“Not a word,” was the reply. “But several times a man, a stranger to me, has been to see her, and they have gone out together. His name, I believe, is Ruthen or Ruthven.”
“Harold Ruthen! He was at Mürren.”
“So I believe. But he seems to pester her to death,” replied her mother. “Each time he comes she seems very upset, and I know she cries bitterly after he has gone. He seems to hold some extraordinary hold over her, but she will not say anything about it.”
“She does not like him?”
“I don’t know. She always receives him gladly. But she may not feel what she pretends.”
“Curious if that fellow really has some hold over her,” I said, recollecting that strange conversation in the night at Mürren. “My opinion is that Thelma is in fear of him, and in order to cloak her fear from you she pretends to welcome him, whereas his presence is really hateful to her.”
“You think so?” asked the widow, stirring her coffee and looking straight into my face. “All she has told me is that the man is a friend of her husband’s.”
“I believe that is true,” was my reply.
“And he is in search of Stanley, just as you are, Mr. Yelverton,” she added.
I drew a long breath, but made no reply, for at that instant Thelma rejoined us, exclaiming: