Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

CHAPTER TWO

“Well, Lorenzo,” I said, “just keep your eyes and ears open. I want to learn all I can about Mr. Pennington and his daughter. She hasn’t a maid, I suppose?”

“Not with her, sir,” he replied. “If she had, I’d soon get to know all about them.”

I was well aware of that, for Lorenzo Merli, like all Italians, was a great gossip, and quite a lady-killer in the servants’ hall. He was a dark-haired, good-looking young man whose character was excellent, and who had served me most faithfully. His father was farm-bailiff to an Italian marquis I knew, and with whom I had stayed near Parma, while before entering my service he had been valet to the young Marchese di Viterbo, one of the beaux of Roman society.

When I reposed a confidence in Lorenzo I knew he would never betray it. And I knew that, now I had expressed an ardent desire for information regarding the man Pennington and his daughter, he would strain every effort to learn what I wanted to know.

The pair sat at their usual table at luncheon. She was in a neat gown of navy blue serge, and wore a pretty cream hat which suited her admirably. Her taste in dress was certainly wonderful for an Englishwoman. Yet the pair always spoke French together, and presented no single characteristic of the British whatsoever.

Because of his epicurean tastes, the stout, bald-headed man received the greatest attention from the waiters; but those splendid eyes of his daughter betrayed no evidence of either tears or sleeplessness. They were the same, wistful yet wonderful, with just that slightest trace of sadness which had filled me with curiosity.

After luncheon he strolled along the broad palm-lined terrace in the sunshine beside the water’s edge, while she lolled in one of the long cane chairs. Yet, as I watched, I saw that she was not enjoying the warm winter sunshine or the magnificent view of snow-capped mountains rising on the far horizon.

Presently she rose and walked beside her father, who spoke to her rapidly and earnestly, but she only replied in monosyllables. It seemed that all his efforts to arouse her interest utterly failed.

I was lounging upon the low wall of the terrace, pretending to watch the arrival of the little black-and-white paddle-steamer on its way to Riva, when, as they passed me, Pennington halted to light a cigar.

Suddenly he glanced up at me with a strangely suspicious look. His dark eyes were furtive and searching, as though he had detected and resented my undue interest in his daughter.

Therefore I strolled down to the landing-stage, and, going on board the steamer, spent the afternoon travelling up to Riva, the pretty little town with the tiny harbour at the Austrian end of the lake. The afternoon was lovely, and the panorama of mountain mirrored in the water, with picturesque villages and hamlets nestling at the water’s edge, was inexpressibly grand. The deep azure of the unruffled water stood out in contrast to the dazzling snow above, and as the steamer, hugging the shore, rounded one rocky point after another, the scene was certainly, as the Italian contadino puts it, “a bit of Paradise fallen from heaven upon earth.”

But, to you who know the north Italian lakes, why need I describe it?

Suffice it to say that I took tea in the big hall of the Lido Palace Hotel at Riva, and then, boarding the steamer again, returned to Gardone just in time to dress for dinner.

I think that Pennington had forbidden his daughter to look at me, for never once during dinner the next evening, as far as I could detect, did she raise her eyes to mine. When not eating, she sat, a pretty figure in cream chiffon, with her elbows upon the table, her chin upon her clasped hands, talking to her father in that low, confidential tone. Were they talking secrets?

Just before they rose I heard him say in English—

“I’m going out for an hour—just for a stroll. I may be longer. If I’m not back all night, don’t be anxious. I may be detained.”

“Where are you going?” she asked quickly.

“That is my affair,” was his abrupt reply. Her face assumed a strange expression. Then she passed along the room, he following.

As soon as they had gone my mind was made up. I scented mystery. I ascended in the lift to my room, got my coat, and, going outside into the ill-lit road beyond the zone of the electric lights in front of the hotel, I waited.

The man was not long in coming. He wore a golf-cap and a thick overcoat, and carried a stout stick. On the steps of the hotel he paused, lit his cigar, and then set off to the left, down the principal street—the highroad which led to the clean little town of Salo and the southern end of the lake.

I lounged along after him at a respectable distance, all curiosity at the reason why, in that rural retreat, he intended to be absent all night.

He went along at a swinging pace, passing around the lake-front of the town which almost adjoins Gardone, and then began to ascend the steep hill beyond. Upon the still night air I could scent the aroma of his cigar. He was now on his way out into a wild and rather desolate country, high above the lake. But after walking about a mile he came to a point where the roads branched, one to Verona, the other to Brescia.

There he halted, and, seating himself upon a big stone at the wayside, smoked in patience, and waited. I advanced as near as I could without risk of detection, and watched.

He struck a match in order to look at his watch. Then he rose and listened intently. The night was dark and silent, with heavy clouds hanging about the mountains, threatening rain.

I suppose he had waited fully another quarter of an hour, when suddenly, far away over the brow of the hill in the direction of Brescia, I saw a peculiar light in the sky. At first I was puzzled, but as it gradually grew larger and whiter I knew that it came from the head-lights of an approaching motor-car. Next moment the hum of the engine fell on my ears, and suddenly the whole roadway became illuminated, so suddenly, indeed, that I had only just time to crouch down in order to avoid detection.

Pennington shouted to the driver, and he instantly pulled up. Then two men in thick overcoats descended, and welcomed him warmly in English.

“Come along, old man!” I heard one of them cry. “Come inside. We must be off again, for we haven’t a moment to spare. How’s the girl?”

Then they entered the car, which was quickly turned, and a few moments later disappeared swiftly along the road it had come.

