly if he chose to exert himself. And we had one great
bond of sympathy--both of us loved music. Feng was a brilliant pianist.
I was passionately devoted to the violin and we spent many hours over
the works of the great composers. Like most other young men I had a
fairly good opinion of myself, but compared with Dr. Feng, I was a mere
child in musical knowledge. Our music, however, made us both popular
and it had become quite a regular evening custom for us to play to the
Kürhaus guests in the great ball-room.

There was, however, a still deeper side to our intercourse. Feng
had initiated me into the first principles of the little-known Yogi
philosophy--the doctrine that the real man is not the visible body,
that the immortal “I,” of which each human being is conscious to
a greater or lesser extent, merely occupies and uses the corporal
transient flesh. The Yogis believe that the body is but as a suit of
clothes which the Spirit puts on and off from time to time, and they
insist that the body must be brought under the perfect control of the
mind--that the instrument must be finely tuned so as to respond to the
touch of the hand of the master.

Feng had made a deep study of the Yogi teaching and was, in himself,
living evidence of a man virile and rejuvenated in both body and
mind. People stood astounded when they were told his actual age, and
I, admiring him, was now endeavoring in my own way to follow his
footsteps. The doctrine he urged with such compelling eloquence and
powers had taken a deep hold of my mind--how deep I never realized
until I found myself flung suddenly into dangers and temptations which
were to try my physical and mental fortitude to their very depths.

It was the arrival of Stanley Audley and his bride that, suddenly and
unexpectedly, changed the entire current of my life. And as I sit
here placing on record this chronicle of bewildering events, I wonder
that I came safely through the maze of doubt, mystery and peril in
which I found myself so suddenly plunged. I can only believe that a
man, profoundly influenced, as I very speedily was, by the splendid
philosophy of Yogi and buoyed up by a consuming love for a pure and
beautiful woman, will face dangers before which others might well
quail,--will even, as the saying goes, “throw dice with the devil” if
need be.

To make my story clear, I had better formally introduce myself. My
name is Rex Yelverton, my age at present moment twenty-eight and the
astounding incidents I am about to relate happened just over three
years ago, so that I was under twenty-five at the time.

My father had died when I was twenty-three and had left me a small
estate near Andover. I had been brought up to the law and had been
admitted a solicitor just before my father’s death. I could not
afford to live on the estate, so had cosy chambers on the top floor
of an old-fashioned house in Russell Square and having entered into
partnership with a solicitor named Hensman, practiced with him in
Bedford Row.

Hensman’s hobby was golf and for that reason he took his holiday in
the summer. I loved the winter life of Switzerland and for some years
had made it my rule to get away in the winter. In addition to my
music I was deeply interested in wireless, and had fitted up quite
a respectable wireless station in a room in Russell Square. I had a
transmitting license and with my two hobbies found my spare time so
fully occupied that I mixed but little in ordinary society.

On that never-to-be-forgotten night when I first saw Stanley Audley
and his handsome bride, the Doctor retired early, as was his habit.
So, strolling into the ball-room of the Kürhaus opposite the hotel, I
watched the pair dancing happily together, the cynosure of all eyes, of
course, though the room was not very full, as the season had only just
begun.

Like all other honeymoon couples, they were trying to pretend that they
had been married for years and, like all other honeymoon couples, they
were failing lamentably! The truth was, as ever, palpable to every
onlooker. Like every one else I admired them, though like every one
else, I smiled at their pretty pretense. As they had arrived by the
night train from Calais, I guessed they had been married in London
about thirty hours before and had come straight through to Mürren.
This, in fact, proved to be the truth.

In my admiration of the beautiful young bride I was not alone, for a
middle-aged, grey-bearded invalid, name Hartley Humphreys, with whom
I often played billiards before going to bed, also remarked upon her
beauty, and expressed wonder as to who they were. It was then that
another man in the room, also evidently interested, told us that their
name was Audley.

Next morning, on coming downstairs, I found little Mrs. Audley dressed
in winter-sports clothes and looking inexpressibly sweet and charming.

She wore a pale grey Fair Isle jersey, with a bright jazzy pattern,
with a saucy little cap to match, and over the jersey a short dark
brown coat with fur collar and cuffs, and around her waist a leather
belt. Brown corduroy breeches, and heavy well-oiled boots and
ski-anklets completed one of the most sensible ski-outfits I have ever
seen. That she was no novice at skiing was evident from the badge, a
pair of crossed skis, she wore in her cap. It was the badge of the
Swiss Ski Club--the same as that worn by the Alpine guides themselves.

Naturally I was surprised. I had, on the previous night, believed her
to be simply a handsome young bride who had come to spend her honeymoon
amid the winter gayety of Mürren, but now it was clear she was no
beginner.

She had already breakfasted and was smoking a cigarette and laughing
gayly with an American girl she had met on the previous night, and
apparently awaiting her husband.

In a few moments the husband, in a wind-proof ski-suit and wearing one
of those peaked caps of blue serge which nobody dare wear save the
practiced ski-runner, came down with a word of apology.

“I broke my boot-lace, dearest. I apologize.”

“Oh! That’s all right, Stan,” she laughed, “John has got the food in
his rucksack.”

Then I saw that John von Allmen, the intrepid and popular young guide,
was waiting outside for them. They were going on a skiing excursion
up the Schelthorn. Certainly they were no novices! I soon afterwards
discovered they had both passed their “tests” in previous winters at
Wengen and Pontresina.

The sun was shining brightly upon the newly fallen snow, although it
was not yet nine o’clock, and as I watched the happy young couple
adjust the ski-bindings to the boots and take their ski-sticks, those
iron spiked poles of cherry wood with circular ends of cane to prevent
sinking where the snow is soft, I noted how merry and blissful they
were.

Suddenly the tall, lithe, young Alpine guide in his neat blue serge
skiing suit drew on his leather mitts, hitched on his rucksack and the
little party slid swiftly away over the snow.

It was clear the girl was an expert--her every movement showed it.
Those who go skiing well know the difficulty of keeping their balance
on the long, narrow planks turned up in front which constitute ski. But
the bride had long ago passed through the initial stages. As I found
out later she had been year after year to winter sports and had long
passed the period when she practiced her “telemarks” and “stemmings”
on the “Nursery Slopes.” Her lithe swift movements were delightful
to watch and it was clear she was enjoying to the full the keen
exhilaration born of the swift gliding over the crisp snow.

As I stood watching the swift progress of the Audleys and their guide,
old Dr. Feng spoke behind me.

“A pretty sight, Yelverton. It is good, indeed, to be young. There’s an
example of the fate lying before you: you’ll have to marry some day,
you know.”

“No sign of it yet, doctor,” I laughingly replied.

As a matter of fact, matrimony had so far made no appeal to me: I had
never met a girl who had stirred me deeply. I had many friends--or at
least acquaintances--of my own sex, but I was deeply absorbed in my
hobbies and, not seeking society for society’s sake, I had hardly any
woman friends. Sometimes I fancied that the opposite sex found in me
something antipathetic and uncongenial: at any rate, I made little
progress with them and, perhaps for that reason, was quite content to
remain a bachelor and keep my father’s old housekeeper, Mrs. Chapman,
to “mother” me as she did when I was a boy and manage my flat in
Russell Square.

I suppose I was no better and no worse than thousands of other fellows
of my age. Men coming down from Oxford and flung into the whirl of
London life are not usually Puritans or ascetics. I suppose I was much
like them. Life was young in me, and fortune had been kind. If I had
few friends, I had no enemies: I had an income ample for my wants and I
enjoyed myself in my own way. My work kept me busy during the day: my
evenings were filled with music, my “wireless,” an occasional dance,
or theatre and I was always merry and happy. Nothing had occurred
to make me, a careless youngster, realize that there was something
in life deeper and dearer than anything I know. I was not given to
self-analysis or overmuch introspection and that a storm of love might
some day shatter my complacent existence to bits never crossed my mind.
My music and my experiments in radio-telephony were about the only
serious side of my life. So Dr. Feng’s good humored badinage left me
quite unmoved.

We strolled together to the curling rink for a match.

Old Mr. Humphreys, a grey-faced financier from the near East, and
a very charming and refined old fellow, sat in his invalid chair
watching us. The ice was in perfect condition and very fast, so that
the game was as good as could be obtained, even in Scotland itself.
The orchestra was playing gay music for the skaters, some of whom were
waltzing, laughter sounded everywhere and the bright sunny morning was
most enjoyable.

We lost the match, mostly, I fear, through several very bad stones
that I played, and our lack of energy in sweeping. Curling is a very
difficult game to play well, for, unlike golf or tennis, one can get
such little practice at home.

However, we all afterward retired to the bar, and over our cocktails
old Mr. Humphreys who, being a confirmed invalid, wheeled himself about
in his chair, chatted merrily. He had arrived about a week after I had
come. He seldom, if ever, left his chair during the day. His guidance
and management of the chair was wonderful and he could even play
billiards while seated. He and the doctor were great friends and often
joined a bridge party together, while I took my skis up the cable
railway to the Allmendhubel and swept back down the slopes.

The following afternoon, while passing along the terrace of the big
chalet which overlooks the rink, I found Major Harold Burton, here the
secretary of the Mürren Bob-sleigh Club, and at home an officer in the
Tank Corps, chatting with the Audleys.

“I say, Yelverton!” he exclaimed, “will you join us on a test on the
bob-run presently? Mr. and Mrs. Audley are coming. Let me introduce
you.”

I raised my ski-cap and bowed.

“Thanks,” I replied, “I’ll be delighted to make a fourth. You’re the
only man I’d trust to take me down. It’s too fast for me!” I added with
a laugh.

“Is it really a fast run?” asked the bride, smiling.

“Well, you will see for yourself,” I replied.

Laughing gayly we went over the snow, past the bend at the village shop
where one can obtain anything from a Swiss cuckoo clock, to a paper of
pins, and whose elderly proprietor is one of the best ski instructors
in the canton. Paying our fare, we ascended by the rack-railway up the
snowy heights of the Allmendhubel.

On the truck was our heavy “bob,” with its steel frame and runners, and
its delicate controls. At the summit the attendants pushed it along the
flat to the narrow entrance of the bob-run which a hundred hands had,
a few weeks before, constructed in the snow, digging it all out and
making many banked-up hair-pin bends down the side of the mountain for
two and a half miles back into Mürren.

Those curves are scientifically calculated for speed, but it takes an
expert to negotiate them successfully. The crew of a “big bob” must
know the course, and be alert to the command of the driver to bend over
“right,” “left,” or “up.” One’s first trip in a “bob” on a fast run is
an experience never to be forgotten. But both the bride and bridegroom
revealed that they had done such things before.

At the “gate” of the run--a narrow cut eight feet deep in the snow--a
smiling Swiss stood beside the telephone, which gave “clear passage.”
Burton, as an expert, who took no chances, had the “bob” turned over,
and examined the brakes and controls, which sometimes get clogged with
snow.

We all got in and set our feet forward on the rests, I being behind to
act as brakesman, and to “brake” at the instant order of Burton.

“Everybody all right?” he asked, as we settled ourselves behind each
other on the big bob.

We responded that we were, then four men pushed us off down the narrow
icy slope.

Slowly we went at first. Then, suddenly gathering speed, we saw a dead
end in front of us.

“Right!” cried Burton, and all of us leaned over to the right and thus
negotiated the corner.

“Left!” was the order, and round we went every moment gathering speed.

“Careful!” he cried, “in a minute we shall have a right and left
quickly. Now--! Right! Left! Up! Quick!”

By this time we were flying down the side of the mountain, showers
of particles of ice every now and then being thrown up and cutting
our faces. Now and again we swept through clouds of snow. We held our
breath and screwed up our eyes until we could only just see.

“Left! Right! Up! Left--again! Right!” shouted Burton, and each of us
alert and quick, obeyed. We were traveling at a furious speed and any
fault might mean a serious accident, such as that in which one of the
British Bob-sleigh team for the Olympic Sports broke both his legs
during a run at Chamonix.

