The Crystal Claw by William Le Queux

That night the newspapers contained a paragraph repeating what had appeared in the morning concerning Mrs. Audley's disappearance, and stating that no trace of her had been discovered after she had left Bexhill.

Her secret visit to old Feng, accompanied by Stanley, three days before, added to the mystery. Feng knew of my search for Audley. Then, why had he not told me the truth? With what motive was I being misled and befooled by a conspiracy of silence?

I began to realize that that motive, whatever it was, must be far stronger than I had previously suspected. And in my heart, I confess, I was dismayed by the knowledge that Stanley Audley was still alive: it showed that the goal upon which I had set my heart would never be reached. My distress and dismay as I sat late into the night in my silent bachelor room, may well be imagined.

Had Thelma purposely gone into hiding with her husband, and with the connivance of Feng -- or had she since met with foul play? Her failure to take her mother into her confidence seemed to me to suggest the latter.

I was strongly tempted to go to Scotland Yard and tell the police all I knew about the missing girl. But after long consideration I decided that I could do little, if any, good. The police were pursuing their own methods and what I could tell them would not help matters much. In addition I am afraid I did not want the police to get hold of Stanley Audley. If, as I strongly suspected, he was engaged in the nefarious trafficking in forged bank-notes, anything I did could only bring fresh distress upon Thelma. And I could not force myself to believe that her husband would be sufficiently callous and cold-blooded to allow any serious harm to befall her. In the long run it proved I was right. The issue was in other hands than those of Scotland Yard.

I was trying to fix my mind upon my work at the office next day, when my telephone rang and I heard the cheery voice of old Mr. Humphreys.

"Look here, Yelverton, I've been meaning to ring you up for some days past. Can you come and dine with me tonight? I'm in my place at Hampstead at last -- moved up here a week ago. Will you take the address -- 14, Heathermoor Gardens -- up at the top end of Fitzjohn's Avenue."

I scribbled the address on my blotting-pad.

"You'll easily find it," he went on. "Come at eight, won't you? The best way is to go to Hampstead Heath tube, and walk. It's only two minutes."

I gratefully accepted, for I wanted to discuss with him Thelma's mysterious disappearance.

"Have you seen Doctor Feng lately? " I asked him, before he rang off.

"No; I think he must be in Paris. He told me he was going over," was the reply.

About a quarter to eight that night I emerged from the lift at Hampstead station, and having inquired for Heathermoor Gardens, walked through the rain to a highly respectable road of large detached houses, each wherein dwelt prosperous city men, merchants, barristers and the like. The night was dark, and even though the street lamps shone, it was with some difficulty that I found Number Fourteen.

The house proved to be a large corner one, of two stories and double-fronted. Certainly it was the largest and best of them all and had big bay windows, and possessed an air of prosperity akin to that of my friend, the Anglo-Turkish financier.

The door was opened by a round-faced clean-shaven young man-servant who asked me into the spacious lounge-hall in which a wood fire burned brightly, and after taking my hat and coat, ushered me into a small cozy library on the left, where old Mr. Humphreys rose from the fireside, greeting me merrily.

"I'm awfully glad you could come, Yelverton," was his greeting, "I haven't asked anybody to meet you, for I thought we'd just have a quiet hour together, so that I can show you round my new home, and we can have a gossip. Sit down. Dinner will be ready in a moment."

Then he pressed the bell and a moment later the man appeared bearing a tray with two cocktails. We raised our glasses and drank. Mine was delicious. I gazed around the sumptuously furnished room and congratulated him upon it.

"Yes," he said. "I've tried to make it as cozy as I can. I thought I would bring my furniture from Constantinople, but on second thought, decided it was too oriental and heavy and would hardly have been in keeping with an English house. So I sold it and have bought this place and furnished it."

"It is really charming," I said, noting the taste displayed.

"Yes, I didn't want it to appear too new, so some of the stuff is second-hand. I hate a place which looks like the palace of a war-profiteer, don't you? " he laughed.