“Harold Ruthen. I met him in the Piccadilly Grill Room last night with a girl friend of mine, and he called me aside and told me.”
“What exactly did he tell you?” I asked eagerly.
“Well, he said that Audley had met with a motor accident somewhere in Touraine, and had been taken to the hospital at Saumur, where he had lingered for four days, and died there. He asked me to keep the matter a secret. Why—I don’t know. But if the poor boy is dead I really can’t see any object in keeping the matter a secret, do you?”
“No,” I replied.
“Well, I thought you, being his friend, would like to know,” said the girl, sadly. She made a pathetic figure, for she had been fond of Audley, and I knew that under her merry careless Bohemian ways she was capable of deep feeling.
I took her out to tea and questioned her further about Ruthen, and the story he had told her.
She had no knowledge of old Mr. Humphreys, or of Doctor Feng, but she was convinced by Ruthen’s manner that what he had told her was the truth. Besides, as the young fellow had been in such active search for his friend there seemed no motive why he should declare that he had died.
Was it from Harold Ruthen that Thelma had gained the news? Or had Ruthen told old Mr. Humphreys, who in turn, had told Feng, who had gone to Bexhill and given her the report?
But was it really true?
I expressed my doubts.