“Straight!” we heard Burton shout as we flew along, still down and
down. “Right in a few moments,” he cried. “Be careful. Then a big bump
and we’re down. Steady!--steady! Now-w-w! Right!--Look out! Bump!
Good!” and he steered us down a straight path past where the watcher
stood at the other end of the telephone.

“Well?” he shouted to the time-keeper, as he pulled up, “what is it?”

“Four minutes, eight and a half seconds, sir,” replied the tall,
thin-faced Swiss peasant, speaking in French.

“Good! Fairly fast! But we’ll try to do it in better time tomorrow.”

I had sat behind little Mrs. Audley who, turning to me, her face
reddened by the rush of frosty air, exclaimed,--

“Wasn’t it glorious! I’ve been to Switzerland three times before. I
passed my third test in skiing two years ago, but have never been on a
big bob-run. That last double turn was most exciting, wasn’t it?”

I agreed, and we all four strolled together back to the hotel to tea.

Afterward, as I walked in the twilight upon the snowy path leading to
the station of the funicular railway, I found myself surrounded by
groups of young men and girls returning from skiing on the Grütsch
Alp, and other places. But even these cheerful greetings and joyous
conversations could not remove from my mind a new and entirely strange
feeling of fascination that I felt was exercised over me by pretty Mrs.
Audley. It was something magnetic, something indescribable, and, to me,
wholly weird and uncanny. I had only spoken to her a few casual words.
Yet I knew instinctively that into my careless and care-free life a new
and disturbing element had entered.

CHAPTER II

A TEMPORARY BRIDE

Though I was not, as a rule, fond of society, it was impossible to
resist the infection of the merry-making spirit at Mürren and in
consequence I joined heartily in all the fun that was going forward.
The night of the bob-sleigh trip found me playing the drum in the
amateur jazz band--a dance-orchestra formed among the visitors each
year, to carry on the dancing after midnight. Mrs. Audley and her
husband came into the dance-hall of the Kürhaus just as the merriment
began, and they danced together while I sat behind the drum with a
little comic, flat-brimmed hat in imitation of George Robey, upon my
head.

“Really your amateur band is more amusing than the professional one,”
declared Audley, during the interval. “Last night we watched you. It
seems that the visitors wait until you start up.”

“Well,” I laughed. “We try and keep things humming along until two, or
even three o’clock. We like to play and the others like to dance.”

“My wife loves it,” he declared. “She’s only just been saying that she
would like to join you.”

“Right!” I said, laughing. “She shall be our pianist tomorrow--if she
will.”

But the bride hesitated. “I’m afraid, Mr. Yelverton,” she said, “that
I’m not so good as the American girl you’ve got. She’s a professional,
surely.”

As a matter of fact she was studying the piano in Paris, and was in
Mürren for the winter holiday.

And then we struck up again and the crowd danced merrily till nearly
three o’clock.

The following day was a Saturday. I spent a large part of the morning
gossiping with old Mr. Humphreys, whose chief pleasures as an invalid
seemed to be to play bridge and to smoke his pipe. Though his was
rather a thoughtful disposition, as his deep-sunken eyes and shaggy
brows suggested, yet he was always a cheerful and entertaining
companion.

“I sometimes stay with my sister at Weybridge, in Surrey,” he
explained, as I walked beside him while he wheeled his chair over the
snowy road which leads out of the village along the edge of the deep
precipice overlooking Lauterbrunnen in the misty valley far below.
While we were in the bright keen air high-up above the clouds, with the
sun shining brilliantly over a white picturesque world, below, in the
valley, it was dark dull winter. “Very soon,” added my friend, “very
soon I’ll have to go back to Constantinople, where I have a good many
interests. But I shall only be there a few weeks. All this political
trouble makes things very difficult financially. Have you ever been in
Turkey?”

I replied in the negative, but added that it had long been my desire to
go there, and see the beauties of the Bosphorus.

“Yes,” he said, “You ought to go. You’d find lots to interest you. Life
in the Turkish capital and Turkish life is quite different from life
in Europe. The Turk is always a polished gentleman and, moreover, the
foreigner is now better protected in every way than the Turk himself,
thanks to the laws made years ago.”

“That, I suppose, is why Constantinople before the war was such a
hot-bed of European sharks, swindlers and bogus concession-hunters,” I
remarked, with a smile, for I had heard much of the “four-flush” crowd
from a friend who had interests in the Ottoman Empire.

“Exactly,” he laughed. “It is true that in Pera we have a collection
of the very worst crooks in all Europe. But it is hoped that, under
the new conditions, Turkey will expel them and begin a new and cleaner
regime.”

As he spoke we turned a sharp corner, and Stanley Audley and his
pretty wife, smart in another sports suit of emerald green that I
had not before seen her wearing, shouted simultaneously the warning,
“_Achtung!_”

Next second, recognizing us, they greeted us cheerily as they slid
swiftly past upon their skis.

“A very charming pair--eh?” remarked old Humphreys. “The more I see of
them the more interesting they become. What do you think of the girl?
You are young, and should be a critic of feminine beauty,” he added,
with a smile.

“I agree. She is very charming,” I said, “Audley is, however, rather
too serious, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do. She’s too go-ahead for him--she’s a modern product as they
call it. If a man marries he ought to have a comrade, not a cushion.
A woman, to be a perfect wife, should not be too intellectual. A
knowledge of literature, art and science does not necessarily make for
domestic happiness. In a wife you want heart more than brains. Yet a
giddy, brainless wife is even a worse abomination.”

“Do you mean Mrs. Audley,” I asked.

“Not in the least,” he replied quickly. “I don’t think she is either
brainless or giddy. I am only giving you my idea of the perfect wife.
The real wife would be a _mate_--the term is used by the lower classes
and expresses the ideal perfectly. It sums up the whole thing. And I
don’t think Mr. and Mrs. Audley are really _mated_, though at present
they are evidently very much in love with one another. I think they
married in a hurry.”

This was a new line of thought for me, and, naturally, I was
astonished. But I kept silence. Old Humphreys had seen far more of the
world than I had and I had a good deal of respect for his judgment.

When we got back to the hotel Dr. Feng was waiting for me and we went
in to lunch together. We were late and the big dining room was almost
empty. After we had finished our meal Feng went to his room and I
strolled into the lounge intending to have a cup of coffee there and
then go to my room to write some letters.

To my surprise--for I thought they were out skiing--I found Audley and
his wife seated on a settee. Both were obviously upset and the bride’s
eyes showed unmistakable traces of tears.

To this day I cannot imagine what prompted me, but I think it must have
been sheer nervous bravado for, without passing, I stepped across to
them, and with a laugh exclaimed,--

“Well--and what is the matter now?”

Both stared at me in natural resentment. I could have bitten my tongue
out in my vexation at having perpetrated such a banality. I started a
stumbling apology.

“Oh, all right, Yelverton,” said Audley, his resentment vanishing, “the
fact is we are in a difficulty and I don’t quite know what to do.”

“Can I help you anyhow?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not. But I’ll tell you how things are. We were married in
London only four days ago and now I have to go back and Thelma doesn’t
like it. I’m an electrical engineer at the head offices in Westminster
of Gordon & Austin, the big combine which holds concessions for the
supply of electricity to about forty towns in England. I’ve just had a
wire calling me to attend a meeting of the directors on Monday morning.
It is proposed to promote me to be manager of the power works at
Woolwich, which means a big lift that will be a great thing for me in
the future.”

“Well, of course, you’ll go,” I said.

“I suppose I must,” he replied. “But according to the papers there’s
a big gale in the Channel and only the little boat is crossing from
Boulogne. Thelma doesn’t want me to leave her and she is such a bad
sailor that if she came with me she would certainly be very seriously
ill. The last time she was seasick she collapsed very dangerously. She
cannot possibly make the crossing.”

The girl was obviously on the edge of a flood of tears.

“But surely,” I said to her husband, “Mrs. Audley will be all right
here for a few days. If you care to trust me so far I shall be
delighted to look after her and so, I am sure, will Dr. Feng and Mr.
Humphreys. She could be with us. You ought to be back by Wednesday
evening.”

“It’s awfully kind of you, Yelverton,” said Audley, “but it rather
looks like taking advantage of your good nature.”

“Nonsense,” I said, “we shall all be delighted. If you catch the
Boulogne express from Interlaken tonight you will be in Victoria
tomorrow evening in good time for your appointment on Monday. You can
leave again on Tuesday and be up here on Wednesday. We will keep Mrs.
Audley amused until then.”

Both expressed their thanks and we went to the telephone to get on to
the Sleeping-car Company in Interlaken and reserve a berth.

I arranged to leave with them at four o’clock that afternoon and
descend by the funicular into Lauterbrunnen, where Audley would take
train for Interlaken to catch the night-mail for Boulogne.

Thus, having fixed things up, I left them and went up to the Doctor’s
room where I told him what had occurred.

The old fellow at first laughed immoderately and declared I was
extremely foolish to intrude. However, he was sympathetic enough.

“Poor little girl!” he said. “Of course she would be very lonely.
We must have her to sit at our table, Yelverton, and of course, my
dear boy, you must entertain her. Poor little girl!--she has only one
honeymoon, and to think that it should be so interrupted! Yes. You did
quite the right thing,--quite right!”

At six o’clock I stood on the snowy platform at Lauterbrunnen station
with “The Little Lady,” as I called her, and we watched her husband
wave us farewell as the train left. It was dark, damp and dreary down
there. A thaw had set in and it was sloppy under foot. Lauterbrunnen is
not a pleasant place in winter. Suddenly she turned to me and with a
merry laugh exclaimed:

“Well, Mr. Yelverton, I suppose I am now your temporary bride--eh?”

We laughed together, and then crossed back to the little station of the
funicular railway and slowly ascended until, just in time for dinner,
we were back again in Mürren.

Naturally, the fun-loving guests at the hotel made the best of the
news that Stanley Audley had had to dash off to London and had left
his pretty wife in my charge. Chaff and banter flew freely, practical
jokes were played on us by the score and the excitement helped to chase
away Mrs. Audley’s depression. And, perhaps, wisely, she sought to get
rid of her natural sorrow by flinging herself into the whirl of the
Kürhaus life. She danced, laughed and even flirted mildly with one or
two young fellows in a way she certainly would not have dreamed of
doing had Stanley Audley been present. But it was all very innocent and
above-board and not even the strictest moralist would have found fault
with this gay abandon which, I fancy, was half assumed. For, disguise
it how she would, she was quite clearly devoted to her husband and
longed only for his return.

Next day she lunched with Dr. Feng and myself and in the afternoon we
put on our skis and I took her out over the snow to the Grütsch Alp
by a way which commanded a magnificent view of the high Bernese Alps.
We took our cameras with us and, on my table, as I write there is a
snap-shot I took of her as, in her smart winter sports kit, she sped
swiftly down a steep slope with her ski-sticks held behind her in real
professional style.

She proved a delightful companion. She was, I found, a Londoner born
and bred, and she had all the genuine shrewdness and good humor of the
town girl. She was well educated, a perfect encyclopædia of books and
plays, and she was, as I knew, a splendid dancer. Her mother, the widow
of an ex-naval officer named Shaylor, lived at Bexhill. Of her father
she remembered very little: he had been on the China Station for many
years and his visits home had been infrequent. He had died in China the
year before.

The humor of my position struck me forcibly. Here was I, a young
bachelor fairly well off and sufficiently good-looking, left in charge
of a beautiful young girl who was a bride of only a few days! In
England, of course, such a position would have been unthinkable. It did
not seem so strange in the free and easy camaraderie of Mürren where
the free and easy sporting life bred a harmless unconventionality and
where even the British starchy reserve was very early sloughed off.
Everybody made a joke of the whole affair and Dr. Feng and old Mr.
Humphreys laughed like boys at this novel status I had acquired.

Of course there was some malice: there always is in a mixed company.
After we had glided some miles across the snow, we halted and I poured
out some tea from the vacuum flask I carried. Just as Mrs. Audley was
drinking a party of men and girls from the hotel passed. Noticing us,
one of the girls made some remark. What it was I did not hear, but
it produced a burst of ill-mannered laughter and my companion turned
scarlet.

