She handed me her big silver box of cigarettes, for she, like many modern girls, was an inveterate smoker. I took one and she lit it for me with a gay expression in her eyes which seemed to belie the tragic news she had imparted to me.
That well-warmed room was indeed cozy and comfortable, for outside it was a wild night in the Channel. The heavy roar of the waves as they beat upon the beach reached us, while through the window—for the curtains had not been drawn—could be seen the regular flashes of the Royal Sovereign Lightship warning ships from the perilous rocks off Beach Head, and here and there in the blackness were tiny points of light showing that the fishing fleet were out from Rye and Hastings. The very atmosphere seemed to be changed with the wild spin-drift of the stormy sea.
I felt that though she was holding back certain facts concerning her husband—dead or alive. Perhaps she was doing so out of consideration to us both. Try as I would, I could get no further information from her. She would tell me no more concerning her suspicion of Stanley’s death, and later that night as I trudged along the storm-swept promenade to the hotel close by, I confess that I felt both baffled by Feng’s visit and annoyed at Thelma’s dogged persistence in refusing to tell me anything.
Next afternoon, while I was sitting in my office in Bedford Row, the telephone rang and a woman’s voice asked whether I was Mr. Yelverton. I took it to be a client and replied in the affirmative, whereupon the speaker said:
“I’m Marigold Day. Can I come along and see you, Mr. Yelverton?”
“Certainly,” I said. “I’ll be in till five. Is it anything important?”
“Yes. It is rather, I’ll come along in a taxi,” and she rang off hurriedly.
About a quarter of an hour later my clerk showed in the pretty mannequin from Carille’s, and when she was seated and we were alone, she said—
“I—I want to tell you something about Mr. Audley. They say the poor boy is dead!”
“Who says so?” I asked.