THE CRYSTAL CLAW

The fatal candle flickered as its heat caused the fragile balloon to expand.

THE
CRYSTAL CLAW

BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
AUTHOR OF “MADEMOISELLE OF MONTE CARLO,”
“THE VOICE FROM THE VOID,” ETC.

Frontispiece by
GEORGE W. GAGE

NEW YORK
THE MACAULAY COMPANY

Copyright, 1924
By THE MACAULAY COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

THE CRYSTAL CLAW

THE CRYSTAL CLAW

CHAPTER I
MID SILENT SNOWS

“Yes, an extremely pretty girl,” remarked old Dr. Feng, bending towards me and speaking softly across the table-à-deux at which we were dining at the Kürhaus hotel at Mürren, high-up in the snow-clad Alps. “A honeymooning couple, no doubt,” he went on—“nice place this for a honeymoon!” and the white-haired old Chinese who—most unusual in one of his race, had a long white beard—smiled as he poured out a tiny glass of white curaçao, the only form of alcohol I ever saw him indulge in.

I glanced across in the direction he indicated and saw seated in a corner, a pretty dark-haired grey-eyed girl of twenty. She wore a flame-colored dance-frock, and was laughing happily as she chatted with a good-looking young man, perhaps six years or so her senior. The young fellow was smart and distinguished-looking and the girl was very handsome, with irregular features, and singularly expressive eyes, but hers was a nervous, restless physiognomy that rather chilled one at first sight. The expression in both their faces told the truth quite clearly. They were, indeed, newly wed, and they had that evening arrived on the funicular railway from Lauterbrunnen, in the valley below, by the service which had left Victoria station the previous afternoon.

“Yes, a very handsome pair,” I agreed. “I wonder who they are?”

“Don’t inquire. When you marry, Yelverton, you won’t like people to be inquisitive. All newly-married people are super-sensitive, you know,” declared my companion.

Dr. Feng Tsu’tong, despite his seventy years, did not look a day more than sixty. Much above the common height for a Chinese he possessed features of the type which seldom show many signs of advancing age. Erect and virile he carried himself like a much younger man and of his activity and endurance I had had ample proof, for, in our frequent long tramps and ski expeditions across the snow, he had shown me more than once that his muscles were equal to my own, despite the great disparity in our ages.

He was a highly-cultured and widely read man. I imagined when I first met him, as I found to be the case when I knew him better, that he must have left China many years before, for he spoke perfect English, though with a slight American accent. His quaint philosophy had made an instant appeal to me. Though he was much older than I, his mental outlook was surprisingly young and we had become constant companions and very firm friends in quite a short time. I have seldom met a man in whom I felt such complete confidence and sympathy as in this old Chinese doctor. We spent much time together, often taking long expeditions afoot or on ski or sometimes as partners in a game of curling of which he was passionately fond.

Our acquaintance as a matter of fact had been a casual one. I had left London blanketed under fog and rain and after a twenty-four hours’ journey by rail had found myself in Mürren—that winter paradise of the young, opposite the towering Jungfrau with its attendant heights, the Monch and the Eiger, high-up in a glittering world of sunshine, snow and silence. The scene looked almost like a typical Christmas card. We were so high up that by day the sun shone brightly from a sky as blue and cloudless as that of Cannes, there were ten feet of powdery snow everywhere and the crystal-clear air was as bright and invigorating as champagne.

Giacomo, the smiling head waiter, had placed me with Dr. Feng at a small table set in the window in the great salle à manger. We had taken to each other at once and had become companions, not only at meals, but on the superb ice-rink which was in perfect condition as was flooded and re-frozen each night. There we skated or curled, or we took excursions on the wonderful rack-railway up to the Allmendhubel, or else over the snow to what is known as the Half-way House, or else down to the Blumen-tal.

Mürren in winter is par excellence a sports centre for young people who indulge in skating, tobogganing, lugeing and skiing, the winter sports that are, in these post-war days, happily eclipsing the exotic pleasures one obtains on the Riviera. There, in the Bernese Oberland, the vice of gambling hardly exists save in the form of occasional bridge as a relaxation after the day’s sport.

Each winter the Kürhaus hotel is a centre for the ever-growing band of enthusiasts who meet there for the bright social life and superb out-door sport which Mürren affords. These are the people who truly enjoy themselves healthfully. Skiing and similar pursuits demand perfect physical fitness and at the Kürhaus one is in the centre of wholesome out-door exercise by day and in the evening of a gay merriment which only seems to round off and complete the pleasures of days spent in the open air on the towering mountain slopes. At Mürren one finds a winter life that cannot be excelled in Europe.

The scene was wonderfully attractive. All around us were the great hills clothed in virgin snow, dotted here and there with merry parties of girls whose bright sports costumes provided startling splashes of color against the white background. Everywhere pretty lips laughed in the sheer joy of young exuberant life. Everywhere merry conversation rang out from dawn to dusk, everybody seemed to be active, healthy and happy.

But beneath all the fun and frivolling I had found a deeper, more serious note. It was struck for me by Dr. Feng.

More and more I found myself falling under the spell of the old man’s mentality. More and more I realized how much we had in common. A native of Yunnan, he had left China when about thirty—chiefly, I gathered, on account of political troubles. The range and variety of his knowledge was encyclopædic: there seemed to be hardly a subject on which he could not talk brilliantly if he chose to exert himself. And we had one great bond of sympathy—both of us loved music. Feng was a brilliant pianist. I was passionately devoted to the violin and we spent many hours over the works of the great composers. Like most other young men I had a fairly good opinion of myself, but compared with Dr. Feng, I was a mere child in musical knowledge. Our music, however, made us both popular and it had become quite a regular evening custom for us to play to the Kürhaus guests in the great ball-room.

There was, however, a still deeper side to our intercourse. Feng had initiated me into the first principles of the little-known Yogi philosophy—the doctrine that the real man is not the visible body, that the immortal “I,” of which each human being is conscious to a greater or lesser extent, merely occupies and uses the corporal transient flesh. The Yogis believe that the body is but as a suit of clothes which the Spirit puts on and off from time to time, and they insist that the body must be brought under the perfect control of the mind—that the instrument must be finely tuned so as to respond to the touch of the hand of the master.

Feng had made a deep study of the Yogi teaching and was, in himself, living evidence of a man virile and rejuvenated in both body and mind. People stood astounded when they were told his actual age, and I, admiring him, was now endeavoring in my own way to follow his footsteps. The doctrine he urged with such compelling eloquence and powers had taken a deep hold of my mind—how deep I never realized until I found myself flung suddenly into dangers and temptations which were to try my physical and mental fortitude to their very depths.