“They’re horrid, aren’t they?” she said and I agreed. “But it is
really delightful here,” she said, looking up into my face. “You are
most awfully kind to us, Mr. Yelverton. Stanley and I shall never
forget it. If he gets the position of manager at Woolwich it will mean
so much to us--and it will greatly please my mother.”

“Was your mother--er--against your marriage?” I inquired.

“Well--yes, she was. She thought I was too young. You see I’m not
nineteen yet, though people think I’m older,” she confessed with a
charming little moue. “Stanley is an awfully good boy, and I love him
so very much.”

“Naturally, and I hope you always will,” I said. “Of course, I’m older
than you, but our position here today is really a bit unconventional,
isn’t it?”

“It is,” she laughed, “I wonder how you like being bothered with a
temporary bride?”

“I’m not bothered, but most charmed to have such a delightful companion
as yourself, Mrs. Audley,” I declared.

We returned to dinner after an enjoyable afternoon amid those wild
mountains and snowy paths, and when she came to table she provided one
of us, at any rate, with a startling surprise.

We had taken our seats at our table and were waiting for her. Seated
with my back to the door I did not see her enter the room, but I saw
Dr. Feng, who was facing me, suddenly stiffen in his chair and not
even his Chinese impassivity could disguise the look of amazement,
almost of fear, which leaped suddenly into his eyes.

“Whatever is the matter, doctor?” I jerked out in amazement.

Instantly the old man had himself in hand again. But that glimpse of
his vivid emotion had startled me. Before I could say anything he had
risen and was greeting Thelma Audley. I sprang to my feet.

Mrs. Audley was wearing a dainty gown of ivory silk--her wedding dress,
she told us later, put on in compliment to the old doctor. She looked
very sweet and girlish in it. But Dr. Feng, I could plainly see, had no
eyes for the dress: his attention was concentrated on the extraordinary
pendant which Mrs. Audley wore on her bosom, suspended from a thin
platinum chain round her neck.

“Look what I have had sent me!” she cried as she called our attention
to it. “Did you ever see anything so quaint?” And she took it off and
handed it to the doctor. He took it from her with what, had the brooch
been some sacred emblem, I should have thought was an expression of
deep reverence, and examined it closely.

It was a sufficiently striking ornament to have attracted attention
anywhere. It was fashioned in the form of a peacock’s foot, about three
inches long. The shank, at the end of which was a tiny ring through
which the platinum chain was passed, was of rough gold studded with
small diamonds and each of the claws was composed of a single crystal,
cut to the natural shape of the claw. The jewels blazed in the glare of
the electric lights. The pendant was of exquisite workmanship and was
quite obviously enormously valuable.

“Why, wherever did you get that, Mrs. Audley?” I exclaimed. “It’s
really wonderful.”

“Isn’t it pretty?” she said. “It came by registered post this evening
and I found it waiting for me when I went up to dress. Mother had sent
it on from Bexhill. I don’t know who sent it--there was no letter--but
perhaps I shall find out when I get home.” It was evident she had not
the least idea of the value of this quaint jewel.

I was keenly watching Dr. Feng. For some reason I could not explain, I
connected the crystal claw with the unmistakable agitation he had shown
as he caught sight of Mrs. Audley entering the room.

“Did you say there was no letter with it? Perhaps you have kept the
packing,” he asked, gravely regarding the jewel as it lay in the palm
of his hand.

“Oh, it came from some foreign place,” Mrs. Audley said. “I could not
make out the name, but I will fetch the wrapper, perhaps you can tell,”
and she darted from her seat.

Feng sat silent, turning the claw over and over in his hand and
closely examining it. He seemed to have forgotten me entirely in his
abstraction.

A few moments later Mrs. Audley returned with a small box and some
peculiar paper in which it had been wrapped. The whole had been
rewrapped in brown paper in England and the original address--“Miss
Thelma Shaylor, care of Mrs. Shaylor, Bexhill-on-Sea, Sussex, England,”
was undamaged. It was a queer cramped handwriting, evidently that of a
foreigner.

Dr. Feng glanced at it. “This was posted in Pekin,” he said, “Have you
any friends out there, Mrs. Audley?”

“No, certainly not,” was the startling reply. “I have never known
anyone in China. Are you sure it is from Pekin?”

Dr. Feng smiled. “You forget I am a Chinese, Mrs. Audley,” he said.
“You can be quite sure that package came from Pekin. It is wrapped in
Chinese rice paper as you will see, and the address was written by a
Chinese.”

Mrs. Audley looked puzzled. “Well,” she said at last, “someone who
knows me must have gone to China. But it’s very pretty, and I wish I
knew who sent it.”

“You must take great care of it,” said Dr. Feng. “It is very valuable,
apart from sentimental considerations.”

Then our talk drifted to other topics and the crystal claw, for the
moment, was apparently forgotten. But I noticed that Dr. Feng could
not keep his eyes off it for long, and he was unusually silent and
abstracted during the meal.

Tired from her ski excursion Mrs. Audley left us early and went to bed.
The old doctor and I were sitting in the lounge drinking coffee when I
made up my mind to ask him about the crystal claw.

“What does the crystal claw mean, Doctor?” I said quietly, shooting the
question at him suddenly in an interval of our chat.

He glanced at me keenly. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What makes you
think I know anything about it?”

“All right, Doctor,” I laughed. “I happened to be looking at you when
Mrs. Audley came into the dining room and saw your face. Also I saw you
looking at the claw afterward. Don’t tell me you don’t know anything
about it. Remember I’m a lawyer.”

The old man laughed. “You’re right enough, my boy,” he said pleasantly.
“I know a good deal about the crystal claw. But what I don’t know is
why it was sent Mrs. Audley--or rather to Miss Shaylor.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Not by any means,” he rejoined quickly. “That claw was sent to Miss
Shaylor--to Miss Shaylor,” he repeated emphatically. “The fact that she
is Mrs. Audley has nothing whatever to do with it. She thinks it is a
wedding present. It is nothing of the kind. The man who sent her the
crystal claw could not have known of her wedding, anyhow.”

“Tell me all about it, Doctor,” I begged.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I don’t suppose it will do any harm if I do.
But you had better keep what I tell you to yourself, at any rate for
the present.

“The crystal claw,” he went on, “is the badge or sign of the Thu-tseng,
a powerful Manchu secret society. There is nothing illegal about the
society; it simply works for the political regeneration of China.
Hsi-yuan himself is one of its leading lights--you know of him, of
course. The claw is given, so far as outsiders are concerned, only
to those who have rendered some signal service to the society. Now,
I cannot see how Mrs. Audley, by any conceivable stretch of the
imagination, can have helped the Thu-tseng. Excepting myself, she has
probably never spoken to a Chinese in her life.”

“Did you know her father was a naval officer and was for many years on
the China Station?” I asked.

Feng started violently, “Is that so?” he asked quickly.

“Yes,” I replied, “she told me so only today.”

The old man sank back into his chair and pondered deeply.

“That may explain it,” he said slowly. “It is just possible the claw
has been sent to her in recognition of something her father did. But,
if so, it must have been something of very great importance. How long
has her father been dead?”

“About a year,” I replied.

“Well,” he said, after another period of thought, “there must have been
some reason why the sending of the claw was delayed. But,” he went
on with growing animation, “you can take it from me she has powerful
friends. With that claw in her possession she could ask almost anything
she liked in any part of China today. It would be a magic talisman
there.”

Of course, I was as completely bewildered and amazed as Dr. Feng. But
I could only assume that his solution of the mystery was correct. Mrs.
Audley apparently knew next to nothing of her father’s life abroad:
certainly she would and could know nothing of his political activities
there. But Feng was confident he had somehow been associated with
powerful members of the Thu-tseng.

“I will send some cables tomorrow,” he said, as we parted for the
night. “I am deeply interested in this affair. China is the land of
mysteries, and this is beyond me. The last time I saw the crystal claw
was when I was in Tibet twenty years ago. It was worn by a monk of a
Buddhist monastery there. But, of course, I could never find out why he
got it.”

THE DEADLY FOEHN

Next day, while old Humphreys remained in his invalid chair to write
some business letters to his agents in the Near East, and Doctor
Feng had a match at curling, I took “The Little Lady” out upon the
other side of the deep valley to the popular winter sports resort at
Wengen, which lies up the mountain on the opposite side of the valley.
We lunched at the splendid Regina Hotel, where every one goes, and
afterwards took some snap-shots. Later we took the train up to the
Schiedegg and came down on our skis, a glorious run back to Wengen,
the snow conditions being perfect. In everything she was interested,
admiring the scenery and thoroughly enjoying the run, until we returned
in the darkness up the mountain side again to Mürren.

I had come to the conclusion that Mrs. Audley had been a London
business girl, for she told me she knew shorthand and typewriting,
and she was evidently familiar with business affairs. The old invalid
had become even more interested in her. He studied her as the type of
the modern girl and she certainly was always bright and vivacious
when with us. Dr. Feng, however, though he was invariably polite to
her, seemed to have become, for some reason, decidedly antagonistic.
It is true the position was decidedly unconventional and irregular,
but I could not reconcile his present attitude with his earlier and
very obvious liking for Mrs. Audley. He now disagreed utterly with my
quixotic offer to look after her and did not hesitate to say so.

“You are playing with fire,” he declared. “You are both young and she
is a very pretty girl. The best thing you can do will be to clear out.”

I laughed, of course, and told him I had only accepted this
responsibility in order to help a man out of a difficulty.

He shook his head. “You don’t know either of them, and you don’t know
what you may have let yourself in for.”

I wondered, naturally, whether he had been influenced by the arrival of
the crystal claw, and asked him bluntly if this were the case.

“Not at all,” he assured me. “The crystal claw has nothing whatever to
do with it.”

In spite of all he said I would not take his advice. In the headstrong
way of youth I put him down as a thoroughly conventional old fogey, a
survival of the Victorian era when girls were compelled to go about
with chaperons and the smoking of a cigarette was a vice to be
indulged only in the strictest privacy. So Mrs. Audley and I continued
to enjoy ourselves, skating each morning on the rink and skiing
together in the afternoon over the freshly fallen snow.

With a view to throwing additional light on the mystery of the crystal
claw I tried as delicately as I could to “pump” her about her father.
But it was evident she knew little or nothing beyond what she had told
me. “He was a naval officer on the China Station for many years,”
seemed to sum it all up and I wondered whether, for some reason I could
not divine, further knowledge had been deliberately withheld from her.
Of Eastern political affairs she obviously knew nothing.

Of her husband she said little, though I saw she was devoted to him.

“When we get back, Stanley and I hope to get a flat at Hampstead,” she
said one day when we were resting after a swift run on skis close to
the Half-way House--which is on the electric railway line which runs
from Mürren along the edge of the precipice, before one changes into
the rack-railway to descend to the valley.

That night at dinner there was a strange incident. Mrs. Audley came
down in a gown which was the envy of many girls in the hotel. It was
made of ciré tissue, and the yoke and hem were of silver lace. The
front panel was ornamented with pin tucks and finished with a chou of
flowers. It was a charming frock. On her breast the crystal claw winked
and blazed in the light of the lamps.

Old Humphreys, contrary to his usual custom, had come into the dining
room for dinner and was seated in his wheeled chair at the same table
as Mrs. Audley, Dr. Feng and myself.

I shall never forget the look that came over his face when he caught
sight of the crystal claw! Rage, fear and amazement mingled together
until the old man looked positively demoniacal. Luckily, Mrs. Audley
was talking to Dr. Feng and neither of them noticed him.

It was a moment or two before the old invalid could control himself.
Then his face resumed its usual expression. But I had caught a glimpse
of the hell that, for a brief moment, must have raged in the old man’s
mind and once again the crystal claw seemed to be associated with
something sinister and dangerous.

“That’s a pretty new brooch you have, Mrs. Audley,” said the old fellow
in a grating voice which showed that even now he had hardly recovered
himself.

“Yes,” she laughed merrily, “isn’t it sweet? It came by post, sent to
me from Pekin. I haven’t any idea who sent it for there was no name. It
has been forwarded from London, and is no doubt a wedding present from
somebody who has forgotten to enclose a card.” And she turned over the
crystal claw so that he could admire it.

