The crystal claw

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 believe she knows where he is. If that is so why should you interfere? Of course, what you tell me about the girl Day is very interesting and may throw a good deal of light on Stanley Audley’s character. But, after all, men change their minds and if Audley preferred Thelma to Marigold, there was no reason why he should not have asked her to marry him.”

“None the less, take my advice, drop the whole thing. You haven’t the shadow of a legal right to interfere. The men who lived in Half Moon Street, quite obviously a shady lot, have fled, evidently frightened of something and apparently your temporary bride is as frightened as they are. I don’t see why you should run any risk in the matter.”

“But what earthly risk do I run?” I asked. “Surely I am capable of looking after myself.”

“Considerably more risk than you imagine, unless I am very much mistaken,” he replied gravely.

I wondered for a moment whether my mysterious warning had come from the doctor himself. But what could he know about the affair? I could not read anything in his inscrutable face, but his manner certainly suggested that he was in deadly earnest, and, to my intense surprise, he suddenly let fall a remark, quite unintentionally, I believed, that, I realized with a curious suspicion, showed that he knew Thelma and her mother were living at Bexhill. Here was indeed a new complication. I made no sign that I had noticed his slip, but sat as if thinking deeply, as indeed I was.

How, and for what purpose, had he obtained that information. He had professed not to know what had happened after he had left Mürren.

The idea flashed through my mind that he and Thelma were acting in collusion to “call me off,” but this seemed so absurd that I dismissed it at once.

“Now, look here, Yelverton,” he said presently. “You’ve not told me everything.”

“Yes I have,” I protested.

“You haven’t told me that you’ve fallen deeply in love with little Mrs. Audley. That is why I warned you—and still warn you—of rocks ahead.”

“I did not think that necessary,” I said with some heat. “That is surely my own affair!”

“Certainly,” he said, dryly, in the paternal tone he sometimes assumed. “But remember my first view of the situation was the correct one. I thought you extremely indiscreet to accept the trust you did. It was a highly dangerous one—for you.”

“But you agreed afterwards that I did the right thing,” I argued.

“You acted generously in the Little Lady’s interests, but you have certainly fallen into some extraordinary trap. That’s my point of view,” he answered. “In any case, you are in love with a wife whose husband is absent. That is quite enough to constitute a very grave danger to both of you. So, if I were you I’d keep away from her. Take my advice as an old man.”

His repeated warning angered me, and I fear that I did not attempt to conceal my impatience. At any rate I took my leave rather abruptly, and as I walked in the direction of Hammersmith Bridge I felt more than ever puzzled at his attitude, and more than ever determined not to deviate from the course upon which I had embarked.