She started, her lips parted, and she held her breath.
“I—I deceived you once, Mr. Yelverton. I—I did once know where he was. But I do not now.”
“Then you wish me to discover him?” I asked.
“Yes. But—but, I fear you will never succeed. He can never return to me—never!”
“Never return to you? Why? Was he already married?” I gasped.
“No. Not that. Not that! I love Stanley, but he can never come back to me.”
The taxi had stopped, and a porter had already opened the door. I asked her to explain, but she only shook her head in silence.
Ten minutes later, I grasped her hand in farewell, and she waved to me as the train moved off to the pleasant little south-coast resort where her mother was living. Thelma Audley’s was surely a sad home-going.
Back in my rooms high-up in gray and smoky Russell Square, I found old Mrs. Chapman, with her pleasant face and white hair, had prepared everything for my comfort. The night was cold and rainy, and the London atmosphere altogether depressing and unpleasant after that bright crisp climate of the high Alps.
I looked through a number of letters which had not been sent on and, after a wash, ate my dinner, Mrs. Chapman standing near and gossiping with me the while. My room was warm and cozy, and with the familiar old silhouettes and caricatures upon its walls, the side-board with some of the Georgian plate belonging to my grandfather, and a blazing fire, had that air of homelike comfort, which is always refreshing after hotel life.