Afterwards we crossed the snowy road to the Kürhaus, where in the
spacious ball-room we danced together. She also danced with two or
three other admiring partners. Old Mr. Humphreys wheeled his chair into
the dancing room as was his habit each evening. It was pathetic to see
the grey-haired thin-faced man who seemed so active in every other
sense, deprived of the power of locomotion. When he left his chair he
managed to hobble along and with great difficulty up the stairs with
the aid of rubber-capped sticks. Mostly, however, the porters carried
his chair upstairs to the first floor and he wheeled himself along the
corridor to his room.

On the following morning, according to arrangements made over-night,
we started at nine o’clock and taking with us John, the smart,
ever-smiling guide, we started out on our skis to ascend the
Schwarzbirg, nine thousand feet high, by way of the Bielen-Lücke. The
ascent we found extremely interesting, but the weather, even when we
started, was grey and threatening. Now and then snow clouds drifted
quickly across, and that dangerous and mysterious Alpine wind, the
Foehn, ever and anon grew gusty. It was clear a storm was threatening.

“A little blizzard, perhaps,” remarked the slim, agile John, in his
soft English, as he slid along over the snow.

Weather conditions in the Alps change with every moment. A blizzard may
succeed brilliant sunshine within five minutes--a blizzard that whips
the face with its icy blast, piles snow deep, and freezes one to the
marrow. In the glacier regions of the higher Alps, the weather cannot
be depended upon for a few minutes together.

Thelma, that day, wore the ski kit in which I had first seen her--the
Fair Isle jazzy patterned jersey, and over it the short little
wind-proof jacket trimmed with fur, and her corduroy breeches and
stockings. It was in every way serviceable.

Presently when she had, to my surprise, executed what is known as an
“open Christiania,” and we were skiing together across a great plateau
of snow far above the tree-line, with John fifty yards ahead of us, she
suddenly exclaimed--

“Do you know, Mr. Yelverton, I’ve heard nothing from Stanley except a
telegram sent from Victoria at six o’clock on Sunday night, announcing
his arrival. I’ve wired, but I’ve got no reply. I’m worried about him,
but I don’t want to bother you.”

“That’s curious,” I remarked. “To where have you sent your wire?”

“To his office in Westminster.”

“Well, you ought to have had a reply. But never mind,” I said. “He’s
due back tomorrow night. We’ll go down to Lauterbrunnen and meet
him--eh?”

The sky had suddenly become darkened and a strong tearing wind had
sprung up. We had left the plateau and upon our skis were following
John “herring-boning” up the side of the mountain. When one starts
“herring-boning” one faces the incline and points the skis outwards at
a considerable angle to each other--then the slope can be mounted by
lifting the skis forward alternately and placing them in the snow on
the inner edges, the angle between them remaining the same.

It was a steep slope, so we made wider angles between our skis to
prevent them slipping backwards.

We were lurching heavily from side to side in order to throw the weight
of one ski while lifting the other, when John suddenly shrieked the
warning, “_Achtung!_”

Next second I heard a soft hissing sound overhead, then a loud rumbling
which increased to thunder. I instinctively seized Mrs. Audley. The
next moment we were struck violently in the back, covered by a blanket
of snow, and hurled down the mountain side amid an avalanche of snow,
stones and rocks.

When, very slowly, I awakened to a sense of things about me, I found
I had bitten my tongue badly and felt a severe pain at the back of
my skull where, I suppose, I must have struck a rock. Mrs. Audley was
still in my arms and unconscious, her bleeding face white as marble.
Both of us were deeply imbedded in the snow, but our heads fortunately
lay clear, otherwise we must certainly have been suffocated. The
avalanche had swept us down, but as I had instinctively grasped my
dainty companion, we had been held together.

Blood was flowing freely from the wound in my head, and Mrs. Audley’s
face was cut and bleeding. As quickly as possible I disengaged myself
from the heavy weight of snow upon me, and strove to rouse her from her
swoon. The thought that she might be dead drove me well-nigh frantic.

I seized her by the shoulders and shook her violently. Then with
trembling fingers I tore open her jacket, jersey and silk blouse, and
bent my head to listen. Her heart was beating faintly.

My vacuum flask of hot tea was battered and broken but in an inside
pocket I had, providentially, a small flask of brandy which was
undamaged. I forced a few drops of the spirit between her pallid lips.

Her lips moved. A moment later she opened her big grey eyes and asked
me in a whisper:

“Where am I?”

“You are safe,” I assured her, holding her in my arms. “Don’t worry.
We’ll be out of this very soon.”

“But where are we?” she asked gazing around upon the snowy
surroundings. “Where is John? Tell me!”

I told her briefly what had happened.

“But where is John?” she queried. “I hope he is all right. It was
very foolish for us to venture up here after the warm Foehn of
yesterday,--wasn’t it?”

“I expect John is all right,” I said. “He warned us, and no doubt took
precautions.” Guides in the Alps seldom fail.

With difficulty we wriggled out of the snow and stood up. Even in our
shaken condition we could not but admire the panorama of the Eiger, the
Jungfrau and the Wetterhorn, across the darkening valley before us. But
haste was imperative: the light was fading quickly and we were a long
way from Mürren.

I had lost one of my skis, which had been torn from its strong
Huitfeldt binding in our fall. Mrs. Audley’s, however, were intact, and
we started to descend. She soon recovered in the keen Alpine air, and
was able to help me, lame dog that I was. Repeatedly we gave the six
shouts recognized as the regular Alpine distress call, but there was no
reply.

It was quite dark when we struggled back, to find that our guide,
having happily escaped, had arrived before us and sent out a
search-party. By shouts and flashing signals, this was soon recalled.

At the hotel they put Thelma to bed at once, while after the Swiss
doctor had seen to my head, I sat in the bar recounting my experience
and drinking a strong whiskey and soda.

Dr. Feng and Humphreys were both most eager to know the details of our
adventure. But later the doctor said--

“I think you are very foolish, Yelverton! You ought never to have had
anything to do with the bride, she will only bring trouble upon you.
Humphreys agrees with me. You’re a young fool!”

“Probably I am,” I replied laughing! “I very nearly lost my life over
it today.”

“You are a regular Don Quixote,” he said. “Well, I admire you after
all. You would be a fine young fellow, if you were just a little more
cautious.”

“Cautious!” I laughed, facing the old doctor, “I’m young. You are old.
You weren’t cautious when you were my age, were you?”

“No,” he answered. “I suppose not--I suppose not.”

The night-mail train from Boulogne arrives at the little station at
Lauterbrunnen each evening about five o’clock. The next afternoon
therefore Mrs. Audley, who had quite recovered from her accident on
the previous day, accompanied me down into the valley by the cable
railway. She was all excitement, for her husband, before his departure,
had promised to return by that train, and had, indeed, booked his
sleeping-berth by it.

At last the train came slowly in from Interlaken, where the change
is made from the _wagon-lit_. A number of hurrying English visitors
descended but Stanley Audley was not among them.

Bitter disappointment was written upon the girl’s face.

“He must have missed the train at Victoria,” she declared.

“Well,” I said, “There is not another through train until
tomorrow--unless he travels by Paris and Bâle.”

The station master, however, informed us that the service from Paris
would not arrive till early next morning, so that we were compelled to
reascend to Mürren.

Audley’s failure to telegraph or write to his wife, struck me as
uncommonly strange.

While we were in the narrow little compartment of the cable railway, I
ventured to put several questions to her concerning him. But she would
give only evasive replies.

Next day she went to the little wood-built post office alone and
despatched several telegrams to various addresses, but the replies she
received gave no news of her husband. Evening came again, but Stanley
Audley was not among the arrivals from London, though I was with Thelma
on the arrival of the mountain train at Mürren station.

“I cannot make it out,” she said as we sped back to the hotel on our
skis. “Surely he must be delayed. Perhaps he has telegraphed to me and
the message has gone astray!”

“That may be,” I agreed in order to reassure her, but personally I felt
much mystified.

Next day I telegraphed to the managing director of Gordon & Austin, the
electrical engineers in George Street, Westminster, asking for news
of Stanley Audley, and in response about five o’clock in the evening
came a reply which read: “Stanley Audley is not employed by us and is
unknown to us.”

I said nothing to Thelma, but finding Dr. Feng alone, showed him the
telegram.

The old doctor grunted with dissatisfaction.

“Something wrong somewhere,” he remarked. “One should always be very
careful of hotel acquaintances. I warned you at the time that you were
indiscreet to offer to look after the bride of a man you don’t know.”

“I admit that! But the whole affair is very mysterious. He told me a
deliberate lie when he said he was employed by Gordon & Austin.”

“Yes. He’s a mystery, and evidently not what he pretended to be. What
does his wife think?”

“I haven’t shown her the telegram.”

“Don’t. Try and discover what you can from her.”

“You don’t seem to like her, Doctor,” I said bluntly.

“No. I don’t like either of them,” the old man admitted. “There’s too
much mystery about the pair. I was discussing them with Humphreys this
morning, and he agrees.”

“It is not Thelma’s fault,” I said.

“It may be. She evidently knows more about her husband than what she
has told you.”

“Well, she’s told me nothing,” I replied.

“There you are! She is concealing the truth. Go and find out all you
can. And don’t be indiscreet. Your present position is dangerous.
Perhaps he’s left her deliberately and palmed her off upon you, hoping
that you will both fall in love, and he can free himself of her at your
expense. Such things are not unknown, remember!”

“I don’t believe it,” I declared. “I undertook a trust--foolishly if
you like--and it is up to me to carry it out to the best of my ability.”

“Ah! my dear boy, your eyes are closed very often,” the old doctor
said. “The lookers-on see most of the game, and I’ve seen one or two
little things which show that your temporary bride is not adverse to a
little secret flirtation.”

“How?” I asked quickly.

“Well, she’s on quite friendly terms with that young fellow, Harold
Ruthen.”

“Ruthen!” I echoed. “I didn’t know they were acquainted. I’ve never
seen them speak.”

“No, not when you are about,” replied the old man laughing. “But I’ve
often seen them chatting together.”

This surprised me. Harold Ruthen was a rather foppish, fair-haired man
about my own age, whose airs were of the superior type. His interest in
Thelma had not escaped me, but I had never seen them speaking together.
He was, I understood, an ex-officer, and he was a very good skater. But
at first sight I had taken an instinctive dislike to him and, that he
should have made Thelma’s acquaintance in secret, greatly annoyed me.

I felt myself responsible to Stanley Audley, even if he had deceived me.

Now I found myself in a difficulty. Only at that moment I recollected
how, on the morning before Thelma’s husband had announced his forced
return to London, I had seen Ruthen walking with the doctor up a
narrow path with high snow-banks close to the hotel. They were deep
in conversation, and old Feng seemed to be impressing some point upon
Ruthen while he listened very attentively.

Did Dr. Feng know more than he admitted?

I must say that I did not like his hostile attitude towards the newly
wedded pair, an attitude which now seemed to be shared by old Mr.
Humphreys.

That night, when Thelma came to table, she was wearing a charming
gown of almond green, that we had not seen before. Though she looked
beautiful, her face was more serious than usual, and I suspected that I
saw traces of tears.

As we sat together I fell to wondering who was Stanley Audley? Why had
he deceived his young wife, and then deserted her, leaving her in my
charge?

Had I fallen into a clever trap?

CHAPTER IV

WHISPERS OF WOMEN

Two days passed, yet Stanley Audley did not return.

On the afternoon of the second day, old Mr. Humphreys spoke to me in
confidence while we sat at tea, which is almost a religious ceremony in
Mürren.

“Funny about that young fellow Audley,” he said. “Have you discovered
anything further?”

“No,” I replied, “the fact is I don’t like to be too inquisitive.”

“Of course, but the girl is left in your charge, and you certainly have
a right to know the truth,” declared the old invalid. “Personally, I
don’t like the situation at all. I shall go back to London in a few
days, but do let me know how you get on, for I am interested. You can
always write to me, care of the Ottoman Bank in London.”

