After I had had my coffee, and my trusted old servant had disappeared, I threw myself into my big arm chair to think over the amazing tangle in which I had allowed myself to become involved.
Was I falling in love with Thelma—falling in love foolishly and hopelessly with a girl who was already married? I tried hard to persuade myself that my feeling towards her was nothing but a deep and honest affection, born of her sweet disposition and the queer circumstances that had thrown us together. Stanley Audley, whatever the explanation of his amazing conduct might be, had trusted me and I fought hard in my own mind against a temptation which I realized would, in normal circumstances, be a gross betrayal of confidence. I had been brought up in a public school where “to play the game” was the one rule of conduct that mattered and hitherto I had prided myself on my punctiliousness in all the ordinary matters of life. Was I to fail utterly in the first great temptation that life had brought me?
I could not disguise from myself, try how I would, that even an honest admiration for Thelma had its perils. As Dr. Feng had said, it was dangerous. We were both young. I had hitherto escaped heart-whole, Thelma was not only more than ordinarily beautiful but she possessed a degree of charm and fascination—for me, at any rate—that was well-nigh irresistible.
For a long time I paced my room in indecision. To act as Dr. Feng had suggested would be to break off our acquaintanceship, treating it merely as the passing incident of a pleasant holiday. But that, I argued, was impossible. I had promised Audley to look after his wife when everything seemed plain and straightforward: to desert her now when she was clearly in difficulty and distress was unthinkable. Yet to go on might—probably would—spell utter disaster to my peace of mind, and make shipwreck of my honor.
Hour after hour passed and I seemed to draw no nearer to a conclusion. But at length the glimmerings of a solution of the problem began to draw in my mind. If I could but find Stanley Audley I could cut myself adrift from the mystery and try to forget Thelma as speedily as possible. This I determined honestly to try to do, and I think I felt better and happier for the resolution. What I failed to realize was the strength of the feelings that had me in their grip. And ever and anon, like an inducement of hope, came the resolution of Thelma’s declaration that Stanley could never return to her. In that case—but I resolutely tried to push away from me the thoughts that crowded into my mind.
Next day, after spending a couple of hours at Bedford Row with my partner, Hensman, I set out on my first inquiry regarding Stanley Audley.
I took a taxi to the house in Half Moon Street in which he had lived, and there saw Mr. Belton, the proprietor.
He was a tall, bald-headed man in grey trousers and morning coat and nothing could disguise the fact that he was a retired butler. “Yes, sir,” he said in reply to my inquiry, “Mr. Stanley Audley lived here for nearly two years. But he went abroad a short time ago, as I wired to you, sir.”
“Well, the fact is, Mr. Belton, he’s disappeared,” I said.
“Disappeared!” echoed the ex-butler.