I stood, full of wonder, watching the white light fade away.

Who were Pennington’s friends, that he should meet them in so secret a manner?

“How’s the girl?” Had that man referred to Sylvia? There was mystery somewhere. I felt certain of it.

Down the hill I retraced my steps, on through the little town, now wrapped in slumber, and back to the Grand Hotel, where nearly every one had already retired to bed. In a corner of the big lounge, however, Pennington’s daughter was seated alone, reading a Tauchnitz novel.

I felt in no humour to turn in just then, for I was rather used to late hours; therefore I passed through the lounge and out upon the terrace, in order to smoke and think. The clouds were lifting, and the moon was struggling through, casting an uncertain light across the broad dark waters.

I had thrown myself into a wicker chair near the end of the terrace, and, with a cigarette, was pondering deeply, when, of a sudden, I saw a female figure, wrapped in a pale blue shawl, coming in my direction.

I recognized the cream skirt and the shawl. It was Sylvia! Ah! how inexpressibly charming and dainty she looked!

When she had passed, I rose and, meeting her face to face, raised my hat and spoke to her.

She started slightly and halted. What words I uttered I hardly knew, but a few moments later I found myself strolling at her side, chatting merrily in English. Her chiffons exuded the delicate scent of Rose d’Orsay, that sweet perfume which is the hall-mark of the modern well-dressed woman.

And she was undoubtedly English, after all!

“Oh no,” she declared in a low, musical voice, in response to a fear I had expressed, “I am not at all cold. This place is so charming, and so warm, to where my father and I have recently been—at Uleaborg, in Finland.”

“At Uleaborg!” I echoed. “Why, that is away—out of the world—at the northern end of the Gulf of Bothnia!”

“Yes,” she declared, with a light laugh. “It is so windy and cold, and oh! so wretchedly dull.”

“I should rather think so!” I cried. “Why, it is almost within the Arctic Circle. Why did you go up there—so far north—in winter?”

“Ah!” she sighed, “we are always travelling. My father is the modern Wandering Jew, I think. Our movements are always sudden, and our journeys always long ones—from one end of Europe to the other very often.”

“You seem tired of it!” I remarked.

“Tired!” she gasped, her voice changing. “Ah! if you only knew how I long for peace, for rest—for home!” and she sighed.

“Where is your home?”

“Anywhere, now-a-days,” was her rather despondent reply. “We are wanderers. We lived in England once—but, alas! that is now all of the past. My father is compelled to travel, and I must, of necessity, go with him. I am afraid,” she added quickly, “that I bore you with this chronicle of my own troubles. I really ought not to say this—to you, a stranger,” she said, with a low, nervous little laugh.

“Though I may be a stranger, yet, surely, I may become your friend,” I remarked, looking into her beautiful face, half concealed by the blue wrap.

For a moment she hesitated; then, halting in the gravelled path and looking at me, she replied very seriously—

“No; please do not speak of that again.”

“Why not?”

“Well—only because you must not become my friend.”

“You are lonely,” I blurted forth. “I have watched you, and I have seen that you are in sore need of a friend. Do you deny that?”

“No,” she faltered. “I—I—yes, what you say is, alas! correct. How can I deny it? I have no friend; I am alone.”

“Then allow me to be one. Put to me whatever test you will,” I exclaimed, “and I hope I may bear it satisfactorily. I, too, am a lonely man—a wanderer. I, too, am in need of a friend in whom I can confide, whose guidance I can ask. Surely there is no friend better for a lonely man than a good woman?”

“Ah, no,” she cried, suddenly covering her face with both her hands. “You don’t know—you are ignorant. Why do you say this?”

“Why? Shall I tell you why?” I asked, gallantly bending to her in deep earnestness. “Because I have watched you—because I know you are very unhappy!”

She held her breath. By the faint ray of the distant electric light I saw her face had become changed. She betrayed her emotions and her nervousness by the quick twitching of her fingers and her lips.

“No,” she said at last very decisively; “you must abandon all thought of friendship with me. It is impossible—quite impossible!”

“Would my friendship be so repugnant to you, then?” I asked quickly.

“No, no, not that,” she cried, laying her trembling fingers upon my coat-sleeve. “You—you don’t understand—you cannot dream of my horrible position—of the imminent peril of yours.”

“Peril! What do you mean?” I asked, very much puzzled.

“You are in grave danger. Be careful of yourself,” she said anxiously. “You should always carry some weapon with you, because——” and she broke off short, without concluding her sentence.

“Because—why?”

“Well, because an accident might happen to you—an accident planned by those who are your enemies.”

“I really don’t understand you,” I said. “Do you mean to imply that there is some conspiracy afoot against me?”

“I warn you in all seriousness,” she said. “I—well, the fact is, I came out here—I followed you out—in order to tell you this in secret. Leave here, I beg of you; leave early to-morrow morning, and do not allow the hotel people to know your new address. Go somewhere—far away—and live in secret under an assumed name. Let Owen Biddulph disappear as though the earth had swallowed him up.”

“Then you are aware of my name!” I exclaimed.

“Certainly,” she replied. “But do—I beg of you for your own sake—heed my warning! Ah! it is cruel and horrible that I—of all women—have to tell you this!”

“I always carry a revolver,” I replied, “and I have long ago learned to shoot straight.”

“Be guarded always against a secret and insidious attack,” she urged. “I must go in—now that I have told you the truth.”

“And do you, then, refuse to become my friend, Miss Pennington?” I asked very earnestly. “Surely you are my friend already, because you have told me this!”