I promised, and finding Thelma, who had just come in from the rink,
where there had been an ice-hockey match, I greeted her in the hall as
she went downstairs to tea.

Later we went for a stroll together and as we passed out into the grey
twilight, young Ruthen held open the door for us, bowing, but not
speaking. Before me the pair posed as strangers.

“I don’t like that fellow!” I remarked, as we walked along the snowy
road out of the village.

“Neither do I,” was her quick response.

“But, if I’m not mistaken, Mrs. Audley, you are acquainted with him,” I
remarked.

“Well--yes--and no,” she said. “It is true that he thrusts himself upon
me whenever he has the chance, and your back is turned. I’ve snubbed
him a dozen times, but he is always lurking about.”

“Then you are not friendly with him?”

“On the contrary. I confess I don’t like him,” she answered quite
frankly. Whereupon I resolved to try and catch him speaking with her
and tell him what I thought of him.

“He’s a cad!” I declared. “He pretends to be a gentleman, but he does
not behave like one.”

“You speak as though you are annoyed, Mr. Yelverton,” and she laughed
lightly.

“I am. You are left in my care, Mrs. Audley. Your husband would be
very angry if he knew that the fellow pestered you with his unwanted
attentions, would he not?”

“I suppose he would,” she faltered.

“I wonder why we hear nothing from Stanley?” I said. “It is all very
mysterious. Do you know that he is not employed by that electrical firm
in Westminster? They know nothing of him!”

She halted, held her breath and stared at me.

“What!” she cried. “But surely he is at Gordon & Austin’s? I left him
at their offices one day just before our marriage and he went in there.”

“They know nothing of him,” I assured her, telling her of their reply
to my inquiry.

“I really can’t believe it,” she said in a voice of despair. “Stanley
could not have lied to me like that.”

“Have you ever met his parents?”

“No. They are in India--at Lucknow.”

“But what do you know about him? Where did he live before you married
him?”

“He had rooms in Half Moon Street. I went there once or twice,” and she
told me the number.

“How long had you known him before you married?” I inquired.

“About six months, but he was mostly away in Paris, on business for his
firm.”

“That is the story he told you, but it is now proved to be incorrect.
The firm have no knowledge of him.”

“There must be some mistake,” she said, much puzzled.

“Did you introduce him to your mother?”

“Yes, he came home to Bexhill once and stayed the week-end at the
Sackville. Mother liked him awfully, but at the same time she thought I
was too young to marry.”

“Then during the time of your engagement he was mostly away--eh? Did
you ever meet any of his relatives?”

“No,” she replied--rather hesitatingly. I thought then she endeavored
to change the topic of our conversation.

I, however, pursued it. A suspicion forced itself on my mind that she
really knew a good deal more than she would tell me. But though I
persisted for some time she would tell me nothing more and naturally I
began to be annoyed. I did not wish to think hardly of her, but it was
impossible to stifle entirely the suspicions that insisted on forcing
themselves upon my mind. Had I been caught in some carefully prepared
trap or had I merely made a colossal fool of myself?

Ten minutes later, my companion, bursting into tears she could no
longer control, blurted out--

“I’ve been foolish, Mr. Yelverton--so very foolish! The fact is I--I’ve
married a man--a man--_I did not know_!”

“Did not know,” I gasped in turn. “Is that really the truth?”

“It is,” she said sobbing. “I--I believed all that he told me, but now
I have found out that what he said was false. And--and already he has
deserted me!”

“But you love him,” I said, full of sympathy for her in her obviously
genuine distress. “Perhaps, after all, we are misjudging him. Something
has occurred which prevents his return. I will wire at once to Half
Moon Street and see whether we can get any news.”

“Yes, do,” she urged. “Mr. Belton is the man who keeps the chambers. I
recollect the name.”

So we turned back to the chalet post office whence I sent a reply-paid
telegram. Next evening came the answer. “Mr. Audley left for abroad
about two months ago--Belton.”

That was all. We had at least one person who knew him and who might
place us in possession of more facts than we had at present.

After dinner that night Dr. Feng asked me to go with him to his room.

“I have had some telegrams from China,” he said, when he had
established me comfortably in an easy chair with a whiskey and soda at
my hand.

“Any news about Thelma?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied: “it’s a very curious story. Of course, I have no
details and I am afraid we shall never get any. But there is enough
information to show, as I expected, that the crystal claw was sent
to Mrs. Audley in recognition of services rendered by her father to a
powerful member of the Thu-tseng. Have you ever heard of Sung-tchun?”

I nodded. “Wasn’t he the chap who escaped from Siberia under rather
extraordinary circumstances in the early years of the war--about 1916
or 1917? There was a lot about him in the papers, I remember, but I
never saw any reason given for his imprisonment.”

“No public explanation ever was given,” said Dr. Feng, “but, as a
matter of fact, he was arrested on Russian territory north of China
on a trumped-up charge. As a matter of fact his party stood in the
way of certain Russian ambitions in China and he was quietly removed.
Incidentally I can tell you that after his escape the Russian
government paid very handsome compensation and apologized. But all that
was kept private.

“Now the interest to us is this: Sung-tchun’s escape was planned and
directed, from start to finish, by Mrs. Audley’s father. Of course, he
was not actively engaged in the actual rescue: he could not leave his
ship. But he organized and financed the whole thing. Sung-tchun was a
really important figure in China--far more important than the outside
world realized--and to have done them such a service would have been
ample to earn the undying gratitude of the Thu-tseng, who never forget
a friend or a foe. That is all the information my friends can get,
and I fancy it is all we shall ever get. What Captain Shaylor’s motive
was and how he was dragged into or embarked upon the affair and where
he obtained the huge sums of money the rescue must have cost, we shall
never know.”

“But why,” I cried, “has the crystal claw only just arrived? Thelma’s
father died over a year ago.”

“That is one of the questions I asked,” replied Dr. Feng. “Sung-tchun
died only last year and I imagine he must have kept very closely the
secret of his escape. In all probability the sending of the claw was
a kind of death-bed gift from him to the man who had helped him--or
rather to his daughter. That would be quite in accordance with
Sung-tchun’s known character.”

“Then the crystal claw does not imply a threat or any danger?” I
exclaimed.

“Certainly not,” declared Dr. Feng. “It is an expression of the very
utmost good will. Any member of the Thu-tseng would be bound by the
most solemn obligation to help in every way in his power the owner of
the crystal claw.”

“Well,” I said as I rose to say good-night, “at any rate, I am glad
there is no danger about it. But I don’t see how the Thu-tseng can ever
help Thelma.”

Old Feng gave me a queer look. “You can never tell,” he said slowly.
“Most people want help badly at some time in their lives. Mrs. Audley,
for instance, is in a position of considerable difficulty at the moment
and may be in a worse one very soon. And remember this, my boy--the
Thu-tseng has an arm longer than you dream of.”

As the days slipped by I became more and more concerned about
Thelma. Feng’s antagonism to herself and her husband became daily
more apparent, and I was glad when, the day after old Humphreys had
departed, he left for London. However, we parted good friends. He
was going to London first and then to the Riviera and he gave me his
solicitor’s address so that I might write to him.

Before he left I mentioned to him the effect the sight of the crystal
claw had had on old Humphreys. “Does _he_ know all about the crystal
claw?” I asked, half banteringly.

Feng was not even mildly interested. “He spent some years in China,
I know,” he remarked indifferently, “but I fancy you must have been
mistaken. All his interests were in trade and finance--not in politics.
Probably what you took for an expression of rage and fear was the
result of the terrible spasms of pain that seize him occasionally.”

The explanation seemed so reasonable that I accepted it without
hesitation. After all, it was extremely unlikely that old Humphreys
could have been mixed up with the Thu-tseng and Feng, I thought, could
hardly have been so unmoved had he really thought there was anything in
my suspicions.

But I was to learn months later that the astute Chinese had completely
hoodwinked me. I had made no mistake at all. The information I had
given him was to prove of supreme importance in the game Dr. Feng was
playing, so we learned when the final move had been played. The man
must have had nerves of iron. He was off his guard when the crystal
claw arrived, it is true, but the news--of tremendous import, as events
showed--that Humphrey’s had good reason to fear the Thu-tseng did not
cause even the quiver of an eyelash. There are few things in nature so
utterly impassive as the face of the cultured Chinese!

Thelma passed day after day in tense anxiety for news of Stanley. To
fill time we made frequent skiing excursions to the Schelthorn or the
_Seeling furen_ but every evening at half-past five we were at the
little shed-like station, breathlessly awaiting the train bringing up
travelers from England.

And each evening we hurried away disappointed.

In the hotel, on the ski-fields, and on the bob-run the fun was fast
and furious, but the laughter and the dance music jarred upon the
nerves of both of us. And, to make matters worse, many visitors were
beginning to look askance at Thelma, now that young Audley did not
return.

Questions were asked of Thelma on all sides, and to them she was
compelled to give evasive, and sometimes, untrue, answers.

Ten days after young Audley should have returned, I had, late at night,
left the ball-room at the Kürhaus opposite the hotel after a couple of
hours of strenuous drumming in the jazz orchestra.

Thelma had retired early, and, though in no mood for gaiety, I had been
compelled to help my brother amateur bandsmen. So at two o’clock we had
closed down and the dancers were all crossing the snowy road back to
the hotel.

The moon was shining brilliantly over the towering glaciers,
transforming the silent snow-clad mountains and forests into a
veritable fairyland. Such a clear, frosty night was inviting for a
stroll and many couples wrapped in coats had put on their “gouties”--or
snow-shoes--and were going for walks before turning in.

I turned into the hotel gardens where the trees were heavily laden
with freshly fallen snow, and entered a path where the snow was piled
six feet on either side. My footsteps fell noiselessly on the fresh
snow and suddenly I heard voices in the path that ran parallel with
mine--the voices of a man and a woman.

Instantly I recognized the woman’s voice as Thelma’s and I stood in
surprise that she should be out of doors at such an hour.

“Now, for the last time I ask you, Thelma, where Stanley is,” I heard
a man’s voice say. “You had a telegram from him today. Where is he? I
want to see him very urgently.”

The voice, beyond any possibility of mistake was Ruthen’s. Thelma
had assured me she disliked him, that he pestered her with unwelcome
attentions. Yet here she was talking to him at two o’clock in the
morning, three hours after she had said good-night and, apparently,
gone to bed!

“I tell you it is no business of yours,” came her reply in a hard,
resolute voice. “He is my husband and if he tells me to keep silence I
shall do so.”

“Then you refuse to let me see the wire?” he asked. “I arranged
ten days ago that I should know if you received a telegram. It was
delivered to your room at five o’clock tonight--and you know where
Stanley is, though to everybody, including that fool Yelverton, you
pretend ignorance and shed crocodile’s tears!”

“Oh! let me get back,” cried the girl. “I won’t be insulted! Mr.
Yelverton does not know the truth, but he is at least kind and
considerate towards me.”

“And takes Stanley’s place in your heart--eh?” the fellow sneered.
“Now, I ask you once again if you will tell me where I can find
Stanley. Every hour is of the greatest importance to both of us. If you
tell me, then your husband may be saved, after all!”

“Mr. Ruthen, if I could trust you, I would reply. But I don’t!” was her
plain answer.

I held my breath as I listened to that strange conversation.

“But surely you know me well enough, Thelma, to know that I am acting
only in your interest! Yelverton is a very good fellow, but happily he
is in ignorance, and his devotion to his duty as your guardian makes
it all the easier for us. Now, don’t be a little fool. Where can I get
into communication with Stanley?” he asked.

“I refuse to tell you!” replied the girl. “I know a little more than
you think, and I would rather trust Stanley than you--even though I
have to make pretence of ignorance to Mr. Yelverton.”

“To fool him, you mean!” laughed the man superciliously.

“Well, and if I have to fool him, it is for my benefit, not yours,” she
said defiantly.

“And suppose I told him all that I know?” said Ruthen. “I know that
he is your admirer--that Stanley ought never to have left you in his
charge, and--well it is patent to everybody that you are fonder of Rex
Yelverton than of your newly-married husband.”

“How dare you say such a thing!” she cried in fierce anger.

