I knew that he was on a footing with Thelma quite different from what he allowed me to believe. So much their secret interview at Bexhill had shown me. And his attitude towards the attempt made upon my life went to increase my distrust.
Had it not been that the handwriting of the note left beside my bed differed so completely from my own—why no attempt to imitate my hand had been made completely puzzled me—I should undoubtedly have been charged with attempted suicide. The local police if not very brilliant, were keen enough on the affair. I wanted to give them a detailed account of everything that had led up to the attack on me—to tell them the whole amazing story. To have done this would have shown them that there was far more behind the affair than they could possibly imagine. They, of course, looked upon the matter as being within a very narrow circle. I knew, as Feng knew, that much more complicated issues were involved.
Feng, however, strenuously opposed my proposal to tell the police anything more than the barest facts, which, indeed, could not be concealed. I wondered why, and asked him.
“It will serve no good purpose,” he argued. “These local policemen have already confessed their ignorance of the man from Bradford. He was not seen to leave by train, and as, from your description of him his appearance was rather striking, I think, we may assume he did not go that way. Probably he had a car in readiness and escaped unnoticed. If you tell the police more than they know already you must inevitably drag Mrs. Audley and her husband’s affairs into a very unpleasant publicity. No, let us keep our own counsel.”
I remained in hospital two days longer. Thelma and Feng visited me each day and I could not help noticing the queer bond of understanding that seemed to have grown up between them. Not a word was said by either of them to indicate that they were more than mere friends but—perhaps my growing suspicions were responsible—I seemed to see or to imagine evidence that their association implied very much more than I was intended to believe. Feng had always opposed my association with Thelma—had seemed, indeed, decidedly hostile to her. His hostility, at least, had apparently evaporated. Yet I found he was as strongly as ever opposed to the continuance of my intimacy with her.
Did he fear for me? Did he fear for her? Did he fear for both of us?
I could not tell. But there was no mistaking the advice he gave.
“Look here, Yelverton,” he said to me a few hours before I was to leave the hospital, “you have had a very narrow escape. You owe your life to the merest chance and you may not be so lucky in the future.”
“In the future!” I echoed. “Surely you don’t think there will be another attempt to get me out of the way?”
“Indeed, I do,” he replied very gravely. “I don’t pretend to understand the reason, but I should think it must be perfectly clear that your friendship with Mrs. Audley is involving someone in a danger so grave that they will not stick at trifles to avert it.”