“Yes,” she answered, adding, “Ah! you do not know the real facts! You would not ask this if you were aware of the bitter, ghastly truth. You would not ask my friendship—nay, you would hate and curse me instead!”

“But why?” I asked, amazed at her words. “You speak in enigmas.”

She was silent again. Then her nervous fingers once more gripped my arm, as, looking into my face, her eyes shining with a weird, unusual light, she replied in quick, breathless sentences—

“Because—because friendship between us must never, never be; it would be fatal to you, just as it would be fatal to me! Death—yes, death—will come to me quickly and swiftly—perhaps to-night, perhaps to-morrow, perhaps in a week’s time. For it, I am quite prepared. All is lost—lost to me for ever! Only have a care of yourself, I beseech of you! Heed what I say. Escape the cruel fate which your enemies have marked out for you—escape while there is yet time, and—and,” she faltered in a low, hoarse voice, full of emotion, “some day in the future, perhaps, you will give a passing thought to the memory of a woman who revealed to you the truth—who saved you from an untimely end—the unhappy woman without a friend!”

“But I will be your friend!” I repeated.

“No. That can never be—never!” and she shuddered. “I dare not risk it. Reflect—and escape—get away in secret, and take care that you are not followed. Remember, however, we can never be friends. Such a course would be fatal—yes, alas! fatal!”

Instinctively she put out her tiny white hand in frank farewell. Then, when I had held it for a second in my own, she turned and, drawing her shawl about her, hurried back to the big hotel.

Utterly dumbfounded, I stood for a few seconds dazed and wondering, the sweet odour of Rose d’Orsay filling my nostrils. What did she know?

Then suddenly I held my breath, for there I saw for the first time, standing back in the shadow of the trees, straight before me, motionless as a statue, the tall, dark figure of a man who had evidently watched us the whole time, and who had, no doubt, overheard all our conversation!

CHAPTER THREE

In order to impress upon him the fact that I was in no hurry, I lit a cigarette, and seated myself upon the low wall of the terrace, softly whistling an air of the café chantant. The night was now glorious, the mountain crests showing white in the moonlight.

Who was this man, I wondered? I regretted that we had not discovered his presence before Sylvia had left. She would, no doubt, have recognized him, and told me the reason of his watchfulness.

At last, I suppose, I must have tired him out, for suddenly he hastened from his hiding-place, and, creeping beneath the shadow of the hotel, succeeded in reaching the door through which Sylvia had passed.

As he entered, the light from the lounge within gave me a swift glance of his features. He was a thin, grey-faced, rather sad-looking man, dressed in black, but, to my surprise, I noticed that his collar was that of an English clergyman!

This struck me as most remarkable. Clergymen are not usually persons to be feared.

I smiled to myself, for, after all, was it not quite possible that the reverend gentleman had found himself within earshot of us, and had been too embarrassed to show himself at once? What sinister motive could such a man possess?

I looked around the great lounge, with its many tables and great palms, but it was empty. He had passed through and ascended in the lift to his room.

Inquiry of the night-porter revealed that the man’s name was the Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth, and that he came from Andover, in England. He had arrived at six o’clock that evening, and was only remaining the night, having expressed his intention of going on to Riva on the morrow.

So, laughing at my fears—fears which had been aroused by that strange warning of Sylvia’s—I ascended to my room.

I did not leave next morning, as my fair-faced little friend had suggested, neither did Pennington return.

About eleven o’clock I strolled forth into the warm sunshine on the terrace, and there, to my surprise, saw Sylvia sitting upon one of the seats, with a cream sunshade over her head, a book in her lap, while by her side lounged the mysterious watcher of the night before—the English clergyman, Mr. Shuttleworth of Andover.

Neither noticed me. He was speaking to her slowly and earnestly, she listening attentively to his words. I saw that she sighed deeply, her fine eyes cast upon the ground.

It all seemed as though he were reproaching her with something, for she was silent, in an attitude almost of penitence.

Now that I obtained a full view of the reverend gentleman’s features in full daylight they seemed less mysterious, less sinister than in the half-light of midnight. He looked a grave, earnest, sober-living man, with that slight affectation of the Church which one finds more in the rural districts than in cities, for the black clerical straw hat and the clerical drawl seem always to go together. It is strange that the village curate is always more affected in his speech than the popular preacher of the West End, and the country vicar’s wife is even more exclusive in her tea-and-tennis acquaintances than the wife of the lord bishop himself.

For a few moments I watched unseen. I rather liked the appearance of the Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth, whoever he might be. He had the look of an honest, open, God-fearing man.

Yet why was he in such earnest consultation with the mysterious Sylvia?

With his forefinger he was touching the palm of his left hand, apparently to emphasize his words, while she looked pale, even frightened. She was listening without comment, without protest, while I stood watching them from behind. Many other visitors were idling about the terrace, reading letters or newspapers, or chatting or flirting—the usual morning occupations of a fashionable lake-side hotel far removed from the strenuous turmoil of the business or social worlds.

Suddenly she objected to some words which he uttered, objected strongly, with rapid interruption and quick protest.

But he laid his hand quietly upon her arm, and seemed to convince her of the truth or justice of his words.

Then, as she turned, she recognized me, and I raised my hat politely in passing.

Shuttleworth’s eyes met mine, and he stared at me. But I passed on, in pretence that I had not recognized him as the watcher of the previous night.

I idled about the terrace and the little landing-stage till noon, when the steamer for Riva came up from Desenzano; and Shuttleworth, taking leave of Sylvia, boarded the little craft with his two kit-bags, and waved her farewell as the vessel drew away, making a wide wake upon the glassy surface of the deep blue waters.