It was the arrival of Stanley Audley and his bride that, suddenly and unexpectedly, changed the entire current of my life. And as I sit here placing on record this chronicle of bewildering events, I wonder that I came safely through the maze of doubt, mystery and peril in which I found myself so suddenly plunged. I can only believe that a man, profoundly influenced, as I very speedily was, by the splendid philosophy of Yogi and buoyed up by a consuming love for a pure and beautiful woman, will face dangers before which others might well quail,—will even, as the saying goes, “throw dice with the devil” if need be.

To make my story clear, I had better formally introduce myself. My name is Rex Yelverton, my age at present moment twenty-eight and the astounding incidents I am about to relate happened just over three years ago, so that I was under twenty-five at the time.

My father had died when I was twenty-three and had left me a small estate near Andover. I had been brought up to the law and had been admitted a solicitor just before my father’s death. I could not afford to live on the estate, so had cosy chambers on the top floor of an old-fashioned house in Russell Square and having entered into partnership with a solicitor named Hensman, practiced with him in Bedford Row.

Hensman’s hobby was golf and for that reason he took his holiday in the summer. I loved the winter life of Switzerland and for some years had made it my rule to get away in the winter. In addition to my music I was deeply interested in wireless, and had fitted up quite a respectable wireless station in a room in Russell Square. I had a transmitting license and with my two hobbies found my spare time so fully occupied that I mixed but little in ordinary society.

On that never-to-be-forgotten night when I first saw Stanley Audley and his handsome bride, the Doctor retired early, as was his habit. So, strolling into the ball-room of the Kürhaus opposite the hotel, I watched the pair dancing happily together, the cynosure of all eyes, of course, though the room was not very full, as the season had only just begun.

Like all other honeymoon couples, they were trying to pretend that they had been married for years and, like all other honeymoon couples, they were failing lamentably! The truth was, as ever, palpable to every onlooker. Like every one else I admired them, though like every one else, I smiled at their pretty pretense. As they had arrived by the night train from Calais, I guessed they had been married in London about thirty hours before and had come straight through to Mürren. This, in fact, proved to be the truth.

In my admiration of the beautiful young bride I was not alone, for a middle-aged, grey-bearded invalid, name Hartley Humphreys, with whom I often played billiards before going to bed, also remarked upon her beauty, and expressed wonder as to who they were. It was then that another man in the room, also evidently interested, told us that their name was Audley.

Next morning, on coming downstairs, I found little Mrs. Audley dressed in winter-sports clothes and looking inexpressibly sweet and charming.

She wore a pale grey Fair Isle jersey, with a bright jazzy pattern, with a saucy little cap to match, and over the jersey a short dark brown coat with fur collar and cuffs, and around her waist a leather belt. Brown corduroy breeches, and heavy well-oiled boots and ski-anklets completed one of the most sensible ski-outfits I have ever seen. That she was no novice at skiing was evident from the badge, a pair of crossed skis, she wore in her cap. It was the badge of the Swiss Ski Club—the same as that worn by the Alpine guides themselves.

Naturally I was surprised. I had, on the previous night, believed her to be simply a handsome young bride who had come to spend her honeymoon amid the winter gayety of Mürren, but now it was clear she was no beginner.

She had already breakfasted and was smoking a cigarette and laughing gayly with an American girl she had met on the previous night, and apparently awaiting her husband.

In a few moments the husband, in a wind-proof ski-suit and wearing one of those peaked caps of blue serge which nobody dare wear save the practiced ski-runner, came down with a word of apology.

“I broke my boot-lace, dearest. I apologize.”

“Oh! That’s all right, Stan,” she laughed, “John has got the food in his rucksack.”

Then I saw that John von Allmen, the intrepid and popular young guide, was waiting outside for them. They were going on a skiing excursion up the Schelthorn. Certainly they were no novices! I soon afterwards discovered they had both passed their “tests” in previous winters at Wengen and Pontresina.

The sun was shining brightly upon the newly fallen snow, although it was not yet nine o’clock, and as I watched the happy young couple adjust the ski-bindings to the boots and take their ski-sticks, those iron spiked poles of cherry wood with circular ends of cane to prevent sinking where the snow is soft, I noted how merry and blissful they were.

Suddenly the tall, lithe, young Alpine guide in his neat blue serge skiing suit drew on his leather mitts, hitched on his rucksack and the little party slid swiftly away over the snow.

It was clear the girl was an expert—her every movement showed it. Those who go skiing well know the difficulty of keeping their balance on the long, narrow planks turned up in front which constitute ski. But the bride had long ago passed through the initial stages. As I found out later she had been year after year to winter sports and had long passed the period when she practiced her “telemarks” and “stemmings” on the “Nursery Slopes.” Her lithe swift movements were delightful to watch and it was clear she was enjoying to the full the keen exhilaration born of the swift gliding over the crisp snow.

As I stood watching the swift progress of the Audleys and their guide, old Dr. Feng spoke behind me.

“A pretty sight, Yelverton. It is good, indeed, to be young. There’s an example of the fate lying before you: you’ll have to marry some day, you know.”

“No sign of it yet, doctor,” I laughingly replied.

As a matter of fact, matrimony had so far made no appeal to me: I had never met a girl who had stirred me deeply. I had many friends—or at least acquaintances—of my own sex, but I was deeply absorbed in my hobbies and, not seeking society for society’s sake, I had hardly any woman friends. Sometimes I fancied that the opposite sex found in me something antipathetic and uncongenial: at any rate, I made little progress with them and, perhaps for that reason, was quite content to remain a bachelor and keep my father’s old housekeeper, Mrs. Chapman, to “mother” me as she did when I was a boy and manage my flat in Russell Square.

I suppose I was no better and no worse than thousands of other fellows of my age. Men coming down from Oxford and flung into the whirl of London life are not usually Puritans or ascetics. I suppose I was much like them. Life was young in me, and fortune had been kind. If I had few friends, I had no enemies: I had an income ample for my wants and I enjoyed myself in my own way. My work kept me busy during the day: my evenings were filled with music, my “wireless,” an occasional dance, or theatre and I was always merry and happy. Nothing had occurred to make me, a careless youngster, realize that there was something in life deeper and dearer than anything I know. I was not given to self-analysis or overmuch introspection and that a storm of love might some day shatter my complacent existence to bits never crossed my mind. My music and my experiments in radio-telephony were about the only serious side of my life. So Dr. Feng’s good humored badinage left me quite unmoved.

We strolled together to the curling rink for a match.

Old Mr. Humphreys, a grey-faced financier from the near East, and a very charming and refined old fellow, sat in his invalid chair watching us. The ice was in perfect condition and very fast, so that the game was as good as could be obtained, even in Scotland itself. The orchestra was playing gay music for the skaters, some of whom were waltzing, laughter sounded everywhere and the bright sunny morning was most enjoyable.

We lost the match, mostly, I fear, through several very bad stones that I played, and our lack of energy in sweeping. Curling is a very difficult game to play well, for, unlike golf or tennis, one can get such little practice at home.

