“Can’t you tell me some more about Audley?” I asked just before she entered her taxi.
She shook her head. “Don’t ask me, please,” she said and she entered the taxi and was driven away towards Bayswater.
“Well, what do you think of Marigold?” asked Mrs. Powell, as I resumed my seat at the supper table.
“She’s altogether charming, of course,” I replied, “but rather—well, I don’t quite know the word. I should almost say mysterious: at any rate she seems to be troubled about something and trying to hide it.”
“That’s it, exactly,” declared my hostess. “During the past few months she seems to have become an entirely different girl. As you know, we were the closest of friends. She seems to live in constant dread of something, but she absolutely refuses to tell me what it is. Indeed, she declares there is nothing wrong, but that is nonsense. No one who knew her six months ago could fail to realize that something is very wrong indeed.”
“Do you know anything about her friend, Mr. Audley,” I ventured to ask.
“Not very much,” said Mrs. Powell. “Of course, I have met him. Marigold was getting very fond of him, I believe, but she will not talk about him.”
Powell came up and declared it was time to go and I had no opportunity of questioning Mrs. Powell any further, much as I wished to do so. However, I determined to see her again and also to meet Marigold Day and see whether either of them could give me further details about Audley. Was he the real Audley? I wondered, or the man who had taken his name.
A few days later I received a letter from Mrs. Shaylor inviting me to go to Bexhill.
I was in two minds about accepting. I wanted to see Thelma—wanted to help her and certainly did not want to lose touch with her as I might if I refused to go. But was it wise?