When he had gone, I crossed to her and spoke. She looked inexpressibly charming in her white cotton gown and neat straw sailor hat with black velvet band. There was nothing ostentatious about her dress, but it was always well cut and fitted her to perfection. She possessed a style and elegance all her own.

“Ah! Mr. Biddulph!” she exclaimed reproachfully. “Why have you not heeded my words last night? Why have you not left? Go!—go, before it is too late!” she urged, looking straight into my face with those wonderful eyes of hers.

“But I don’t understand you, Miss Pennington,” I replied. “Why should I leave here? What danger threatens me?”

“A grave one—a very grave one,” she said in a low, hoarse whisper. “If you value your life you should get away from this place.”

“Who are these enemies of mine?” I demanded. “You surely should tell me, so that I can take precautions against them.”

“Your only precaution lies in flight,” she said.

“But will you not tell me what is intended? If there is a conspiracy against me, is it not your duty, as a friend, to reveal it?”

“Did I not tell you last night that I am not your friend—that our friendship is forbidden?”

“I don’t understand you,” I said. “As far as I know, I haven’t an enemy in the world. Why should I fear the unknown?”

“Ah! will you not take heed of what I have told you?” she cried in desperation. “Leave here. Return to England—hide yourself—anywhere—for a time, until the danger passes.”

“I have no fear of this mysterious danger, Miss Pennington,” I said. “If these secret enemies of mine attack me, then I am perfectly ready and able to defend myself.”

“But they will not attack openly. They will strike at a moment when you least expect it—and strike with accuracy and deadly effect.”

“Last night, after you had left me, I found a man standing in the shadow watching us,” I said. “He was the clergyman whom I saw sitting with you just now. Who is he?”

“Mr. Shuttleworth—an old friend of mine in England. An intimate friend of my father’s. To him, I owe very much. I had no idea he was here until an hour ago, when we met quite accidentally on the terrace. I haven’t seen him for a year. We once lived in his parish near Andover, in Hampshire. He was about our only friend.”

“Why did he spy upon us?”

“I had no idea that he did. It must have been only by chance,” she assured me. “From Edmund Shuttleworth you certainly have nothing to fear. He and his wife are my best friends. She is staying up at Riva, it seems, and he is on his way to join her.”

“Your father is absent,” I said abruptly.

“Yes,” she replied, with slight hesitation. “He has gone away on business. I don’t expect he will be back till to-night.”

“And how long do you remain here?”

“Who knows? Our movements are always so sudden and erratic. We may leave to-night for the other end of Europe, or we may remain here for weeks yet. Father is so uncertain always.”

“But why are you so eager that I shall leave you?” I asked, as we strolled together along the terrace. “You have admitted that you are in need of a friend, and yet you will not allow me to approach you with the open hand of friendship.”

“Because—ah! have I not already explained the reason why—why I dare not allow you to show undue friendship towards me?”

“Well, tell me frankly,” I said, “who is this secret enemy of mine?”

She was silent. In that hesitation I suspected an intention to deceive.

“Is it against your own father that you are warning me?” I exclaimed in hesitation. “You fear him, evidently, and you urge me to leave here and return to England. Why should I not remain here in defiance?”

“In some cases defiance is distinctly injudicious,” she remarked. “It is so in this. Your only safety is in escape. I can tell you no more.”

“These words of yours, Miss Pennington, are remarkably strange,” I said. “Surely our position is most curious. You are my friend, and yet you conceal the identity of my enemy.”

She only shrugged her shoulders, without any reply falling from her lips.

“Will you not take my advice and get back to England at once?” she asked very seriously, as she turned to me a few minutes later. “I have suggested this in your own interests.”

“But why should I go in fear of this unknown enemy?” I asked. “What harm have I done? Why should any one be my bitter enemy?”

“Ah, how do I know?” she cried in despair. “We all of us have enemies where we least suspect them. Sometimes the very friend we trust most implicitly reveals himself as our worst antagonist. Truly one should always pause and ponder deeply before making a friend.”

“You are perfectly right,” I remarked. “A fierce enemy is always better than a false friend. Yet I would dearly like to know what I have done to merit antagonism. Where has your father gone?”

“To Brescia, I believe—to meet his friends.”

“Who are they?”

“His business friends. I only know them very slightly; they are interested in mining properties. They meet at intervals. The last time he met them was in Stockholm a month ago.”

This struck me as curious. Why should he meet his business friends so clandestinely—why should they come at night in a car to cross-roads?

But I told her nothing of what I had witnessed. I decided to keep my knowledge to myself.

“The boat leaves at two o’clock,” she said, after a pause, her hand upon her breast as though to stay the wild beating of her heart. “Will you not take my advice and leave by that? Go to Milan, and then straight on to England,” she urged in deep earnestness, her big, wide-open eyes fixed earnestly upon mine.

“No, Miss Pennington,” I replied promptly; “the fact is, I do not feel disposed to leave here just at present. I prefer to remain—and to take the risk, whatever it may be.”

“But why?” she cried, for we were standing at the end of the terrace, and out of hearing.

“Because you are in need of a friend—because you have admitted that you, too, are in peril. Therefore I have decided to remain near you.”

“No,” she cried breathlessly. “Ah! you do not know the great risk you are running! You must go—do go, Mr. Biddulph—go, for—for my sake!”

I shook my head.

“I have no fear of myself,” I declared. “I am anxious on your behalf.”

“Have no thought of me,” she cried. “Leave, and return to England.”

“And see you no more—eh?”

“If you will leave to-day, I—I will see you in England—perhaps.”

“Perhaps!” I cried. “That is not a firm promise.”

“Then, if you really wish,” she replied in earnestness, “I will promise. I’ll promise anything. I’ll promise to see you in England—when the danger has passed, if—if disaster has not already fallen upon me,” she added in a hoarse whisper.

“But my place is here—near you,” I declared. “To fly from danger would be cowardly. I cannot leave you.”

“No,” she urged, her pale face hard and anxious. “Go, Mr. Biddulph; go and save yourself. Then, if you so desire, we shall meet again in secret—in England.”

“And that is an actual promise?” I asked, holding forth my hand.

“Yes,” she answered, taking it eagerly. “It is a real promise. Give me your address, and very soon I shall be in London to resume our acquaintanceship—but, remember, not our friendship. That must never be—never!”

CHAPTER FOUR

Through the rather narrow carpeted hall I passed into the study which lay behind the dining-room, a small, cosy apartment—the acme of comfort. I, as a bachelor, hated the big terra-cotta-and-white drawing-room upstairs. When there, I made the study my own den.

I had an important letter to write, but scarcely had I seated myself at the table when old Browning, grave, grey-faced and solemn, entered, saying—

“A clergyman called to see you about three o’clock, sir. He asked if you were at home. When I replied that you were at the club, he became rather inquisitive concerning your affairs, and asked me quite a lot of questions as to where you had been lately, and who you were. I was rather annoyed, sir, and I’m afraid I may have spoken rudely. But as he would leave no card, I felt justified in refusing to answer his inquiries.”

“Quite right, Browning,” I replied. “But what kind of a man was he? Describe him.”

“Well, sir, he was rather tall, of middle age, thin-faced and drawn, as though he had seen a lot of trouble. He spoke with a pronounced drawl, and his clerical coat was somewhat shabby. I noticed, too, sir, that he wore a black leather watch-guard.”

That last sentence at once revealed my visitor’s identity. It was the Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth! But why had he returned so suddenly from Riva? And why was he making secret inquiry concerning myself?

“I think I know the gentleman, Browning,” I replied, while the faithful old fellow stood, a quaint, stout figure in a rather tight-fitting coat and grey trousers, his white-whiskered face full of mystery. I fancy Browning viewed me with considerable suspicion. In his eyes, “young Mr. Owen” had always been far too erratic. On many occasions in my boyhood days he had expressed to my father his strong disapproval of what he termed “Master Owen’s carryings-on.”

“If he should call again, tell him that I have a very great desire to renew our acquaintance. I met him abroad,” I said.

“Very well, sir,” replied my man. “But I don’t suppose he will call again, sir. I was rude to him.”

“Your rudeness was perfectly justifiable, Browning. Please refuse to answer any questions concerning me.”

“I know my duty, sir,” was the old man’s stiff reply, “and I hope I shall always perform it.”

And he retired, closing the door silently behind him.

With my elbows upon the table, I sat thinking deeply.

Had I not acted like a fool? Those strange words, and that curious promise of Sylvia Pennington sounded ever in my ears. She had succeeded in inducing me to return home by promising to meet me clandestinely in England. Why clandestinely?

Before me every moment that I now lived arose that pale, beautiful face—that exquisite countenance with the wonderful eyes—that face which had held me in fascination, that woman who, indeed, held me now for life or death.

In those ten days which had passed, the first days of my home-coming after my long absence, I knew, by the blankness of our separation—though I would not admit it to myself—that she was my affinity. I was hers. She, the elegant little wanderer, possessed me, body and soul. I felt for her a strong affection, and affection is the half-and-half of love.

Why had her friend, that thin-faced country clergyman, called? Evidently he was endeavouring to satisfy himself as to my bona fides. And yet, for what reason? What had I to do with him? She had told me that she owed very much to that man. Why, however, should he interest himself in me?

I took down a big black volume from the shelf—Crockford’s Clerical Directory—and from it learned that Edmund Charles Talbot Shuttleworth, M.A., was rector of the parish of Middleton-cum-Bowbridge, near Andover, in the Bishopric of Winchester. He had held his living for the past eight years, and its value was £550 per annum. He had had a distinguished career at Cambridge, and had been curate in half-a-dozen places in various parts of the country.

I felt half inclined to run down to Middleton and call upon him. I could make some excuse or other, for I felt that he might, perhaps, give me some further information regarding the mysterious Pennington and his daughter.

Yet, on further reflection, I hesitated, for I saw that by acting thus I might incur Sylvia’s displeasure.

During the three following days I remained much puzzled. I deeply regretted that Browning had treated the country parson abruptly, and wondered whether I could not make excuse to call by pretending to express regret for the rudeness of my servant.

I was all eagerness to know something concerning this man Pennington, and was prepared even to sink my own pride in order to learn it.

Jack Marlowe was away in Copenhagen, and would not return for a week. In London I had many friends, but there were few who interested me, for I was ever thinking of Sylvia—of her only and always.

At last, one morning I made up my mind, and, leaving Waterloo, travelled down to Andover Junction, where I hired a trap, and, after driving through the little old-fashioned town out upon the dusty London Road for a couple of miles or so, I came to the long straggling village of Middleton, at the further end of which stood the ancient little church, and near it the comfortable old-world rectory.

Entering the gateway, I found myself in pretty, well-wooded and well-kept grounds; the house itself, long, low, and covered with trailing roses, was a typical English country rectory. Beyond that lay a paddock, while in the distance the beautiful Harewood Forest showed away upon the skyline.

