Doctor Feng’s house, I found, was of a large, old-fashioned detached residence which, a century ago, had probably been the dwelling-place of some rich City Merchant who drove each morning into London in his high dog-cart, his “tiger” with folded arms seated behind him.
A maid conducted me to the front sitting-room, a large, well-furnished apartment, where a big fire blazed.
“Well, Yelverton!” exclaimed the old doctor, rising, and putting out his hand. “And how are you? I went to see my sister down at Mentone, but the weather on the Riviera was simply abominable—a mistral all the time. So I came back and took up my quarters here. Comfortable—aren’t they? Sit down. It’s real good to see you again!”
I stretched myself in a deep comfortable chair beside the fire, and we chatted for a time about Mürren.
“I wonder where Humphreys is?” he remarked. “He wasn’t a bad sort, was he? And how about your temporary bride—the ‘Little Lady,’ as you called her!”
“Well, doctor,” I said, “that is really what I came to see you about. The whole affair is a tangle and I wondered if you could help me. I have found out a lot of things about Stanley Audley that are certainly most disconcerting and mysterious.”
He passed a box of cigars. “Have a smoke over it,” he said, “if I can help you I will. But first tell me what happened after I left Mürren.”
“A lot,” I replied. “You know Thelma’s husband left for London. Well, he never came back.”
“The young cad,” said the doctor. “But, after all, I more than half expected it.”
“Why?” I asked.