However, we all afterward retired to the bar, and over our cocktails old Mr. Humphreys who, being a confirmed invalid, wheeled himself about in his chair, chatted merrily. He had arrived about a week after I had come. He seldom, if ever, left his chair during the day. His guidance and management of the chair was wonderful and he could even play billiards while seated. He and the doctor were great friends and often joined a bridge party together, while I took my skis up the cable railway to the Allmendhubel and swept back down the slopes.

The following afternoon, while passing along the terrace of the big chalet which overlooks the rink, I found Major Harold Burton, here the secretary of the Mürren Bob-sleigh Club, and at home an officer in the Tank Corps, chatting with the Audleys.

“I say, Yelverton!” he exclaimed, “will you join us on a test on the bob-run presently? Mr. and Mrs. Audley are coming. Let me introduce you.”

I raised my ski-cap and bowed.

“Thanks,” I replied, “I’ll be delighted to make a fourth. You’re the only man I’d trust to take me down. It’s too fast for me!” I added with a laugh.

“Is it really a fast run?” asked the bride, smiling.

“Well, you will see for yourself,” I replied.

Laughing gayly we went over the snow, past the bend at the village shop where one can obtain anything from a Swiss cuckoo clock, to a paper of pins, and whose elderly proprietor is one of the best ski instructors in the canton. Paying our fare, we ascended by the rack-railway up the snowy heights of the Allmendhubel.

On the truck was our heavy “bob,” with its steel frame and runners, and its delicate controls. At the summit the attendants pushed it along the flat to the narrow entrance of the bob-run which a hundred hands had, a few weeks before, constructed in the snow, digging it all out and making many banked-up hair-pin bends down the side of the mountain for two and a half miles back into Mürren.

Those curves are scientifically calculated for speed, but it takes an expert to negotiate them successfully. The crew of a “big bob” must know the course, and be alert to the command of the driver to bend over “right,” “left,” or “up.” One’s first trip in a “bob” on a fast run is an experience never to be forgotten. But both the bride and bridegroom revealed that they had done such things before.

At the “gate” of the run—a narrow cut eight feet deep in the snow—a smiling Swiss stood beside the telephone, which gave “clear passage.” Burton, as an expert, who took no chances, had the “bob” turned over, and examined the brakes and controls, which sometimes get clogged with snow.

We all got in and set our feet forward on the rests, I being behind to act as brakesman, and to “brake” at the instant order of Burton.

“Everybody all right?” he asked, as we settled ourselves behind each other on the big bob.

We responded that we were, then four men pushed us off down the narrow icy slope.

Slowly we went at first. Then, suddenly gathering speed, we saw a dead end in front of us.

“Right!” cried Burton, and all of us leaned over to the right and thus negotiated the corner.

“Left!” was the order, and round we went every moment gathering speed.

“Careful!” he cried, “in a minute we shall have a right and left quickly. Now—! Right! Left! Up! Quick!”

By this time we were flying down the side of the mountain, showers of particles of ice every now and then being thrown up and cutting our faces. Now and again we swept through clouds of snow. We held our breath and screwed up our eyes until we could only just see.

“Left! Right! Up! Left—again! Right!” shouted Burton, and each of us alert and quick, obeyed. We were traveling at a furious speed and any fault might mean a serious accident, such as that in which one of the British Bob-sleigh team for the Olympic Sports broke both his legs during a run at Chamonix.

“Straight!” we heard Burton shout as we flew along, still down and down. “Right in a few moments,” he cried. “Be careful. Then a big bump and we’re down. Steady!—steady! Now-w-w! Right!—Look out! Bump! Good!” and he steered us down a straight path past where the watcher stood at the other end of the telephone.

“Well?” he shouted to the time-keeper, as he pulled up, “what is it?”

“Four minutes, eight and a half seconds, sir,” replied the tall, thin-faced Swiss peasant, speaking in French.

“Good! Fairly fast! But we’ll try to do it in better time tomorrow.”

I had sat behind little Mrs. Audley who, turning to me, her face reddened by the rush of frosty air, exclaimed,—

“Wasn’t it glorious! I’ve been to Switzerland three times before. I passed my third test in skiing two years ago, but have never been on a big bob-run. That last double turn was most exciting, wasn’t it?”

I agreed, and we all four strolled together back to the hotel to tea.

Afterward, as I walked in the twilight upon the snowy path leading to the station of the funicular railway, I found myself surrounded by groups of young men and girls returning from skiing on the Grütsch Alp, and other places. But even these cheerful greetings and joyous conversations could not remove from my mind a new and entirely strange feeling of fascination that I felt was exercised over me by pretty Mrs. Audley. It was something magnetic, something indescribable, and, to me, wholly weird and uncanny. I had only spoken to her a few casual words. Yet I knew instinctively that into my careless and care-free life a new and disturbing element had entered.

CHAPTER II
A TEMPORARY BRIDE

Though I was not, as a rule, fond of society, it was impossible to resist the infection of the merry-making spirit at Mürren and in consequence I joined heartily in all the fun that was going forward. The night of the bob-sleigh trip found me playing the drum in the amateur jazz band—a dance-orchestra formed among the visitors each year, to carry on the dancing after midnight. Mrs. Audley and her husband came into the dance-hall of the Kürhaus just as the merriment began, and they danced together while I sat behind the drum with a little comic, flat-brimmed hat in imitation of George Robey, upon my head.

“Really your amateur band is more amusing than the professional one,” declared Audley, during the interval. “Last night we watched you. It seems that the visitors wait until you start up.”

“Well,” I laughed. “We try and keep things humming along until two, or even three o’clock. We like to play and the others like to dance.”

“My wife loves it,” he declared. “She’s only just been saying that she would like to join you.”

“Right!” I said, laughing. “She shall be our pianist tomorrow—if she will.”

But the bride hesitated. “I’m afraid, Mr. Yelverton,” she said, “that I’m not so good as the American girl you’ve got. She’s a professional, surely.”

As a matter of fact she was studying the piano in Paris, and was in Mürren for the winter holiday.

And then we struck up again and the crowd danced merrily till nearly three o’clock.

The following day was a Saturday. I spent a large part of the morning gossiping with old Mr. Humphreys, whose chief pleasures as an invalid seemed to be to play bridge and to smoke his pipe. Though his was rather a thoughtful disposition, as his deep-sunken eyes and shaggy brows suggested, yet he was always a cheerful and entertaining companion.

“I sometimes stay with my sister at Weybridge, in Surrey,” he explained, as I walked beside him while he wheeled his chair over the snowy road which leads out of the village along the edge of the deep precipice overlooking Lauterbrunnen in the misty valley far below. While we were in the bright keen air high-up above the clouds, with the sun shining brilliantly over a white picturesque world, below, in the valley, it was dark dull winter. “Very soon,” added my friend, “very soon I’ll have to go back to Constantinople, where I have a good many interests. But I shall only be there a few weeks. All this political trouble makes things very difficult financially. Have you ever been in Turkey?”

I replied in the negative, but added that it had long been my desire to go there, and see the beauties of the Bosphorus.

“Yes,” he said, “You ought to go. You’d find lots to interest you. Life in the Turkish capital and Turkish life is quite different from life in Europe. The Turk is always a polished gentleman and, moreover, the foreigner is now better protected in every way than the Turk himself, thanks to the laws made years ago.”

“That, I suppose, is why Constantinople before the war was such a hot-bed of European sharks, swindlers and bogus concession-hunters,” I remarked, with a smile, for I had heard much of the “four-flush” crowd from a friend who had interests in the Ottoman Empire.

“Exactly,” he laughed. “It is true that in Pera we have a collection of the very worst crooks in all Europe. But it is hoped that, under the new conditions, Turkey will expel them and begin a new and cleaner regime.”

As he spoke we turned a sharp corner, and Stanley Audley and his pretty wife, smart in another sports suit of emerald green that I had not before seen her wearing, shouted simultaneously the warning, “Achtung!”

Next second, recognizing us, they greeted us cheerily as they slid swiftly past upon their skis.

“A very charming pair—eh?” remarked old Humphreys. “The more I see of them the more interesting they become. What do you think of the girl? You are young, and should be a critic of feminine beauty,” he added, with a smile.

“I agree. She is very charming,” I said, “Audley is, however, rather too serious, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do. She’s too go-ahead for him—she’s a modern product as they call it. If a man marries he ought to have a comrade, not a cushion. A woman, to be a perfect wife, should not be too intellectual. A knowledge of literature, art and science does not necessarily make for domestic happiness. In a wife you want heart more than brains. Yet a giddy, brainless wife is even a worse abomination.”

“Do you mean Mrs. Audley,” I asked.

“Not in the least,” he replied quickly. “I don’t think she is either brainless or giddy. I am only giving you my idea of the perfect wife. The real wife would be a mate—the term is used by the lower classes and expresses the ideal perfectly. It sums up the whole thing. And I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. Audley are really mated, though at present they are evidently very much in love with one another. I think they married in a hurry.”

This was a new line of thought for me, and, naturally, I was astonished. But I kept silence. Old Humphreys had seen far more of the world than I had and I had a good deal of respect for his judgment.

When we got back to the hotel Dr. Feng was waiting for me and we went in to lunch together. We were late and the big dining room was almost empty. After we had finished our meal Feng went to his room and I strolled into the lounge intending to have a cup of coffee there and then go to my room to write some letters.

To my surprise—for I thought they were out skiing—I found Audley and his wife seated on a settee. Both were obviously upset and the bride’s eyes showed unmistakable traces of tears.

To this day I cannot imagine what prompted me, but I think it must have been sheer nervous bravado for, without passing, I stepped across to them, and with a laugh exclaimed,—

“Well—and what is the matter now?”

Both stared at me in natural resentment. I could have bitten my tongue out in my vexation at having perpetrated such a banality. I started a stumbling apology.

“Oh, all right, Yelverton,” said Audley, his resentment vanishing, “the fact is we are in a difficulty and I don’t quite know what to do.”

“Can I help you anyhow?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not. But I’ll tell you how things are. We were married in London only four days ago and now I have to go back and Thelma doesn’t like it. I’m an electrical engineer at the head offices in Westminster of Gordon & Austin, the big combine which holds concessions for the supply of electricity to about forty towns in England. I’ve just had a wire calling me to attend a meeting of the directors on Monday morning. It is proposed to promote me to be manager of the power works at Woolwich, which means a big lift that will be a great thing for me in the future.”

“Well, of course, you’ll go,” I said.

“I suppose I must,” he replied. “But according to the papers there’s a big gale in the Channel and only the little boat is crossing from Boulogne. Thelma doesn’t want me to leave her and she is such a bad sailor that if she came with me she would certainly be very seriously ill. The last time she was seasick she collapsed very dangerously. She cannot possibly make the crossing.”

The girl was obviously on the edge of a flood of tears.

“But surely,” I said to her husband, “Mrs. Audley will be all right here for a few days. If you care to trust me so far I shall be delighted to look after her and so, I am sure, will Dr. Feng and Mr. Humphreys. She could be with us. You ought to be back by Wednesday evening.”

“It’s awfully kind of you, Yelverton,” said Audley, “but it rather looks like taking advantage of your good nature.”

“Nonsense,” I said, “we shall all be delighted. If you catch the Boulogne express from Interlaken tonight you will be in Victoria tomorrow evening in good time for your appointment on Monday. You can leave again on Tuesday and be up here on Wednesday. We will keep Mrs. Audley amused until then.”

Both expressed their thanks and we went to the telephone to get on to the Sleeping-car Company in Interlaken and reserve a berth.

I arranged to leave with them at four o’clock that afternoon and descend by the funicular into Lauterbrunnen, where Audley would take train for Interlaken to catch the night-mail for Boulogne.

Thus, having fixed things up, I left them and went up to the Doctor’s room where I told him what had occurred.

The old fellow at first laughed immoderately and declared I was extremely foolish to intrude. However, he was sympathetic enough.

“Poor little girl!” he said. “Of course she would be very lonely. We must have her to sit at our table, Yelverton, and of course, my dear boy, you must entertain her. Poor little girl!—she has only one honeymoon, and to think that it should be so interrupted! Yes. You did quite the right thing,—quite right!”

At six o’clock I stood on the snowy platform at Lauterbrunnen station with “The Little Lady,” as I called her, and we watched her husband wave us farewell as the train left. It was dark, damp and dreary down there. A thaw had set in and it was sloppy under foot. Lauterbrunnen is not a pleasant place in winter. Suddenly she turned to me and with a merry laugh exclaimed:

“Well, Mr. Yelverton, I suppose I am now your temporary bride—eh?”

We laughed together, and then crossed back to the little station of the funicular railway and slowly ascended until, just in time for dinner, we were back again in Mürren.

Naturally, the fun-loving guests at the hotel made the best of the news that Stanley Audley had had to dash off to London and had left his pretty wife in my charge. Chaff and banter flew freely, practical jokes were played on us by the score and the excitement helped to chase away Mrs. Audley’s depression. And, perhaps, wisely, she sought to get rid of her natural sorrow by flinging herself into the whirl of the Kürhaus life. She danced, laughed and even flirted mildly with one or two young fellows in a way she certainly would not have dreamed of doing had Stanley Audley been present. But it was all very innocent and above-board and not even the strictest moralist would have found fault with this gay abandon which, I fancy, was half assumed. For, disguise it how she would, she was quite clearly devoted to her husband and longed only for his return.