Yes, Mr. Shuttleworth was at home, the neat maid told me, and I was ushered into a long old-fashioned study, the French windows of which opened out upon a well-rolled tennis-lawn.

The place smelt of tobacco-smoke. Upon the table lay a couple of well-seasoned briars, and on the wall an escutcheon bearing its owner’s college arms. Crossed above the window was a pair of rowing-sculls, and these, with a pair of fencing-foils in close proximity, told mutely of long-past athletics. It was a quiet, book-lined den, an ideal retreat for a studious man.

As my eyes travelled around the room, they suddenly fell upon a photograph in a dark leather frame, the picture of a young girl of seventeen or so, with her hair dressed low and secured by a big black bow. I started at sight of it. It was the picture of Sylvia Pennington!

I crossed to look at it more closely, but as I did so the door opened, and I found myself face to face with the rector of Middleton.

He halted as he recognized me—halted for just a second in hesitation; then, putting out his hand, he welcomed me, saying in his habitual drawl—

“Mr. Biddulph, I believe?” and invited me to be seated.

“Ah!” I exclaimed, with a smile, “I see you recognize me, though we were only passers-by on the Lake of Garda! I must apologize for this intrusion, but, as a matter of fact, my servant Browning described a gentleman who called upon me a few days ago, and I at once recognized him to have been you. He was rather rude to you, I fear, and——”

“My dear fellow!” he interrupted, with a hearty, good-natured laugh. “He only did his duty as your servant. He objected to my infernal impertinence—and very rightly, too.”

“It was surely no impertinence to call upon me!” I exclaimed.

“Well, it’s all a question of one’s definition of impertinence,” he said. “I made certain inquiries—rather searching inquiries regarding you—that was all.”

“Why?” I asked.

He moved uneasily in his padded writing-chair, then reached over and placed a box of cigarettes before me. After we had both lit up, he answered in a rather low, changed voice—

“Well, I wanted to satisfy myself as to who you were, Mr. Biddulph,” he laughed. “Merely to gratify a natural curiosity.”

“That’s just it,” I said. “Why should your curiosity have been aroused concerning me? I do not think I have ever made a secret to any one regarding my name or my position, or anything else.”

“But you might have done, remember,” replied the thin-faced rector, looking at me calmly yet mysteriously with those straight grey eyes of his.

“I don’t follow you, Mr. Shuttleworth,” I said, much puzzled.

“Probably not,” was his response; “I had no intention to obtrude myself upon you. I merely called at Wilton Street in order to learn what I could, and I came away quite satisfied, even though your butler spoke so sharply.”

“But with what motive did you make your inquiries?” I demanded.

“Well, as a matter of fact, my motive was in your own interests, Mr. Biddulph,” he replied, as he thoughtfully contemplated the end of his cigarette. “This may sound strange to you, but the truth, could I but reveal it to you, would be found much stranger—a truth utterly incredible.”

“The truth of what?”

“The truth concerning a certain young lady in whom, I understand, you have evinced an unusual interest,” was his reply.

I could see that he was slightly embarrassed. I recollected how he had silently watched us on that memorable night by the moonlit lake, and a feeling of resentment arose within me.

“Yes,” I said anxiously next moment, “I am here to learn the truth concerning Miss Pennington. Tell me about her. She has explained to me that you are her friend—and I see, yonder, you have her photograph.”

“It is true,” he said very slowly, in a low, earnest voice, “quite true, Son—er, Sylvia—is my friend,” and he coughed quickly to conceal the slip in the name.

“Then tell me something about her, and her father. Who is he?” I urged. “At her request I left Gardone suddenly, and came home to England.”

“At her request!” he echoed in surprise. “Why did she send you away from her side?”

I hesitated. Should I reveal to him the truth?

“She declared that it was better for us to remain apart,” I said.

“Yes,” he sighed. “And she spoke the truth, Mr. Biddulph—the entire truth, remember.”

“Why? Do tell me what you know concerning the man Pennington.”

“I regret that I am not permitted to do that.”

“Why?”

For some moments he did not reply. He twisted his cigarette in his thin, nervous fingers, his gaze being fixed upon the lawn outside. At last, however, he turned to me, and in a low, rather strained tone said slowly—

“The minister of religion sometimes learns strange family secrets, but, as a servant of God, the confidences and confessions reposed in him must always be treated as absolutely sacred. Therefore,” he added, “please do not ask me again to betray my trust.”

His was, indeed, a stern rebuke. I saw that, in my eager enthusiasm, I had expected him to reveal a forbidden truth. Therefore I stammered an apology.

“No apology is needed,” was his grave reply, his keen eyes fixed upon me. “But I hope you will forgive me if I presume to give you, in your own interests, a piece of advice.”

“And what is that?”

“To keep yourself as far as possible from both Pennington and his daughter,” he responded slowly and distinctly, a strange expression upon his clean-shaven face.

“But why do you tell me this?” I cried, still much mystified. “Have you not told me that you are Sylvia’s friend?”

“I have told you this because it is my duty to warn those in whose path a pitfall is spread.”

“And is a pitfall spread in mine?”

“Yes,” replied the grave-faced, ascetic-looking rector, as he leaned forward to emphasize his words. “Before you, my dear sir, there lies an open grave. Behind it stands that girl yonder”—and he pointed with his lean finger to the framed photograph—“and if you attempt to reach her you must inevitably fall into the pit—that death-trap so cunningly prepared. Do not, I beg of you, attempt to approach the unattainable.”

I saw that he was in dead earnest.

“But why?” I demanded in my despair, for assuredly the enigma was increasing hourly. “Why are you not open and frank with me? I—I confess I——”

“You love her, eh?” he asked, looking at me quickly as he interrupted me. “Ah, yes,” he sighed, as a dark shadow overspread his thin, pale face, “I guessed as much—a fatal love. You are young and enthusiastic, and her pretty face, her sweet voice and her soft eyes have fascinated you. How I wish, Mr. Biddulph, that I could reveal to you the ghastly, horrible truth. Though I am your friend—and hers, yet I must, alas! remain silent! The inviolable seal of The Confessional is upon my lips!”

CHAPTER FIVE

May lengthened into June, with its usual society functions and all the wild gaiety of the London season. The Derby passed and Ascot came, the Park was full every day, theatres and clubs were crowded, and the hotels overflowed with Americans and country cousins. I had many invitations, but accepted few. Somehow, my careless cosmopolitanism had left me. I had become a changed man.

And if I were to believe the woman who had come so strangely and so suddenly into my life, I was a marked man also.

Disturbing thoughts often arose within me in the silence of the night, but, laughing at them, I crushed them down. What had I possibly to fear? I had no enemy that I was aware of. The whole suggestion seemed so utterly absurd and far-fetched.

Jack Marlowe came back from Denmark hale and hearty, and more than once I was sorely tempted to explain to him the whole situation. Only I feared he would jeer at me as a love-sick idiot.

What was the secret held by that grey-faced country parson? Whatever it might be, it was no ordinary one. He had spoken of the seal of The Confessional. What sin had Sylvia Pennington confessed to him?

Day after day, as I sat in my den at Wilton Street smoking moodily and thinking, I tried vainly to imagine what cardinal sin she could have committed. My sole thoughts were of her, and my all-consuming eagerness was to meet her again.

On the night of the twentieth of June—I remember the date well because the Gold Cup had been run that afternoon—I had come in from supper at the Ritz about a quarter to one, and retired to bed. I suppose I must have turned in about half-an-hour, when the telephone at my bedside rang, and I answered.

“Hulloa!” asked a voice. “Is that you, Owen?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Jack speaking—Jack Marlowe,” exclaimed the distant voice. “Is that you, Owen? Your voice sounds different.”

“So does yours, a bit,” I said. “Voices often do on the ’phone. Where are you?”

“I’m out in Bayswater—Althorp House, Porchester Terrace,” my friend replied. “I’m in a bit of a tight corner. Can you come here? I’m so sorry to trouble you, old man. I wouldn’t ask you to turn out at this hour if it weren’t imperative.”

“Certainly I’ll come,” I said, my curiosity at once aroused. “But what’s up?”

“Oh, nothing very alarming,” he laughed. “Nothing to worry over. I’ve been playing cards, and lost a bit, that’s all. Bring your cheque-book; I want to pay up before I leave. You understand. I know you’ll help me, like the good pal you always are.”

“Why, of course I will, old man,” was my prompt reply.

“I’ve got to pay up my debts for the whole week—nearly a thousand. Been infernally unlucky. Never had such vile luck. Have you got it in the bank? I can pay you all right at the end of next week.”

“Yes,” I said, “I can let you have it.”

“These people know you, and they’ll take your cheque, they say.”

“Right-ho!” I said; “I’ll get a taxi and be up with you in half-an-hour.”

“You’re a real good pal, Owen. Remember the address: Althorp House, Porchester Terrace,” cried my friend cheerily. “Get here as soon as you can, as I want to get home. So-long.”

And, after promising to hurry, I hung up the receiver again.

Dear old Jack always was a bit reckless. He had a good income allowed him by his father, but was just a little too fond of games of chance. He had been hard hit in February down at Monte Carlo, and I had lent him a few hundreds to tide him over. Yet, by his remarks over the ’phone, I could only gather that he had fallen into the hands of sharpers, who held him up until he paid—no uncommon thing in London. Card-sharpers are generally blackmailers as well, and no doubt these people were bleeding poor Jack to a very considerable tune.

I rose, dressed, and, placing my revolver in my hip pocket in case of trouble, walked towards Victoria Station, where I found a belated taxi.

Within half-an-hour I alighted before a large dark house about half-way up Porchester Terrace, Bayswater, standing back from the road, with small garden in front; a house with closely-shuttered windows, the only light showing being that in the fanlight over the door.

My approaching taxi was being watched for, I suppose, for as I crossed the gravel the door fell back, and a smart, middle-aged man-servant admitted me.

“I want to see Mr. Marlowe,” I said.

“Are you Mr. Biddulph?” he inquired, eyeing me with some suspicion.

I replied in the affirmative, whereupon he invited me to step upstairs, while I followed him up the wide, well-carpeted staircase and along a corridor on the first floor into a small sitting-room at the rear of the house.

“Mr. Marlowe will be here in a few moments, sir,” he said; “he left a message asking you to wait. He and Mr. Forbes have just gone across the road to a friend’s house. I’ll send over and tell him you are here, if you’ll kindly take a seat.”

The room was small, fairly well furnished, but old-fashioned, and lit by an oil-lamp upon the table. The air was heavy with tobacco-smoke, and near the window was a card-table whereat four players had been seated. The cigar-ash bore testimony to recent occupation of the four chairs, while two packs of cards had been flung down just as the men had risen.