“Because it is true, my dear young lady,” was the cool reply. “I did
not come out here for nothing. Stanley has disappeared, and this
afternoon you had a telegram from him telling you, in secret, of his
hiding-place. I want to know it!”

“And I refuse to tell you. He has cut himself adrift from you forever.”

The man laughed jeeringly.

“That would be more difficult than you imagine,” he said. “You are
treading upon very dangerous ground now, Thelma. Tell me what I want to
know, and I will help both Stanley and yourself. You must know he is in
serious danger.”

“I refuse!” she said. “I will not betray Stanley.”

“Betray him! It is not a case of betrayal. He is already betrayed. It
is a matter of saving him.”

“From what?”

“You know. Don’t pretend ignorance, my dear Thelma! Surely we know
each other well enough to be friends when Stan’s safety is concerned!
He doesn’t know I’m here in Mürren, or he would have wired me his
whereabouts, so that I could go straight to him.”

I listened amazed to this extraordinary conversation. I had never
dreamed that the tall fair-haired young man who posed as a stranger to
my temporary bride, was, after all, an intimate friend of her husband’s.

“Remember,” he went on. “Yelverton is highly inquisitive--and very
naturally. He has been bamboozled from the very first. I wonder he
hasn’t smelt a rat long ago. But, of course, he is your admirer. But we
can’t waste time--we’ve been out here too long now. Tell me where I can
find Stanley.”

“I refuse,” was her firmly repeated reply.

“In that case I shall act as I have already warned you.”

“I do not intend that you should meet him again. I know sufficient
concerning your friendship--too much indeed,” she said determinedly. “I
am not blind to the fact that you are my enemy and Stanley’s. He has
hidden himself from his enemies, of whom you are one, and it is not
likely I shall tell you,” she added.

“Very well, then--take the consequences. I shall tell what I know,” the
man said.

“In which case I shall also tell what I know--which, I venture to think
you will find a trifle awkward for yourself. _So think it over_,” she
said defiantly in a low clear voice. “Good-night.”

Her footsteps were muffled in the soft snow as she made her way back
to the hotel, alone. Ruthen followed a few minutes later: no one would
have guessed that they had been out together.

I went to my room more puzzled than ever.

CHAPTER V

ESTABLISHES SOME CURIOUS FACTS

When I met Thelma next morning I noticed that she was pale and
obviously nervous and ill at ease. I longed to question her, but to do
so would have been to reveal the fact that--unintentionally, it was
true--I had been eavesdropping.

It was now plain that the man Ruthen, whom I had thought to be a mere
hotel acquaintance of Stanley Audley’s, was, in truth, something more,
whether friend or enemy I was still not quite sure. Thelma’s attitude,
it was true, suggested the latter, though Ruthen had professed friendly
motives. His attitude towards her thoroughly incensed me. But I
realized that there must be some reason, unknown to me, why Thelma
never acknowledged him when I was present. It was evident too that she
hated and possibly feared him and that she, at any rate, regarded him
as her husband’s enemy.

She made no mention of the telegram from her husband that Ruthen had
referred to and, as she had not denied having received it, I assumed
that Ruthen’s information was correct. It might have been, of course,
a reassuring message, but if this was so there was no apparent reason
why she should not have told me about it and her obvious anxiety and
nervousness seemed entirely to contradict the suggestion that it could
have contained any good news.

That morning we took our skis up the cable railway to the Allmendhubel,
a thousand feet further up the mountain side, and thoroughly enjoyed
our sport on the steep snowy incline above the village. A ski-jumping
competition had been arranged for the afternoon and we spent an hour
watching the competitors “herring-boning” and “side-stepping” as they
climbed over the snow up the distant heights in readiness for the swift
descent ending with the high jump that only experts can accomplish.

Thelma seemed silent and _distraite_ all the morning. At length I asked
her what was troubling her.

“I really didn’t know I was glum!” she replied. “Forgive me, Mr.
Yelverton, won’t you? I am awfully worried about Stanley. I really
think it is useless for me to remain here in Mürren any longer. I had
better go home to Bexhill.”

The suggestion seemed to confirm my suspicion that she knew her
husband’s whereabouts, and felt it useless to await any longer for him.

“My time is growing short, too,” I said. “I fear I must be back at my
office on Monday. My partner writes that he is very busy.”

“Then you will go on Saturday--the day after tomorrow, I suppose? If
so--may I travel with you?”

“Certainly,” I said. And as she had not booked a sleeping-berth on
the Interlaken-Boulogne express, I promised that I would see after it
during the afternoon.

Later that day I found that Audley had left her with only about a
hundred francs, and she was compelled to allow me to settle her hotel
bill.

As we came up into the hall after dinner the concierge handed Thelma a
note, saying--“Mr. Ruthen has left, miss, and he asked me to give you
this!”

She held it in her hand for a second, and then, after glancing at me,
moved away and tore it open.

The words she read had an extraordinary effect upon her. Her face
went as white as the paper, and she held her breath, her eyes staring
straight before her. Then she crushed the flimsy paper in her hand.

She reeled against a small table, and would have fallen had she not,
with a supreme effort, recovered herself, and quickly stood erect again.

“Forgive me, Mr. Yelverton,” she managed to ejaculate. “I’m not feeling
very well. Excuse me, I--I’ll go to my room!”

And she turned and ascended the stairs, leaving me astonished and
mystified.

What, I wondered, did that farewell note contain.

I saw her no more till next day. She sent me a message by the
chambermaid to say that she was not coming down again and I passed the
evening gossiping with Major Burton and two other “bobbing” enthusiasts.

By this time I had pretty thoroughly wearied of the eternal round of
pleasure. Thelma’s obvious distress and the extraordinary mystery into
which I had stumbled occupied all my thoughts and I could no longer
take the slightest pleasure in the gay life which seethed and bubbled
around me. It was therefore with a feeling of genuine relief that I
found myself at last in the restaurant car of the Boulogne express,
slowly leaving Interlaken for the long night run across France by way
of Delle and Rheims. Already we had left behind us the crisp clear air
of the mountains. The snow everywhere was half melted and slushy and
the train pushed its way onward through a dense curtain of driving
sleet.

We ate our dinner amid a gay crowd of holiday makers returning, not
only from Mürren but from Grindelwald, Wengen, Adelboden, Kandersteg,
and other winter sports centres. The talk was gay and animated, merry
laughter resounded through the long car. Yet Thelma sat pale, silent
and nervous and her tired eyes told their own tale of sleeplessness and
anxiety. She gave me the impression that she had been crushed by some
sudden and unexpected shock and though more than once I fancied she
was on the edge of confiding in me, she remained almost dumb and was
clearly disinclined to talk.

We arrived at Victoria on Sunday afternoon and I drove with her in
a taxi to Charing Cross. On the way she suddenly seized my hand and
looking straight into my eyes said--

“I really do not know how to thank you, Mr. Yelverton, for all your
great kindness towards me. I know I have been a source of great worry
to you--but--but--” she burst into tears without concluding the
sentence.

I drew her towards me and strove to comfort her, declaring that I would
continue to act as her friend and leave no stone unturned in my efforts
to trace Stanley.

At last, as we went down the Mall, she dried her eyes and became more
tranquil. We were approaching the terminus whence she was to travel to
Bexhill.

“Now--tell me truthfully,” I said to her at last, “do you, or do you
not, know where Stanley is?”

She started, her lips parted, and she held her breath.

“I--I deceived you once, Mr. Yelverton. I--I did once know where he
was. But I do not now.”

“Then you wish me to discover him?” I asked.

“Yes. But--but, I fear you will never succeed. He can never return to
me--_never_!”

“Never return to you? Why? Was he already married?” I gasped.

“No. Not that. Not that! I love Stanley, but he can never come back to
me.”

The taxi had stopped, and a porter had already opened the door. I asked
her to explain, but she only shook her head in silence.

Ten minutes later, I grasped her hand in farewell, and she waved to me
as the train moved off to the pleasant little south-coast resort where
her mother was living. Thelma Audley’s was surely a sad home-going.

Back in my rooms high-up in gray and smoky Russell Square, I found
old Mrs. Chapman, with her pleasant face and white hair, had prepared
everything for my comfort. The night was cold and rainy, and the London
atmosphere altogether depressing and unpleasant after that bright crisp
climate of the high Alps.

I looked through a number of letters which had not been sent on and,
after a wash, ate my dinner, Mrs. Chapman standing near and gossiping
with me the while. My room was warm and cozy, and with the familiar old
silhouettes and caricatures upon its walls, the side-board with some of
the Georgian plate belonging to my grandfather, and a blazing fire, had
that air of homelike comfort, which is always refreshing after hotel
life.

After I had had my coffee, and my trusted old servant had disappeared,
I threw myself into my big arm chair to think over the amazing tangle
in which I had allowed myself to become involved.

Was I falling in love with Thelma--falling in love foolishly and
hopelessly with a girl who was already married? I tried hard to
persuade myself that my feeling towards her was nothing but a deep
and honest affection, born of her sweet disposition and the queer
circumstances that had thrown us together. Stanley Audley, whatever
the explanation of his amazing conduct might be, had trusted me and
I fought hard in my own mind against a temptation which I realized
would, in normal circumstances, be a gross betrayal of confidence. I
had been brought up in a public school where “to play the game” was the
one rule of conduct that mattered and hitherto I had prided myself on
my punctiliousness in all the ordinary matters of life. Was I to fail
utterly in the first great temptation that life had brought me?

I could not disguise from myself, try how I would, that even an honest
admiration for Thelma had its perils. As Dr. Feng had said, it was
dangerous. We were both young. I had hitherto escaped heart-whole,
Thelma was not only more than ordinarily beautiful but she possessed
a degree of charm and fascination--for me, at any rate--that was
well-nigh irresistible.

For a long time I paced my room in indecision. To act as Dr. Feng
had suggested would be to break off our acquaintanceship, treating
it merely as the passing incident of a pleasant holiday. But that, I
argued, was impossible. I had promised Audley to look after his wife
when everything seemed plain and straightforward: to desert her now
when she was clearly in difficulty and distress was unthinkable. Yet to
go on might--probably would--spell utter disaster to my peace of mind,
and make shipwreck of my honor.

Hour after hour passed and I seemed to draw no nearer to a conclusion.
But at length the glimmerings of a solution of the problem began
to draw in my mind. If I could but find Stanley Audley I could cut
myself adrift from the mystery and try to forget Thelma as speedily as
possible. This I determined honestly to try to do, and I think I felt
better and happier for the resolution. What I failed to realize was the
strength of the feelings that had me in their grip. And ever and anon,
like an inducement of hope, came the resolution of Thelma’s declaration
that Stanley could never return to her. In that case--but I resolutely
tried to push away from me the thoughts that crowded into my mind.

Next day, after spending a couple of hours at Bedford Row with my
partner, Hensman, I set out on my first inquiry regarding Stanley
Audley.

I took a taxi to the house in Half Moon Street in which he had lived,
and there saw Mr. Belton, the proprietor.

He was a tall, bald-headed man in grey trousers and morning coat and
nothing could disguise the fact that he was a retired butler. “Yes,
sir,” he said in reply to my inquiry, “Mr. Stanley Audley lived here
for nearly two years. But he went abroad a short time ago, as I wired
to you, sir.”

“Well, the fact is, Mr. Belton, he’s disappeared,” I said.

“Disappeared!” echoed the ex-butler.

“Yes, I wonder if I may glance at his rooms.”

“Certainly, sir. But they are let again. Colonel Mayhew is out, so we
can go up. Mr. Audley sent all his things to store when he left, but I
was away at the time, so I don’t know where they went to.” He took me
to a well-furnished front sitting-room on the first floor.

“Do you recollect that he had a lady visitor--a tall, handsome,
dark-eyed young lady, whose name was Shaylor?”

“Certainly, sir. A young lady came once or twice to tea, but I don’t
know her name. And--well to tell you the truth, sir, his movements were
often very curious.”

“How?” I asked, with sudden interest.

