“There are certain facts, Mr. Yelverton, that I am forbidden by Stanley to disclose. I have told you that we cannot be united again. That is all. Please make no further inquiries.”
“But I will. You have been left in my care,” I asserted.
“If you do!—if you do it—it may be at your peril,” she declared, in a hard unnatural voice, looking curiously at me as she opened the gate. “Recollect, Mr. Yelverton, that my words are a warning.”
“But why?” I cried.
“I—I unfortunately cannot tell you,” was her reply, and we re-entered her charming home together.
I returned to London more mystified than ever. The dual personality of Stanley Audley, combined with the fact that his wife undoubtedly knew of his whereabouts; her steadfast determination not to disclose one single fact, and the strange threats I had heard Ruthen utter, all combined to puzzle me beyond measure.
For a couple of days I did my best to attend to business, but constantly I found my mind dwelling on the mystery of Stanley Audley. I could not concentrate on legal problems and most of my work fell on Hensman’s shoulders.
On the third night, after my visit to Bexhill, when I returned to my rooms from the office, I found, lying upon my table, a typewritten note which had been delivered that afternoon. It bore the Hammersmith postmark.
Tearing it open I read some lines of rather indifferent typing, as follows:—
“You have formed a friendship with Mrs. Thelma Audley. I warn you that such friendship, if continued, will be at the cost of your own life. Divert your love-making into another direction. I have no personal animosity against you but you are placing yourself in the way of powerful interests, and you will be removed if necessary.”