“Is that your suspicion?” she asked, in a low strained voice.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Mr. Yelverton,” she said very slowly. “I admit that it is mine also! I’ve questioned Thelma time after time, but she will tell me nothing—absolutely nothing!”
“Are there any more facts you can tell me—anything to throw further light upon these strange circumstances?” I asked her.
“No,” was her reply. “I’m afraid I know nothing else. Thelma is worried. I feel terrified lest the real truth—whatever it may be—concerning her husband, be disclosed.”
Thelma came in and we talked of other matters. She made great fun of my position as her “temporary husband” at Mürren and seemed in better spirits than when I came down.
After luncheon we went for a stroll together through the driving health-giving breeze to Cooden Beach, and then back for tea. Thelma wore a serviceable golf suit, thick brogues and carried a stick, while her Airedale “Jock” ran at our side.
On the way I told her of my adventure at the Ham-bone Club. She was much interested in the queer pranks of the Hamyardians and to find out how much she knew, I told her about Marigold Day: in fact I deliberately “enthused” about her. I watched her closely, but it was evident Marigold’s name meant nothing to her. Then I went on the more open tack and tried to get some further facts from her. It was in vain: she seemed as determined to keep her knowledge to herself as I was to get at the truth.
At last, as we neared the house, I made a direct attack.
“Now look here, Thelma,” I said, “do be frank. You know where Stanley is, don’t you?”