“Well, he would walk out without any luggage sometimes, and then a week
later I would hear from him telling me to send on his letters to some
Poste Restante abroad. Once it was in Paris, another time at Geneva and
twice in Madrid. It always struck me as very curious that he traveled
without any luggage--or if he had any, he never brought it here.”

“Curious,” I said. “Then he was a bit of a mystery?”

“He was, sir. That’s his photograph there, on the mantleshelf,” and he
pointed to a photograph in a small oval ebony frame.

To my amazement it was the picture of a man I had never seen in my life.

“But that round-faced man isn’t Stanley Audley!” I exclaimed.

“Excuse me, sir, but it is,” was the ex-butler’s polite assertion. “He
lived here nearly two years.”

“He is not the Stanley Audley for whom I am searching, at any rate,” I
said.

“Well, he is the only Mr. Audley that my wife and I have had here.”

Suddenly I recollected that in my wallet I had a snap-shot of Thelma on
her skis which I had taken up on the Allmendhubel. I drew it out and
showed it to him.

“Ah! sir, that’s not the young lady who visited Mr. Audley. That’s a
young lady who came twice, or perhaps three times to see Mr. Graydon.”

“What is Mr. Graydon like?” I asked eagerly.

In reply he gave me a very accurate description of Thelma’s husband.

“Who, and what is Mr. Graydon?” I asked. “Tell me, Mr. Belton, for much
depends upon the result of this inquiry.”

“He’s a young gentleman very well connected--nephew of a certain earl,
I believe. He had the rooms above for about nine months, and was very
friendly with Mr. Audley.”

“And did he make mysterious journeys?”

“Yes, sometimes--but not very often.”

“Had he any profession?” I inquired.

“No. I understand that his father, who was a landowner in Cheshire,
left him with a very comfortable income. My wife and I liked him, for
he was a quiet, rather studious young fellow, though often at Mr.
Audley’s invitation he went out of an evening and did not return till
the early hours. But now-a-days with those dance clubs going, most
young men do that.”

“Well, Mr. Belton, may I see Mr. Graydon’s room?” I asked. In response,
he took me up to the next floor, where the sitting-room and bedroom
were even cosier and better furnished than the rooms below.

“Mr. Graydon, when he left, laughingly said that he might be married
soon, but if he didn’t marry he’d come back to us. He told my wife
that he was going on a yachting trip to Norway with some friends, and
afterwards he had to go to Montreal to visit some relatives.”

“But the curious fact is that the man I knew as Audley is none other
than the man you know as Graydon!” I said.

“That’s certainly very mysterious, sir. Mr. Graydon must have assumed
Mr. Audley’s name,” Belton said.

“The whole affair is a complete mystery,” I remarked. “I wish you’d
tell me more that you know concerning this Mr. Graydon. What was his
Christian name, by the way? And when did you last see him?”

“Philip. He left us last September.”

“And the young lady who came to see him?”

“Oh! She was certainly a lady. Indeed, I rather fancied that I had seen
her several years ago, and that with her mother she once came as guest
of old Lady Wentbrook, in whose service I was. But I was not quite
sure, and I could not, of course, inquire. At any rate, she was a lady,
of that there could be no mistake.”

“And Mr. Graydon was a gentleman?”

“Certainly, sir. But I can’t vouch for Mr. Audley. They were
friends--and that’s all I know.”

“You had certain suspicions about Audley, and were not sorry when he
gave up his rooms?”

“Yes, sir, you’re quite right, I was.”

“And how about Graydon?”

“We were very sorry when he left, sir. My wife liked him immensely. But
she always said that he was somehow under the influence of Mr. Audley.”

“Did you ever meet a Mr. Harold Ruthen?” I asked.

And from my wallet I took another snap-shot which showed him with a
party of skaters on the rink.

The ex-butler scrutinized it closely and replied:

“Yes. He’s been here. He was a friend of Mr. Audley’s. But I don’t
think that was his name. I believe he was called Rutley, or some such
name?”

“Did Mr. Graydon know him?”

“No, sir. Not to my knowledge. He came here once and stayed with Mr.
Audley while Mr. Graydon was up in Scotland shooting. But we’ll go down
below and show the photograph to my wife. She has a better memory than
I have.”

So we went into the basement, where I had a long conversation with
Mrs. Belton, a typical retired servant of the better class, shrewd and
observant.

That conversation definitely established several amazing facts which
served to make the mystery of Stanley Audley deeper and more sinister
than ever. It was clear--

  (1) That Philip Graydon had, for some reason we could not fathom,
      taken the name of Stanley Audley, while Audley had passed as
      Graydon.

  (2) That the movements of the two men were uncertain and mysterious.

  (3) That Harold Ruthen, also known as Rutley, was associated with
      both Stanley Audley and the man Philip Graydon.

  (4) That Thelma had married the man who, passing as Philip Graydon,
      was really Stanley Audley!

After that amazing revelation I passed along Half Moon Street, in the
winter darkness, to Piccadilly in a state of utter bewilderment.

CHAPTER VI

THE HAM-BONE CLUB

A few days later a client of ours named Powell for whom we were
conducting a piece of rather intricate business concerning a mortgage
of some land in Essex, invited me to join himself and his wife at
dinner at the Savoy.

Our table was in a corner near the orchestra and the big restaurant was
crowded. Sovrani, the famous _maître d’hôtel_ knew all three of us well
and we dined excellently under his tactful supervision. After dinner
Mrs. Powell, a pretty young woman, exquisitely gowned, suggested a
dance in the room below. We went there and danced until about half-past
ten when Powell said:

“Let’s go to the Ham-bone.”

“The Ham-bone,” I echoed. “What on earth is that?”

“Oh!” laughed Mrs. Powell, “it is one of London’s merriest Bohemian
dance clubs. The male members are all artists, sculptors or literary
men, and the female members are all girls who earn their own
living--mannequins, secretaries, artists’ models and girl journalists.
It is screamingly amusing. Quite Bohemian and yet high select, isn’t
it, Harry?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” I said.

“Well, one gets a really splendid dinner there for half-a-crown,
though, of course, you get paper serviettes, and for supper after the
hours, you men can have a kipper--a brand that is extra special--and a
drink with it,” she went on.

“Yes, Leila,” laughed her husband. “The place is unique. Half the
people in ‘smart’ society, men as well as women, want to become
members, but the Committee, who are all well-known artists, don’t want
the man-about-town: they only want the real hard-working Bohemians who
go there at night for relaxation. Burlac, the sculptor, put me up.”

The novelty of the idea attracted me, so we went in a taxicab to an
uninviting looking mews off Great Windmill Street, behind the Café
Monico in Piccadilly Circus. Walking up it, we passed through a narrow
swing-door, over which hung a dim feeble light and a big ham-bone!

Up a precipitous flight of narrow stone steps we went until we reached
a little door where a stout ex-sergeant of police smiled recognition
upon my host, placed a book before him to sign and relieved us of our
coats.

In a room above a piano was being played by someone who was evidently
an artist and dancing was in progress.

The place might have been a cabaret in the _Montmartre_ in Paris. I
thought I knew London’s night clubs fairly well--the Embassy, Ciro’s,
the Grafton, the Mayfair, the Royalty, the Twenty, Murray’s, Tate’s,
the Trippers, the Dainty, and others--but when I entered the big
whitewashed dancing room I found myself looking on a scene that was a
complete novelty to me.

The room was long and narrow. The walls were painted in stripes
representing oaken beams and set around them were many small tables.
The floor was filled with merry dancers, among whom I recognized many
people well-known in artistic and social circles. Some of the men wore
dinner jackets and many of the women were in beautiful evening dress,
but smart clothes evidently were regarded as a non-essential, for a
large proportion of the men wore ordinary lounge suits.

As we stood watching the scene a tall, elderly man rose from a table
and cried:

“Hulloa! Leila! What a stranger you are!”

My hostess smiled and waved recognition, whereupon her friend--a
portrait painter whose reputation was world-wide, bowed over her hand
and said:

“Well, only fancy! It is really delightful that you should return to
us! We thought we’d lost you after you married!”

“My dear Charlie,” she laughed--for it was a rule in the Ham-bone that
every member addressed every one else by his or her Christian name, and
“Charlie” was a Royal Academician--“I am an old Hamyardian: I was one
of the first lady members.”

“Of course. You’ll find Marigold here. I’ve just been chatting with
her. She’s round the corner, over yonder. But she’s funny. What’s the
matter with her? Do you know?” he added in a low, serious voice.

“No, I didn’t know there was anything wrong,” replied my hostess.

It was easy to realize that here in this stable converted into a club
was an atmosphere and an environment without its like in London or
elsewhere. The denizens of that little circle of Bohemia cared for
absolutely nothing and nobody outside its own careless world whose
boundaries were Chelsea and the Savoy Club.

Ordinary social distinctions were utterly and completely ignored.
Gayety was supreme and in the merry throng I caught sight within a
few minutes of a well-known London magistrate before whom I had often
pleaded as a Solicitor, a famous scientist, the millionaire owner of
a great daily paper. Several leading members of the Chancery Bar, an
under-secretary of State and quite a sprinkling of young scions of
patrician families.

They were men and women of the intellectual type who cared nothing
for the vicious joys of the ordinary night club. They came in frank
enjoyment of dancing and music and the fried kippers, as custom
decreed, in order to comply with the kill-joy law that ordained that
they must eat if they wanted a drink! Everything, apparently, was free
and easy gaiety. Yet it was at least as difficult to become a member of
the Ham-bone as to gain admission to any of the most exclusive clubs
along Pall Mall. Money was no sort of passport: only personality,
ability or the true inborn spirit of Bohemianism could open the portals
of the Ham-bone.

The “master of ceremonies” was a well-known landscape painter, whom
every one addressed as “George,” a smart figure in the brown velvet
jacket of his profession. He chaffed and joked with every one in
French, revealing a side of his nature certainly unsuspected by the
general public to whom he usually presented a grave and austere front.
But this was the key-note of the Ham-bone: every one seemed to “let
himself go” and the stilted social etiquette of our ordinary world
seemed as far off as if we had been in Limehouse or Poplar.

I was dancing with Mrs. Powell, when, suddenly, she halted before a
small table in a corner where there sat alone a beautiful dark-haired
girl in a smartly cut dance-frock of black charmeuse.

“Mr. Yelverton,” she said, “will you let me introduce you to my
dearest friend, Marigold Day?” And to the girl she said, “Marigold,
this is Mr. Rex Yelverton, the gentleman of whom I recently spoke to
you.”

Somberly dressed, her white neck and bare arms in vivid contrast
with her dead-black frock, she was almost wickedly beautiful. Her
well-dressed hair, across which she wore a bandeau of golden leaves,
was dark; her scarlet mouth was like the curling underleaves of a rose,
her lips with the true _arc-de-cupidon_ so seldom seen, were slightly
apart, and between them showed strong white teeth. Her eyes were large
and deeply violet and they held a fascination such as I had seldom
before seen.

“We’ll be back presently,” said Mrs. Powell, as we slipped again into
the dance. “I want to have a chat with you.”

“Who’s that?” I asked, as soon as we were a few feet away.

“Oh, that’s Marigold. We are fellow-members here. She was in business
with me before I married. Isn’t she very good-looking, don’t you think?”

“Beautiful,” I declared.

“Ah, I see,” laughed my partner. “You are like all the other men. They
all admire her, and want to dance with her. But Marigold is a queer
girl: I can never make her out in these days. Once she was very bright
and merry, and always gadding about somewhere with a man named Audley.
Now there’s a kink somewhere. She accepts no invitations, keeps herself
to herself, and only on rare occasions comes here just to look on. A
great change has come over her. Why, I can’t make out. We were the
closest of friends before I married, so I’ve asked her the reason of it
all, but she will tell me absolutely nothing.”

“Audley,” I gasped. “Where is she at business?”

“At Carille’s, the dressmakers in Dover Street. She’s a mannequin, and
I was a typist there,” she replied. “And now Mr. Yelverton, you know
what was my business before I married,” she added, with a laugh.

“Pretty boring, I should say, showing off dresses to a pack of
unappreciative old cats,” was my remark.