Next day she lunched with Dr. Feng and myself and in the afternoon we put on our skis and I took her out over the snow to the Grütsch Alp by a way which commanded a magnificent view of the high Bernese Alps. We took our cameras with us and, on my table, as I write there is a snap-shot I took of her as, in her smart winter sports kit, she sped swiftly down a steep slope with her ski-sticks held behind her in real professional style.

She proved a delightful companion. She was, I found, a Londoner born and bred, and she had all the genuine shrewdness and good humor of the town girl. She was well educated, a perfect encyclopædia of books and plays, and she was, as I knew, a splendid dancer. Her mother, the widow of an ex-naval officer named Shaylor, lived at Bexhill. Of her father she remembered very little: he had been on the China Station for many years and his visits home had been infrequent. He had died in China the year before.

The humor of my position struck me forcibly. Here was I, a young bachelor fairly well off and sufficiently good-looking, left in charge of a beautiful young girl who was a bride of only a few days! In England, of course, such a position would have been unthinkable. It did not seem so strange in the free and easy camaraderie of Mürren where the free and easy sporting life bred a harmless unconventionality and where even the British starchy reserve was very early sloughed off. Everybody made a joke of the whole affair and Dr. Feng and old Mr. Humphreys laughed like boys at this novel status I had acquired.

Of course there was some malice: there always is in a mixed company. After we had glided some miles across the snow, we halted and I poured out some tea from the vacuum flask I carried. Just as Mrs. Audley was drinking a party of men and girls from the hotel passed. Noticing us, one of the girls made some remark. What it was I did not hear, but it produced a burst of ill-mannered laughter and my companion turned scarlet.

“They’re horrid, aren’t they?” she said and I agreed. “But it is really delightful here,” she said, looking up into my face. “You are most awfully kind to us, Mr. Yelverton. Stanley and I shall never forget it. If he gets the position of manager at Woolwich it will mean so much to us—and it will greatly please my mother.”

“Was your mother—er—against your marriage?” I inquired.

“Well—yes, she was. She thought I was too young. You see I’m not nineteen yet, though people think I’m older,” she confessed with a charming little moue. “Stanley is an awfully good boy, and I love him so very much.”

“Naturally, and I hope you always will,” I said. “Of course, I’m older than you, but our position here today is really a bit unconventional, isn’t it?”

“It is,” she laughed, “I wonder how you like being bothered with a temporary bride?”

“I’m not bothered, but most charmed to have such a delightful companion as yourself, Mrs. Audley,” I declared.

We returned to dinner after an enjoyable afternoon amid those wild mountains and snowy paths, and when she came to table she provided one of us, at any rate, with a startling surprise.

We had taken our seats at our table and were waiting for her. Seated with my back to the door I did not see her enter the room, but I saw Dr. Feng, who was facing me, suddenly stiffen in his chair and not even his Chinese impassivity could disguise the look of amazement, almost of fear, which leaped suddenly into his eyes.

“Whatever is the matter, doctor?” I jerked out in amazement.

Instantly the old man had himself in hand again. But that glimpse of his vivid emotion had startled me. Before I could say anything he had risen and was greeting Thelma Audley. I sprang to my feet.

Mrs. Audley was wearing a dainty gown of ivory silk—her wedding dress, she told us later, put on in compliment to the old doctor. She looked very sweet and girlish in it. But Dr. Feng, I could plainly see, had no eyes for the dress: his attention was concentrated on the extraordinary pendant which Mrs. Audley wore on her bosom, suspended from a thin platinum chain round her neck.

“Look what I have had sent me!” she cried as she called our attention to it. “Did you ever see anything so quaint?” And she took it off and handed it to the doctor. He took it from her with what, had the brooch been some sacred emblem, I should have thought was an expression of deep reverence, and examined it closely.

It was a sufficiently striking ornament to have attracted attention anywhere. It was fashioned in the form of a peacock’s foot, about three inches long. The shank, at the end of which was a tiny ring through which the platinum chain was passed, was of rough gold studded with small diamonds and each of the claws was composed of a single crystal, cut to the natural shape of the claw. The jewels blazed in the glare of the electric lights. The pendant was of exquisite workmanship and was quite obviously enormously valuable.

“Why, wherever did you get that, Mrs. Audley?” I exclaimed. “It’s really wonderful.”

“Isn’t it pretty?” she said. “It came by registered post this evening and I found it waiting for me when I went up to dress. Mother had sent it on from Bexhill. I don’t know who sent it—there was no letter—but perhaps I shall find out when I get home.” It was evident she had not the least idea of the value of this quaint jewel.

I was keenly watching Dr. Feng. For some reason I could not explain, I connected the crystal claw with the unmistakable agitation he had shown as he caught sight of Mrs. Audley entering the room.

“Did you say there was no letter with it? Perhaps you have kept the packing,” he asked, gravely regarding the jewel as it lay in the palm of his hand.

“Oh, it came from some foreign place,” Mrs. Audley said. “I could not make out the name, but I will fetch the wrapper, perhaps you can tell,” and she darted from her seat.

Feng sat silent, turning the claw over and over in his hand and closely examining it. He seemed to have forgotten me entirely in his abstraction.

A few moments later Mrs. Audley returned with a small box and some peculiar paper in which it had been wrapped. The whole had been rewrapped in brown paper in England and the original address—“Miss Thelma Shaylor, care of Mrs. Shaylor, Bexhill-on-Sea, Sussex, England,” was undamaged. It was a queer cramped handwriting, evidently that of a foreigner.

Dr. Feng glanced at it. “This was posted in Pekin,” he said, “Have you any friends out there, Mrs. Audley?”

“No, certainly not,” was the startling reply. “I have never known anyone in China. Are you sure it is from Pekin?”

Dr. Feng smiled. “You forget I am a Chinese, Mrs. Audley,” he said. “You can be quite sure that package came from Pekin. It is wrapped in Chinese rice paper as you will see, and the address was written by a Chinese.”

Mrs. Audley looked puzzled. “Well,” she said at last, “someone who knows me must have gone to China. But it’s very pretty, and I wish I knew who sent it.”

“You must take great care of it,” said Dr. Feng. “It is very valuable, apart from sentimental considerations.”

Then our talk drifted to other topics and the crystal claw, for the moment, was apparently forgotten. But I noticed that Dr. Feng could not keep his eyes off it for long, and he was unusually silent and abstracted during the meal.

Tired from her ski excursion Mrs. Audley left us early and went to bed. The old doctor and I were sitting in the lounge drinking coffee when I made up my mind to ask him about the crystal claw.

“What does the crystal claw mean, Doctor?” I said quietly, shooting the question at him suddenly in an interval of our chat.

He glanced at me keenly. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What makes you think I know anything about it?”

“All right, Doctor,” I laughed. “I happened to be looking at you when Mrs. Audley came into the dining room and saw your face. Also I saw you looking at the claw afterward. Don’t tell me you don’t know anything about it. Remember I’m a lawyer.”

The old man laughed. “You’re right enough, my boy,” he said pleasantly. “I know a good deal about the crystal claw. But what I don’t know is why it was sent Mrs. Audley—or rather to Miss Shaylor.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Not by any means,” he rejoined quickly. “That claw was sent to Miss Shaylor—to Miss Shaylor,” he repeated emphatically. “The fact that she is Mrs. Audley has nothing whatever to do with it. She thinks it is a wedding present. It is nothing of the kind. The man who sent her the crystal claw could not have known of her wedding, anyhow.”

“Tell me all about it, Doctor,” I begged.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I don’t suppose it will do any harm if I do. But you had better keep what I tell you to yourself, at any rate for the present.

“The crystal claw,” he went on, “is the badge or sign of the Thu-tseng, a powerful Manchu secret society. There is nothing illegal about the society; it simply works for the political regeneration of China. Hsi-yuan himself is one of its leading lights—you know of him, of course. The claw is given, so far as outsiders are concerned, only to those who have rendered some signal service to the society. Now, I cannot see how Mrs. Audley, by any conceivable stretch of the imagination, can have helped the Thu-tseng. Excepting myself, she has probably never spoken to a Chinese in her life.”

“Did you know her father was a naval officer and was for many years on the China Station?” I asked.

Feng started violently, “Is that so?” he asked quickly.

“Yes,” I replied, “she told me so only today.”

The old man sank back into his chair and pondered deeply.

“That may explain it,” he said slowly. “It is just possible the claw has been sent to her in recognition of something her father did. But, if so, it must have been something of very great importance. How long has her father been dead?”

“About a year,” I replied.

“Well,” he said, after another period of thought, “there must have been some reason why the sending of the claw was delayed. But,” he went on with growing animation, “you can take it from me she has powerful friends. With that claw in her possession she could ask almost anything she liked in any part of China today. It would be a magic talisman there.”

Of course, I was as completely bewildered and amazed as Dr. Feng. But I could only assume that his solution of the mystery was correct. Mrs. Audley apparently knew next to nothing of her father’s life abroad: certainly she would and could know nothing of his political activities there. But Feng was confident he had somehow been associated with powerful members of the Thu-tseng.

“I will send some cables tomorrow,” he said, as we parted for the night. “I am deeply interested in this affair. China is the land of mysteries, and this is beyond me. The last time I saw the crystal claw was when I was in Tibet twenty years ago. It was worn by a monk of a Buddhist monastery there. But, of course, I could never find out why he got it.”

CHAPTER III
THE DEADLY FOEHN

Next day, while old Humphreys remained in his invalid chair to write some business letters to his agents in the Near East, and Doctor Feng had a match at curling, I took “The Little Lady” out upon the other side of the deep valley to the popular winter sports resort at Wengen, which lies up the mountain on the opposite side of the valley. We lunched at the splendid Regina Hotel, where every one goes, and afterwards took some snap-shots. Later we took the train up to the Schiedegg and came down on our skis, a glorious run back to Wengen, the snow conditions being perfect. In everything she was interested, admiring the scenery and thoroughly enjoying the run, until we returned in the darkness up the mountain side again to Mürren.

I had come to the conclusion that Mrs. Audley had been a London business girl, for she told me she knew shorthand and typewriting, and she was evidently familiar with business affairs. The old invalid had become even more interested in her. He studied her as the type of the modern girl and she certainly was always bright and vivacious when with us. Dr. Feng, however, though he was invariably polite to her, seemed to have become, for some reason, decidedly antagonistic. It is true the position was decidedly unconventional and irregular, but I could not reconcile his present attitude with his earlier and very obvious liking for Mrs. Audley. He now disagreed utterly with my quixotic offer to look after her and did not hesitate to say so.

“You are playing with fire,” he declared. “You are both young and she is a very pretty girl. The best thing you can do will be to clear out.”

I laughed, of course, and told him I had only accepted this responsibility in order to help a man out of a difficulty.

He shook his head. “You don’t know either of them, and you don’t know what you may have let yourself in for.”

I wondered, naturally, whether he had been influenced by the arrival of the crystal claw, and asked him bluntly if this were the case.

“Not at all,” he assured me. “The crystal claw has nothing whatever to do with it.”

In spite of all he said I would not take his advice. In the headstrong way of youth I put him down as a thoroughly conventional old fogey, a survival of the Victorian era when girls were compelled to go about with chaperons and the smoking of a cigarette was a vice to be indulged only in the strictest privacy. So Mrs. Audley and I continued to enjoy ourselves, skating each morning on the rink and skiing together in the afternoon over the freshly fallen snow.

With a view to throwing additional light on the mystery of the crystal claw I tried as delicately as I could to “pump” her about her father. But it was evident she knew little or nothing beyond what she had told me. “He was a naval officer on the China Station for many years,” seemed to sum it all up and I wondered whether, for some reason I could not divine, further knowledge had been deliberately withheld from her. Of Eastern political affairs she obviously knew nothing.

Of her husband she said little, though I saw she was devoted to him.

“When we get back, Stanley and I hope to get a flat at Hampstead,” she said one day when we were resting after a swift run on skis close to the Half-way House—which is on the electric railway line which runs from Mürren along the edge of the precipice, before one changes into the rack-railway to descend to the valley.

That night at dinner there was a strange incident. Mrs. Audley came down in a gown which was the envy of many girls in the hotel. It was made of ciré tissue, and the yoke and hem were of silver lace. The front panel was ornamented with pin tucks and finished with a chou of flowers. It was a charming frock. On her breast the crystal claw winked and blazed in the light of the lamps.

Old Humphreys, contrary to his usual custom, had come into the dining room for dinner and was seated in his wheeled chair at the same table as Mrs. Audley, Dr. Feng and myself.

I shall never forget the look that came over his face when he caught sight of the crystal claw! Rage, fear and amazement mingled together until the old man looked positively demoniacal. Luckily, Mrs. Audley was talking to Dr. Feng and neither of them noticed him.

It was a moment or two before the old invalid could control himself. Then his face resumed its usual expression. But I had caught a glimpse of the hell that, for a brief moment, must have raged in the old man’s mind and once again the crystal claw seemed to be associated with something sinister and dangerous.

“That’s a pretty new brooch you have, Mrs. Audley,” said the old fellow in a grating voice which showed that even now he had hardly recovered himself.

“Yes,” she laughed merrily, “isn’t it sweet? It came by post, sent to me from Pekin. I haven’t any idea who sent it for there was no name. It has been forwarded from London, and is no doubt a wedding present from somebody who has forgotten to enclose a card.” And she turned over the crystal claw so that he could admire it.

Afterwards we crossed the snowy road to the Kürhaus, where in the spacious ball-room we danced together. She also danced with two or three other admiring partners. Old Mr. Humphreys wheeled his chair into the dancing room as was his habit each evening. It was pathetic to see the grey-haired thin-faced man who seemed so active in every other sense, deprived of the power of locomotion. When he left his chair he managed to hobble along and with great difficulty up the stairs with the aid of rubber-capped sticks. Mostly, however, the porters carried his chair upstairs to the first floor and he wheeled himself along the corridor to his room.

On the following morning, according to arrangements made over-night, we started at nine o’clock and taking with us John, the smart, ever-smiling guide, we started out on our skis to ascend the Schwarzbirg, nine thousand feet high, by way of the Bielen-Lücke. The ascent we found extremely interesting, but the weather, even when we started, was grey and threatening. Now and then snow clouds drifted quickly across, and that dangerous and mysterious Alpine wind, the Foehn, ever and anon grew gusty. It was clear a storm was threatening.

“A little blizzard, perhaps,” remarked the slim, agile John, in his soft English, as he slid along over the snow.

Weather conditions in the Alps change with every moment. A blizzard may succeed brilliant sunshine within five minutes—a blizzard that whips the face with its icy blast, piles snow deep, and freezes one to the marrow. In the glacier regions of the higher Alps, the weather cannot be depended upon for a few minutes together.

Thelma, that day, wore the ski kit in which I had first seen her—the Fair Isle jazzy patterned jersey, and over it the short little wind-proof jacket trimmed with fur, and her corduroy breeches and stockings. It was in every way serviceable.

Presently when she had, to my surprise, executed what is known as an “open Christiania,” and we were skiing together across a great plateau of snow far above the tree-line, with John fifty yards ahead of us, she suddenly exclaimed—

“Do you know, Mr. Yelverton, I’ve heard nothing from Stanley except a telegram sent from Victoria at six o’clock on Sunday night, announcing his arrival. I’ve wired, but I’ve got no reply. I’m worried about him, but I don’t want to bother you.”

“That’s curious,” I remarked. “To where have you sent your wire?”

“To his office in Westminster.”

“Well, you ought to have had a reply. But never mind,” I said. “He’s due back tomorrow night. We’ll go down to Lauterbrunnen and meet him—eh?”

The sky had suddenly become darkened and a strong tearing wind had sprung up. We had left the plateau and upon our skis were following John “herring-boning” up the side of the mountain. When one starts “herring-boning” one faces the incline and points the skis outwards at a considerable angle to each other—then the slope can be mounted by lifting the skis forward alternately and placing them in the snow on the inner edges, the angle between them remaining the same.

It was a steep slope, so we made wider angles between our skis to prevent them slipping backwards.

We were lurching heavily from side to side in order to throw the weight of one ski while lifting the other, when John suddenly shrieked the warning, “Achtung!”

Next second I heard a soft hissing sound overhead, then a loud rumbling which increased to thunder. I instinctively seized Mrs. Audley. The next moment we were struck violently in the back, covered by a blanket of snow, and hurled down the mountain side amid an avalanche of snow, stones and rocks.

When, very slowly, I awakened to a sense of things about me, I found I had bitten my tongue badly and felt a severe pain at the back of my skull where, I suppose, I must have struck a rock. Mrs. Audley was still in my arms and unconscious, her bleeding face white as marble. Both of us were deeply imbedded in the snow, but our heads fortunately lay clear, otherwise we must certainly have been suffocated. The avalanche had swept us down, but as I had instinctively grasped my dainty companion, we had been held together.

Blood was flowing freely from the wound in my head, and Mrs. Audley’s face was cut and bleeding. As quickly as possible I disengaged myself from the heavy weight of snow upon me, and strove to rouse her from her swoon. The thought that she might be dead drove me well-nigh frantic.

I seized her by the shoulders and shook her violently. Then with trembling fingers I tore open her jacket, jersey and silk blouse, and bent my head to listen. Her heart was beating faintly.

My vacuum flask of hot tea was battered and broken but in an inside pocket I had, providentially, a small flask of brandy which was undamaged. I forced a few drops of the spirit between her pallid lips.

Her lips moved. A moment later she opened her big grey eyes and asked me in a whisper:

“Where am I?”

“You are safe,” I assured her, holding her in my arms. “Don’t worry. We’ll be out of this very soon.”

“But where are we?” she asked gazing around upon the snowy surroundings. “Where is John? Tell me!”

I told her briefly what had happened.

“But where is John?” she queried. “I hope he is all right. It was very foolish for us to venture up here after the warm Foehn of yesterday,—wasn’t it?”

“I expect John is all right,” I said. “He warned us, and no doubt took precautions.” Guides in the Alps seldom fail.

With difficulty we wriggled out of the snow and stood up. Even in our shaken condition we could not but admire the panorama of the Eiger, the Jungfrau and the Wetterhorn, across the darkening valley before us. But haste was imperative: the light was fading quickly and we were a long way from Mürren.

I had lost one of my skis, which had been torn from its strong Huitfeldt binding in our fall. Mrs. Audley’s, however, were intact, and we started to descend. She soon recovered in the keen Alpine air, and was able to help me, lame dog that I was. Repeatedly we gave the six shouts recognized as the regular Alpine distress call, but there was no reply.

It was quite dark when we struggled back, to find that our guide, having happily escaped, had arrived before us and sent out a search-party. By shouts and flashing signals, this was soon recalled.

At the hotel they put Thelma to bed at once, while after the Swiss doctor had seen to my head, I sat in the bar recounting my experience and drinking a strong whiskey and soda.

Dr. Feng and Humphreys were both most eager to know the details of our adventure. But later the doctor said—

“I think you are very foolish, Yelverton! You ought never to have had anything to do with the bride, she will only bring trouble upon you. Humphreys agrees with me. You’re a young fool!”

“Probably I am,” I replied laughing! “I very nearly lost my life over it today.”

“You are a regular Don Quixote,” he said. “Well, I admire you after all. You would be a fine young fellow, if you were just a little more cautious.”

“Cautious!” I laughed, facing the old doctor, “I’m young. You are old. You weren’t cautious when you were my age, were you?”

“No,” he answered. “I suppose not—I suppose not.”

The night-mail train from Boulogne arrives at the little station at Lauterbrunnen each evening about five o’clock. The next afternoon therefore Mrs. Audley, who had quite recovered from her accident on the previous day, accompanied me down into the valley by the cable railway. She was all excitement, for her husband, before his departure, had promised to return by that train, and had, indeed, booked his sleeping-berth by it.

At last the train came slowly in from Interlaken, where the change is made from the wagon-lit. A number of hurrying English visitors descended but Stanley Audley was not among them.

Bitter disappointment was written upon the girl’s face.

“He must have missed the train at Victoria,” she declared.

“Well,” I said, “There is not another through train until tomorrow—unless he travels by Paris and Bâle.”

