The Crystal Claw by William Le Queux

When I met Thelma next morning I noticed that she was pale and obviously nervous and ill at ease. I longed to question her, but to do so would have been to reveal the fact that -- unintentionally, it was true -- I had been eavesdropping.

It was now plain that the man Ruthen, whom I had thought to be a mere hotel acquaintance of Stanley Audley's, was, in truth, something more, whether friend or enemy I was still not quite sure. Thelma's attitude, it was true, suggested the latter, though Ruthen had professed friendly motives. His attitude towards her thoroughly incensed me. But I realized that there must be some reason, unknown to me, why Thelma never acknowledged him when I was present. It was evident too that she hated and possibly feared him and that she, at any rate, regarded him as her husband's enemy.

She made no mention of the telegram from her husband that Ruthen had referred to and, as she had not denied having received it, I assumed that Ruthen's information was correct. It might have been, of course, a reassuring message, but if this was so there was no apparent reason why she should not have told me about it and her obvious anxiety and nervousness seemed entirely to contradict the suggestion that it could have contained any good news.

That morning we took our skis up the cable railway to the Allmendhubel, a thousand feet further up the mountain side, and thoroughly enjoyed our sport on the steep snowy incline above the village. A ski-jumping competition had been arranged for the afternoon and we spent an hour watching the competitors "herring-boning" and "side-stepping" as they climbed over the snow up the distant heights in readiness for the swift descent ending with the high jump that only experts can accomplish.

Thelma seemed silent and _distraite_ all the morning. At length I asked her what was troubling her.

"I really didn't know I was glum! " she replied. "Forgive me, Mr. Yelverton, won't you? I am awfully worried about Stanley. I really think it is useless for me to remain here in Mürren any longer. I had better go home to Bexhill."

The suggestion seemed to confirm my suspicion that she knew her husband's whereabouts, and felt it useless to await any longer for him.

"My time is growing short, too," I said. "I fear I must be back at my office on Monday. My partner writes that he is very busy."

"Then you will go on Saturday -- the day after tomorrow, I suppose? If so -- may I travel with you?"

"Certainly," I said. And as she had not booked a sleeping-berth on the Interlaken-Boulogne express, I promised that I would see after it during the afternoon.

Later that day I found that Audley had left her with only about a hundred francs, and she was compelled to allow me to settle her hotel bill.

As we came up into the hall after dinner the concierge handed Thelma a note, saying -- "Mr. Ruthen has left, miss, and he asked me to give you this!"

She held it in her hand for a second, and then, after glancing at me, moved away and tore it open.

The words she read had an extraordinary effect upon her. Her face went as white as the paper, and she held her breath, her eyes staring straight before her. Then she crushed the flimsy paper in her hand.

She reeled against a small table, and would have fallen had she not, with a supreme effort, recovered herself, and quickly stood erect again.

"Forgive me, Mr. Yelverton," she managed to ejaculate. "I'm not feeling very well. Excuse me, I -- I'll go to my room!"

And she turned and ascended the stairs, leaving me astonished and mystified.

What, I wondered, did that farewell note contain.

I saw her no more till next day. She sent me a message by the chambermaid to say that she was not coming down again and I passed the evening gossiping with Major Burton and two other "bobbing" enthusiasts.

By this time I had pretty thoroughly wearied of the eternal round of pleasure. Thelma's obvious distress and the extraordinary mystery into which I had stumbled occupied all my thoughts and I could no longer take the slightest pleasure in the gay life which seethed and bubbled around me. It was therefore with a feeling of genuine relief that I found myself at last in the restaurant car of the Boulogne express, slowly leaving Interlaken for the long night run across France by way of Delle and Rheims. Already we had left behind us the crisp clear air of the mountains. The snow everywhere was half melted and slushy and the train pushed its way onward through a dense curtain of driving sleet.