“Boring isn’t the word for it,” Mrs. Powell declared, “I couldn’t
have stood her work. You should see our clients--uneducated, fat,
coarse, war-rich old hags who look Marigold up and down, and fancy they
will appear as smart as she does in one of Monsieur Carille’s latest
creations. How Marigold sticks at it so long I can’t make out. She
ought to be awarded the prize medal for patience. I could never amble
about over that horrid grey carpet and place my neck, my elbows and
hands at absurd angles for the benefit of those ugly old tabbies--no
matter what salary I was paid!”

At that moment we found ourselves before the table where her husband
was seated, smoking and drinking coffee with Sava, the young Serbian
who was perhaps the greatest modern caricaturist.

Belgravia is good; Bohemia is better; the combination of both is surely
Paradise! Sava’s conversation was as perfect as his caricatures: he
had seen life in every capital in Europe and was a born raconteur. For
a time he held us engrossed with his witty comments on the men and
matters of half-a-dozen countries, all of which he knew to perfection.

Never have I seen so truly fraternal a circle as that little backwater
of Bohemianism. Every one was at his ease: there was no such a thing
as being a stranger there. The fact that you _were_ there--that some
member had introduced you and vouched for you--broke down all barriers
and men who had never before met and might never meet again met and
chatted as freely as if they were old friends and with an utter
disregard of all the vexing problems of wealth, rank, profession and
precedence.

Presently my hostess took me back to the mannequin in black whom I new
realized must be wearing a copy of one of the famous man-dressmaker’s
latest creations.

“Mr. Yelverton wants a partner, Marigold,” my companion exclaimed
gayly, whereupon her friend smiled and rising at once, joined me in
a fox-trot with an expression of pleasure upon her face. She was a
splendid dancer.

“Mrs. Powell has told me of your acquaintance with Mr. Audley,” I said,
after a few minutes of the usual ball-room chat. “I wonder if it is the
same man I know. He used to live in Half Moon Street.”

She clearly resented the question. “Why do you ask?” she demanded.

“Because I’ve lost sight of my friend of late,” I replied.

“Well, Mr. Audley did live in Half Moon Street, but he has gone away,”
she replied. And I thought I detected a hint of tragedy upon her face.

CHAPTER VII

IN THE WEB

As we danced Marigold told me something more about herself. She lived,
I found, with three other business girls at a boarding house in
Bayswater, going by tube to Dover Street each day. She had met Audley
and for a time they had been rather friendly, seeing a good deal of
each other. I guessed, though of course she did not tell me, that the
friendship bade fair to ripen into something deeper. Then Audley had
suddenly disappeared.

As our dance ended Mrs. Powell came up and we all went up the narrow
wooden staircase to the balcony where, as we enjoyed our Bohemian
supper, we could watch the dancing below.

It was just before midnight, when the fun was fast and furious and
the “Hamyardians,” as the merry circle call themselves, were enjoying
themselves in the wildest and most nonsensical fashion, that Marigold
Day, glancing at her wrist watch, declared that she must go. I went
down with her to the door.

“Can’t you tell me some more about Audley?” I asked just before she
entered her taxi.

She shook her head. “Don’t ask me, please,” she said and she entered
the taxi and was driven away towards Bayswater.

“Well, what do you think of Marigold?” asked Mrs. Powell, as I resumed
my seat at the supper table.

“She’s altogether charming, of course,” I replied, “but rather--well, I
don’t quite know the word. I should almost say mysterious: at any rate
she seems to be troubled about something and trying to hide it.”

“That’s it, exactly,” declared my hostess. “During the past few months
she seems to have become an entirely different girl. As you know, we
were the closest of friends. She seems to live in constant dread of
something, but she absolutely refuses to tell me what it is. Indeed,
she declares there is nothing wrong, but that is nonsense. No one who
knew her six months ago could fail to realize that something is very
wrong indeed.”

“Do you know anything about her friend, Mr. Audley,” I ventured to ask.

“Not very much,” said Mrs. Powell. “Of course, I have met him. Marigold
was getting very fond of him, I believe, but she will not talk about
him.”

Powell came up and declared it was time to go and I had no opportunity
of questioning Mrs. Powell any further, much as I wished to do so.
However, I determined to see her again and also to meet Marigold Day
and see whether either of them could give me further details about
Audley. Was he the real Audley? I wondered, or the man who had taken
his name.

A few days later I received a letter from Mrs. Shaylor inviting me to
go to Bexhill.

I was in two minds about accepting. I wanted to see Thelma--wanted to
help her and certainly did not want to lose touch with her as I might
if I refused to go. But was it wise?

Of course, inclination conquered prudence and I went. I found that she
and her mother lived in a pretty red-roofed, red-brick detached house,
with high gables, and a small garden in front. It stood in Bedford
Avenue, close to the Sackville Hotel and facing the sea.

Mrs. Shaylor, a pleasant, grey-haired woman of a very refined type,
greeted me warmly and thanked me cordially for what I had done for her
daughter in Mürren, while Thelma expressed her delight at seeing me
again.

I got a chance during the morning of speaking to Mrs. Shaylor alone and
asked her if Thelma had heard anything more of her husband.

“Not a word,” was Mrs. Shaylor’s reply. “It is a most disastrous
affair for her, poor girl. The suspense and anxiety are killing her.”

“She does not look so well,” I replied. I had, in fact, been struck by
the change in the girl. She was paler and thinner and it was evident
the strain was telling on her rather heavily.

“I understand you did not know very much of Mr. Audley,” I said.

“Very little indeed, unfortunately,” was Mrs. Shaylor’s reply.
“Thelma met him when she was staying with her aunt at the Majestic at
Harrogate, and they became friendly. He appeared to have considerable
means for he gave Thelma some very beautiful jewelry. He came down
here once, saw me, and asked if he might marry her. He told me certain
things about his relations in India, and she seemed so entirely devoted
to him that I gave my consent to their marriage in three months. But,
judge my surprise when a fortnight later they were married secretly and
left next day for Switzerland for their honeymoon.”

“Then you really know very little of him, Mrs. Shaylor?” I asked.

“Very little indeed. It was a most foolish and ill-advised marriage. He
seems to have lied to her here and then deserted her.”

“I must say I liked what I saw of him,” I said, “and I wonder whether
we are right in thinking that he really deserted her in the ordinary
meaning of the word. It looks like it, of course, but it has occurred
to me, though I have only very slight grounds to go on, that he is
being kept away from her by some influence at which we cannot guess. He
really seemed devoted to her and genuinely sorry to have to leave her.”

“Well, she certainly seems devoted to him and will not hear a word
against him. But what can one think under the circumstances?”

The drawing-room opened on to a wide verandah and across the promenade
we could see the rolling Channel surf beating upon the beach. The
winter’s day was dull and boisterous and now and again sheets of flying
spray swept across the promenade.

“He pretended to me that he was an electrical engineer,” I remarked,
“but I have found out that the firm for whom he said he worked knows
nothing of him.”

“That is what he also told me. But I have reason to believe that he is
in fact a young man of considerable fortune. Yet, if so, why has he
deserted poor Thelma?”

“I am doing my level best to find him, Mrs. Shaylor,” I said. “Some
very great mystery enshrouds this affair, and I have, in your
daughter’s interest, set myself to solve it.”

“I’m sure all this is extremely good of you,” she said, gratefully.
“We are only women, and both of us powerless.”

I paused for a moment. Then I said:

“I really came down here, Mrs. Shaylor, to put several direct questions
to you. I wonder if you will answer them and thus lighten my task. I am
a solicitor, as perhaps you already know.”

“Certainly. What are they?”

“Has your daughter ever known a man named Harold Ruthen?”

The lady’s face changed, and her brows contracted slightly. “Why do you
ask that?” she asked.

“Because it has a direct bearing upon the present situation.”

“Well--yes. I believe she has, or had, a friend of that name. A man who
lives in Paris.”

“Was he a friend of Audley’s?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Have you ever heard of a girl named Marigold Day--a mannequin at
Carille’s?”

“Never.”

I paused. Then I bent towards her and said, very earnestly, “Has it
ever struck you, Mrs. Shaylor, that your daughter knows just a little
more concerning Stanley Audley than she has yet told us?”

“Why do you ask that question?” she inquired.

“Well--because somehow it has struck me so,” I said. “And I will go a
little further. I believe she knows where her husband is, but--for some
reason or other--fears to betray him!”

“Is that your suspicion?” she asked, in a low strained voice.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Mr. Yelverton,” she said very slowly. “I admit that it is mine
also! I’ve questioned Thelma time after time, but she will tell me
nothing--absolutely nothing!”

“Are there any more facts you can tell me--anything to throw further
light upon these strange circumstances?” I asked her.

“No,” was her reply. “I’m afraid I know nothing else. Thelma is
worried. I feel terrified lest the real truth--whatever it may
be--concerning her husband, be disclosed.”

Thelma came in and we talked of other matters. She made great fun of
my position as her “temporary husband” at Mürren and seemed in better
spirits than when I came down.

After luncheon we went for a stroll together through the driving
health-giving breeze to Cooden Beach, and then back for tea. Thelma
wore a serviceable golf suit, thick brogues and carried a stick, while
her Airedale “Jock” ran at our side.

On the way I told her of my adventure at the Ham-bone Club. She was
much interested in the queer pranks of the Hamyardians and to find
out how much she knew, I told her about Marigold Day: in fact I
deliberately “enthused” about her. I watched her closely, but it was
evident Marigold’s name meant nothing to her. Then I went on the more
open tack and tried to get some further facts from her. It was in vain:
she seemed as determined to keep her knowledge to herself as I was to
get at the truth.

At last, as we neared the house, I made a direct attack.

“Now look here, Thelma,” I said, “do be frank. You know where Stanley
is, don’t you?”

She went pale: it was evident that it had never struck her that I might
guess at the truth.

“Why do you say that?” she asked sharply.

“Because I am certain Stanley has enemies and wants help.”

“Enemies!” she said, with an attempt to laugh “why should he have
enemies? What do you mean?”

“All that I have said. Cannot you trust me? If your husband is in
hiding for some unknown reason I should not betray him.”

“I have promised to say nothing,” she said blankly. “I cannot break my
promise.”

“Why does he not return to you?”

“There is a reason--he never can. We must live apart in future.”

“Why?”

She shrugged her shoulders, and after a few moments of hesitation
replied--

“There are certain facts, Mr. Yelverton, that I am forbidden by Stanley
to disclose. I have told you that we cannot be united again. That is
all. Please make no further inquiries.”

“But I will. You have been left in my care,” I asserted.

“If you do!--if you do it--it may be at your peril,” she declared, in a
hard unnatural voice, looking curiously at me as she opened the gate.
“Recollect, Mr. Yelverton, that my words are a warning.”

“But why?” I cried.

“I--I unfortunately cannot tell you,” was her reply, and we re-entered
her charming home together.

I returned to London more mystified than ever. The dual personality
of Stanley Audley, combined with the fact that his wife undoubtedly
knew of his whereabouts; her steadfast determination not to disclose
one single fact, and the strange threats I had heard Ruthen utter, all
combined to puzzle me beyond measure.

For a couple of days I did my best to attend to business, but
constantly I found my mind dwelling on the mystery of Stanley Audley.
I could not concentrate on legal problems and most of my work fell on
Hensman’s shoulders.

On the third night, after my visit to Bexhill, when I returned to my
rooms from the office, I found, lying upon my table, a typewritten
note which had been delivered that afternoon. It bore the Hammersmith
postmark.

Tearing it open I read some lines of rather indifferent typing, as
follows:--

  “You have formed a friendship with Mrs. Thelma Audley. I warn you
  that such friendship, if continued, will be at the cost of your own
  life. Divert your love-making into another direction. I have no
  personal animosity against you but you are placing yourself in the
  way of powerful interests, and you will be removed if necessary.”

I read and re-read this strange message. Thelma’s warning leaped to my
mind. Was there, then, a real risk to myself in the strange coil?

Then something--sheer obstinacy I suppose--came to my help and I
declared to myself that I would go ahead with my self-imposed task;
that nothing--least of all mere cowardice--should induce me to give it
up.

CHAPTER VIII

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