The station master, however, informed us that the service from Paris would not arrive till early next morning, so that we were compelled to reascend to Mürren.

Audley’s failure to telegraph or write to his wife, struck me as uncommonly strange.

While we were in the narrow little compartment of the cable railway, I ventured to put several questions to her concerning him. But she would give only evasive replies.

Next day she went to the little wood-built post office alone and despatched several telegrams to various addresses, but the replies she received gave no news of her husband. Evening came again, but Stanley Audley was not among the arrivals from London, though I was with Thelma on the arrival of the mountain train at Mürren station.

“I cannot make it out,” she said as we sped back to the hotel on our skis. “Surely he must be delayed. Perhaps he has telegraphed to me and the message has gone astray!”

“That may be,” I agreed in order to reassure her, but personally I felt much mystified.

Next day I telegraphed to the managing director of Gordon & Austin, the electrical engineers in George Street, Westminster, asking for news of Stanley Audley, and in response about five o’clock in the evening came a reply which read: “Stanley Audley is not employed by us and is unknown to us.”

I said nothing to Thelma, but finding Dr. Feng alone, showed him the telegram.

The old doctor grunted with dissatisfaction.

“Something wrong somewhere,” he remarked. “One should always be very careful of hotel acquaintances. I warned you at the time that you were indiscreet to offer to look after the bride of a man you don’t know.”

“I admit that! But the whole affair is very mysterious. He told me a deliberate lie when he said he was employed by Gordon & Austin.”

“Yes. He’s a mystery, and evidently not what he pretended to be. What does his wife think?”

“I haven’t shown her the telegram.”

“Don’t. Try and discover what you can from her.”

“You don’t seem to like her, Doctor,” I said bluntly.

“No. I don’t like either of them,” the old man admitted. “There’s too much mystery about the pair. I was discussing them with Humphreys this morning, and he agrees.”

“It is not Thelma’s fault,” I said.

“It may be. She evidently knows more about her husband than what she has told you.”

“Well, she’s told me nothing,” I replied.

“There you are! She is concealing the truth. Go and find out all you can. And don’t be indiscreet. Your present position is dangerous. Perhaps he’s left her deliberately and palmed her off upon you, hoping that you will both fall in love, and he can free himself of her at your expense. Such things are not unknown, remember!”

“I don’t believe it,” I declared. “I undertook a trust—foolishly if you like—and it is up to me to carry it out to the best of my ability.”

“Ah! my dear boy, your eyes are closed very often,” the old doctor said. “The lookers-on see most of the game, and I’ve seen one or two little things which show that your temporary bride is not adverse to a little secret flirtation.”

“How?” I asked quickly.

“Well, she’s on quite friendly terms with that young fellow, Harold Ruthen.”

“Ruthen!” I echoed. “I didn’t know they were acquainted. I’ve never seen them speak.”

“No, not when you are about,” replied the old man laughing. “But I’ve often seen them chatting together.”

This surprised me. Harold Ruthen was a rather foppish, fair-haired man about my own age, whose airs were of the superior type. His interest in Thelma had not escaped me, but I had never seen them speaking together. He was, I understood, an ex-officer, and he was a very good skater. But at first sight I had taken an instinctive dislike to him and, that he should have made Thelma’s acquaintance in secret, greatly annoyed me.

I felt myself responsible to Stanley Audley, even if he had deceived me.

Now I found myself in a difficulty. Only at that moment I recollected how, on the morning before Thelma’s husband had announced his forced return to London, I had seen Ruthen walking with the doctor up a narrow path with high snow-banks close to the hotel. They were deep in conversation, and old Feng seemed to be impressing some point upon Ruthen while he listened very attentively.

Did Dr. Feng know more than he admitted?

I must say that I did not like his hostile attitude towards the newly wedded pair, an attitude which now seemed to be shared by old Mr. Humphreys.

That night, when Thelma came to table, she was wearing a charming gown of almond green, that we had not seen before. Though she looked beautiful, her face was more serious than usual, and I suspected that I saw traces of tears.

As we sat together I fell to wondering who was Stanley Audley? Why had he deceived his young wife, and then deserted her, leaving her in my charge?

Had I fallen into a clever trap?

CHAPTER IV
WHISPERS OF WOMEN

Two days passed, yet Stanley Audley did not return.

On the afternoon of the second day, old Mr. Humphreys spoke to me in confidence while we sat at tea, which is almost a religious ceremony in Mürren.

“Funny about that young fellow Audley,” he said. “Have you discovered anything further?”

“No,” I replied, “the fact is I don’t like to be too inquisitive.”

“Of course, but the girl is left in your charge, and you certainly have a right to know the truth,” declared the old invalid. “Personally, I don’t like the situation at all. I shall go back to London in a few days, but do let me know how you get on, for I am interested. You can always write to me, care of the Ottoman Bank in London.”

I promised, and finding Thelma, who had just come in from the rink, where there had been an ice-hockey match, I greeted her in the hall as she went downstairs to tea.

Later we went for a stroll together and as we passed out into the grey twilight, young Ruthen held open the door for us, bowing, but not speaking. Before me the pair posed as strangers.

“I don’t like that fellow!” I remarked, as we walked along the snowy road out of the village.

“Neither do I,” was her quick response.

“But, if I’m not mistaken, Mrs. Audley, you are acquainted with him,” I remarked.

“Well—yes—and no,” she said. “It is true that he thrusts himself upon me whenever he has the chance, and your back is turned. I’ve snubbed him a dozen times, but he is always lurking about.”

“Then you are not friendly with him?”

“On the contrary. I confess I don’t like him,” she answered quite frankly. Whereupon I resolved to try and catch him speaking with her and tell him what I thought of him.

“He’s a cad!” I declared. “He pretends to be a gentleman, but he does not behave like one.”

“You speak as though you are annoyed, Mr. Yelverton,” and she laughed lightly.

“I am. You are left in my care, Mrs. Audley. Your husband would be very angry if he knew that the fellow pestered you with his unwanted attentions, would he not?”

“I suppose he would,” she faltered.

“I wonder why we hear nothing from Stanley?” I said. “It is all very mysterious. Do you know that he is not employed by that electrical firm in Westminster? They know nothing of him!”

She halted, held her breath and stared at me.

“What!” she cried. “But surely he is at Gordon & Austin’s? I left him at their offices one day just before our marriage and he went in there.”

“They know nothing of him,” I assured her, telling her of their reply to my inquiry.

“I really can’t believe it,” she said in a voice of despair. “Stanley could not have lied to me like that.”

“Have you ever met his parents?”

“No. They are in India—at Lucknow.”

“But what do you know about him? Where did he live before you married him?”

“He had rooms in Half Moon Street. I went there once or twice,” and she told me the number.

“How long had you known him before you married?” I inquired.

“About six months, but he was mostly away in Paris, on business for his firm.”