I gazed at her as she sat at my side on that glorious afternoon. Above us a pair of wood doves were softly cooing, while a thrush annoyed at our presence, uttered his clattering alarm-note to his mate. Village chimes sounded somewhere across the Welland valley, together with the shrill whistle of a railway engine.
“Thelma,” I whispered at last. “Do tell me the real and actual truth.” I looked into her grey eyes. They were as unclouded, her cheeks as cool, her candor and serenity as undisturbed as when, on that winter’s day amid the high-up snows she had shyly thanked me for offering to look after her during her husband’s absence. I, on the other hand, felt like a fool. My heart, though I had done my best to steel it to endurance, was torn by a thousand conflicting feelings. Wild ideas rushed through my brain. Was it possible that in her secret heart she was not altogether sorry to be rid of Stanley Audley? Had she married him hastily in an outburst of girlish passion, only to find out her mistake when desertion and solitude brought her opportunity for reflection? Was this the real explanation of her mysterious declaration that her husband would never return to her? And if so was there still a chance for me?
“Thelma,” I said softly, taking her hand in mine. “I want to speak to you, but—but I hardly know how to say it. Since you left Mürren you have never been frank with me—never confided in me—never told me the truth.” Then, after a pause I went on. “Remember I took upon myself a sacred trust, to see after you. I have carried out my promise to Stanley as any honest man should carry it out, but it seems that by doing so, I have brought a deadly hatred upon myself. Why? I ask you, Thelma—why?”
She drew a long breath, her hand trembled in mine and her eyes grew troubled.
“Mr. Yelverton,” she said at last in a trembling voice. “The question you ask me is very, very difficult for me to answer. There are, I confess to you at once, some things which I am bound for my husband’s sake to conceal, and therefore I know you will not ask me to divulge them. I can’t tell you more. You nearly lost your life because of me. I was to blame and I am very sorry.”
“But why?” I demanded. “Why ‘because of you?’ How do you come into it? Neither of us has done any harm.”
“I—I don’t know. Dr. Feng says you have secret enemies and that it is because of me. That is all I know.”
“But where is Stanley?”
“I don’t know; if I did he would be here. But I believe he is dead.”
“But have you any fresh evidence?” I asked, eagerly. “You know the man who was killed in France was not Stanley.”