The window was hidden by long curtains of heavy moss-green plush, while in one corner of the room, upon a black marble pedestal, stood a beautiful sculptured statuette of a girl, her hands uplifted together above her head in the act of diving. I examined the exquisite work of art, and saw upon its brass plate the name of an eminent French sculptor.

The carpet, of a peculiar shade of red which contrasted well with the dead-white enamelled walls, was soft to the tread, so that my footsteps fell noiselessly as I moved.

Beside the fireplace was a big inviting saddle-bag chair, into which I presently sank, awaiting Jack.

Who were his friends, I wondered?

The house seemed silent as the grave. I listened for Jack’s footsteps, but could hear nothing.

I was hoping that the loss of nearly a thousand pounds would cure my friend of his gambling propensities. Myself, I had never experienced a desire to gamble. A sovereign or so on a race was the extent of my adventures.

The table, the cards, the tantalus-stand and the empty glasses told their own tale. I was sorry, truly sorry, that Jack should mix with such people—professional gamblers, without a doubt.

Every man-about-town in London knows what a crowd of professional players and blackmailers infest the big hotels, on the look-out for pigeons to pluck. The American bars of London each have their little circle of well-dressed sharks, and woe betide the victims who fall into their unscrupulous hands. I had believed Jack Marlowe to be more wary. He was essentially a man of the world, and had always laughed at the idea that he could be “had” by sharpers, or induced to play with strangers.

I think I must have waited for about a quarter of an hour. As I sat there, I felt overcome by a curious drowsiness, due, no doubt, to the strenuous day I had had, for I had driven down to Ascot in the car, and had gone very tired to bed.

Suddenly, without a sound, the door opened, and a youngish, dark-haired, clean-shaven man in evening dress entered swiftly, accompanied by another man a few years older, tall and thin, whose nose and pimply face was that of a person much dissipated. Both were smoking cigars.

“You are Mr. Biddulph, I believe!” exclaimed the younger. “Marlowe expects you. He’s over the road, talking to the girl.”

“What girl?”

“Oh, a little girl who lives over there,” he said, with a mysterious smile. “But have you brought the cheque?” he asked. “He told us that you’d settle up with us.”

“Yes,” I said, “I have my cheque-book in my pocket.”

“Then perhaps you’ll write it?” he said, taking a pen-and-ink and blotter from a side-table and placing it upon the card-table. “The amount altogether is one thousand one hundred and ten pounds,” he remarked, consulting an envelope he took from his pocket.

“I shall give you a cheque for it when my friend comes,” I said.

“Yes, but we don’t want to be here all night, you know,” laughed the pimply-faced man. “You may as well draw it now, and hand it over to us when he comes in.”

“How long is he likely to be?”

“How can we tell? He’s a bit gone on her.”

“Who is she?”

“Oh! a little girl my friend Reckitt here knows,” interrupted the younger man. “Rather pretty. Reckitt is a fair judge of good looks. Have a cigarette?” and the man offered me a cigarette, which, out of common courtesy, I was bound to take from his gold case.

I sat back in my chair and lit up, and as I did so my ears caught the faint sound of a receding motor-car.

“Aren’t you going to draw the cheque?” asked the man with the pimply face. “Marlowe said you would settle at once; Charles Reckitt is my name. Make it out to me.”

“And so I will, as soon as he arrives,” I replied.

“Why not now? We’ll give you a receipt.”

“I don’t know at what amount he acknowledges the debt,” I pointed out.

“But we’ve told you, haven’t we? One thousand one hundred and ten pounds.”

“That’s according to your reckoning. He may add up differently, you know,” I said, with a doubtful smile.

“You mean that you doubt us, eh?” asked Reckitt a trifle angrily.

“Not in the least,” I assured him, with a smile. “If the game is fair, then the loss is fair also. A good sportsman like my friend never objects to pay what he has lost.”

“But you evidently object to pay for him, eh?” he sneered.

“I do not,” I protested. “If it were double the amount I would pay it. Only I first want to know what he actually owes.”

“That he’ll tell you when he returns. Yet I can’t see why you should object to make out the cheque now, and hand it to us on his arrival. I’ll prepare the receipt, at any rate. I, for one, want to get off to bed.”

And the speaker sat down in one of the chairs at the card-table, and wrote out a receipt for the amount, signing it “Charles Reckitt” across the stamp he stuck upon it.

Then presently he rose impatiently, and, crossing the room, exclaimed—

“How long are we to be humbugged like this? I’ve got to get out to Croydon—and it’s late. Come on, Forbes. Let’s go over and dig Marlowe out, eh?”

So the pair left the room, promising to return with Jack in a few minutes, and closed the door after them.

When they had gone, I sat for a moment reflecting. I did not like the look of either of them. Their faces were distinctly sinister and their manner overbearing. I felt that the sooner I left that silent house the better.

So, crossing to the table, I drew out my cheque-book, and hastily wrote an open cheque, payable to “Charles Reckitt,” for one thousand one hundred and ten pounds. I did so in order that I should have it in readiness on Jack’s return—in order that we might get away quickly.

Whatever possessed my friend to mix with such people as those I could not imagine.

A few moments later, I had already put the cheque back into my breast-pocket, and was re-seated in the arm-chair, when of a sudden, and apparently of its own accord, the chair gave way, the two arms closing over my knees in such a manner that I was tightly held there.

It happened in a flash. So quickly did it collapse that, for a moment, I was startled, for the chair having tipped back, I had lost my balance, my head being lower than my legs.

And at that instant, struggling in such an undignified position and unable to extricate myself, the chair having closed upon me, the door suddenly opened, and the man Reckitt, with his companion Forbes, re-entered the room.