The Crystal Claw by William Le Queux

I am not going to deny that at first that strange warning perturbed me a good deal. After all, I make no claim to be a hero and not even a hero likes threats of death, even though they be anonymous. At the same time, I never proposed, even in thought, to give up my quest. For, whether I wished it or not, I could not shake myself free of Thelma's influence: my day-dreams were themselves on the fancy that some day, in some way, she would be free. More and more I began to think that she had married Audley so suddenly under an overwhelming girlish impulse; perhaps her mind had been made up by some story he had told her to justify haste and secrecy. If this were really so, would her love survive desertion and a separation which she herself apparently regarded as permanent? It would be strange, indeed, if it did.

So, through the dark March days that followed, I worked at the office half the day, while the remainder I devoted to seeking traces of the mysterious young man who had lived in Half Moon Street under the name of Graydon.

Mrs. Powell and her husband had been suddenly called abroad. But Marigold Day was an obvious source of possible information and to make further inquiry of her I wrote asking her to dine with me one evening at the Cecil.

She accepted, and we ate our dinner at one of the tables set in the window of the big grill-room overlooking the Embankment. She again wore her plain black dress which enhanced the whiteness of her arms and shoulders and laughed merrily at me across the table as we chatted over dinner.

I hesitated to refer to Audley directly after the conversation of our previous meeting, but I asked her suddenly whether she happened to know a man named Harold Ruthen.

"Harold Ruthen? " she echoed, "Yes, but why do you ask?"

"Because he was a friend of Audley's," was my reply. "Do you happen to know him?"

"Certainly. I saw him only a few days ago. He's looking for Audley -- he believes he is in Paris."

"Now, I wonder if the Mr. Audley you know is the same man as my friend. Will you describe him?"

She did so, and the description made it clear that he was indeed Thelma's husband.

"Yes," I said. "He is no doubt the same."

"He was well-known at the Ham-bone, where every one called him Stanley," she said. "But I can't think why he disappeared and has never written to me. A girl told me that he'd married. But I don't believe it."

"Why not?"

"For the simple reason that he had asked me to marry him," was the startling reply.

"Was Ruthen on very friendly terms with him?"

"Yes. But Stanley did not like him. He used to tell me that Ruthen was not straight, and I know he avoided him whenever he could. I suppose we all hate most those we fear most."

"Why do you say that? " I asked in some surprise at her philosophy.

"Well," she said, "I always had a suspicion that Stanley went in fear of Ruthen. Why, I don't know."

"That's curious. What made you think so?"

"From certain remarks he once let drop."