That night the newspapers contained a paragraph repeating what had appeared in the morning concerning Mrs. Audley’s disappearance, and stating that no trace of her had been discovered after she had left Bexhill.
Her secret visit to old Feng, accompanied by Stanley, three days before, added to the mystery. Feng knew of my search for Audley. Then, why had he not told me the truth? With what motive was I being misled and befooled by a conspiracy of silence?
I began to realize that that motive, whatever it was, must be far stronger than I had previously suspected. And in my heart, I confess, I was dismayed by the knowledge that Stanley Audley was still alive: it showed that the goal upon which I had set my heart would never be reached. My distress and dismay as I sat late into the night in my silent bachelor room, may well be imagined.
Had Thelma purposely gone into hiding with her husband, and with the connivance of Feng—or had she since met with foul play? Her failure to take her mother into her confidence seemed to me to suggest the latter.
I was strongly tempted to go to Scotland Yard and tell the police all I knew about the missing girl. But after long consideration I decided that I could do little, if any, good. The police were pursuing their own methods and what I could tell them would not help matters much. In addition I am afraid I did not want the police to get hold of Stanley Audley. If, as I strongly suspected, he was engaged in the nefarious trafficking in forged bank-notes, anything I did could only bring fresh distress upon Thelma. And I could not force myself to believe that her husband would be sufficiently callous and cold-blooded to allow any serious harm to befall her. In the long run it proved I was right. The issue was in other hands than those of Scotland Yard.
I was trying to fix my mind upon my work at the office next day, when my telephone rang and I heard the cheery voice of old Mr. Humphreys.
“Look here, Yelverton, I’ve been meaning to ring you up for some days past. Can you come and dine with me tonight? I’m in my place at Hampstead at last—moved up here a week ago. Will you take the address—14, Heathermoor Gardens—up at the top end of Fitzjohn’s Avenue.”
I scribbled the address on my blotting-pad.
“You’ll easily find it,” he went on. “Come at eight, won’t you? The best way is to go to Hampstead Heath tube, and walk. It’s only two minutes.”
I gratefully accepted, for I wanted to discuss with him Thelma’s mysterious disappearance.