“I cannot form a decided opinion,” was my reply. “Sometimes I think she does; then at others I feel sure that she firmly believes that he is dead.”
“You do not believe they hold communication in secret?”
“I think not.”
“What causes her to believe that he is dead, I wonder?”
“Because she obtains no news from him and somebody has told her so,” was my reply, reflecting that Feng might be listening to our conversation.
Slowly he placed his cigarette-end in the ash tray at his elbow and drained his glass.
“Well, Yelverton,” said the calm old cosmopolitan who was once such a confirmed invalid and whose lameness had happily been restored, “after all, I don’t see how Audley’s movements concern you—except for one thing—your indiscreet affection for his wife. Of course the position does not please you—it is natural that it should not please you—but if I were you I would drop it all. I agree with Feng that for you to continue can only lead to unhappiness. More than that you run a great risk at the hands of some unknown persons whose desperation is already proved by what happened at Stamford. Something more serious may yet happen. Therefore,” he added, regarding me very seriously, “were I in your place I would run no further risk.”
“I know your advice is well meant, Mr. Humphreys,” I declared. “But I have made up my mind to solve this mystery, and I will never rest until I have done so.”
“For Thelma’s sake—eh?” he asked, or rather snapped impatiently.
“Perhaps.”