Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

“Let it be so,” I responded in quiet defiance. “I will never forsake the woman I love. Frankly, I suspect a hidden motive in this suggestion of yours; therefore I refuse to accept it.”

“Not to save your own life?”

“Not even to save my life. This is surely my own affair.”

“And hers.”

“I shall protect Sylvia, never fear. I am not afraid. Let our enemies betray their presence by sign or word, and I will set myself out to combat them. They have already those crimes in Bayswater to account for. And they will take a good deal of explaining away.”

“Then you really intend to reveal the secret of that house in Porchester Terrace?” he asked, not without some apprehension.

“My enemies, you say, intend to plot and encompass my death. Good! Then I shall take my own means of vindication. Naturally I am a quiet, law-abiding man. But if any enemy rises against me without cause, then I strike out with a sledgehammer.”

“You are hopeless,” he declared.

“I am, where my love is concerned,” I admitted. “Sylvia has promised to-day that she will become my wife. The future is surely our own affair, Mr. Shuttleworth—not yours!”

“And if her father forbids?” he asked quite quietly, his eyes fixed straight upon my well-beloved.

“Let me meet him face to face,” I said in defiance. “He will not interfere after I have spoken,” I added, with confidence. “I, perhaps, know more than you believe concerning him.”

Sylvia started, staring at me, her face blanched in an instant. The scene was tragic and painful.

“What do you know?” she asked breathlessly.

“Nothing, dearest, which will interfere with our love,” I reassured her. “Your father’s affairs are not yours, and for his doings you cannot be held responsible.”

She exchanged a quick glance with Shuttleworth, I noticed.

Then it seemed as though a great weight were lifted from her mind by my words, for, turning to me, she smiled sweetly, saying—

“Ah! how can I thank you sufficiently? I am helpless and defenceless. If I only dared, I could tell you a strange story—for surely mine is as strange as any ever printed in the pages of fiction. But Mr. Shuttleworth will not permit it.”

“You may speak—if you deem it wise,” exclaimed the rector in a strangely altered voice. He seemed much annoyed at my open defiance. “Mr. Biddulph may as well, perhaps, know the truth at first as at last.”

“The truth!” I echoed. “Yes, tell me the truth,” I begged her.

“No,” she cried wildly, again covering her fair face with her hands. “No—forgive me. I can’t—I can’t!”

“No,” remarked Shuttleworth in a strange, hard, reproachful tone, and with a cruel, cynical smile upon his lips. “You cannot—for it is too hideous—too disgraceful—too utterly scandalous! It is for that reason I forbid you to love!”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Father is so erratic in his movements that he probably never went to Edinburgh, after all. I have not heard from him now for a full week.”

I somehow felt, why, I cannot well explain, that she was rather disinclined to allow me to communicate with Pennington. Did she fear that he might forbid our marriage?

Without seeing him or obtaining his consent, I confess I did not feel absolute security. The mystery surrounding her was such a curious and complicated one that the deeper I probed into it, the more complex did it appear.

Some few days later, in reply to my question, she said that she had heard from her father, who was at the Midland Grand Hotel in Manchester. He would not, however, be in London for two or three weeks, as he was about to leave in two days’ time, by way of Hook of Holland, for Berlin, where he had business.

Therefore, early the following morning, I took train to Manchester, and made inquiry at the big hotel.

“We have no gentleman of that name here, sir,” replied the smart reception clerk, referring to his list. “He hasn’t arrived yet, I expect. A lady was asking for a Mr. Pennington yesterday—a French lady.”

“You don’t know the name, then?”

He replied in the negative.

“No doubt he is expected, if the lady called to see him?”

“No doubt, sir. Perhaps he’ll be here to-day.”

And with that, I was compelled to turn disappointed away. I wandered into the restaurant, and there ate my lunch alone. The place was crowded, as it always is, mostly by people interested in cotton and its products, for it is, perhaps, one of the most cosmopolitan hotels in the whole kingdom. Sick of the chatter and clatter of the place, I paid my bill and passed out into the big smoking-lounge to take my coffee and liqueur and idle over the newspaper.

I was not quite certain whether to remain there the night and watch for Pennington’s arrival, or to return to London. As a matter of fact, so certain had I been of finding him that I had not brought a suit-case.

I suppose I had been in the lounge half-an-hour or so, when I looked up, and then, to my surprise, saw Pennington, smartly dressed, and looking very spruce for his years, crossing from the bureau with a number of letters in his hand. It was apparent that he had just received them from the mail-clerk.

And yet I had been told that he was not staying there!

I held my paper in such position as to conceal my face while I watched his movements.

He halted, opened a telegram, and read it eagerly. Then, crushing it in his hand with a gesture of annoyance, he thrust it into his jacket pocket.

He was dressed in a smart dark grey suit, which fitted him perfectly, a grey soft felt hat, while his easy manner and bearing were those of a gentleman of wealth and leisure. He held a cigar between his fingers, and, walking slowly as he opened one of the letters, he presently threw himself into one of the big arm-chairs near me, and became absorbed in his correspondence.

There was a waste-paper basket near, and into this he tossed something as valueless. One of the letters evidently caused him considerable annoyance, for, removing his hat, he passed his hand slowly over his bald head as he sat staring at it in mystification. Then he rang the bell, and ordered something from a waiter. A liqueur of brandy was brought, and, tossing it off at a gulp, he rose, wrote a telegram at the table near him, and went quickly out.

After he had gone I also rose, and, without attracting attention, crossed, took up another paper, and then seated myself in the chair he had vacated.

My eye was upon the waste-paper basket, and when no one was looking I reached out and took therefrom a crumpled blue envelope—the paper he had flung away.

Smoothing it out, I found that it was not addressed to him, but to “Arnold Du Cane, Esq., Travellers’ Club, Paris,” and had been re-directed to this hotel.

This surprised me.

I rose, and, crossing to the mail-clerk, asked—

“You gave some letters and a telegram to a rather short gentleman in grey a few minutes ago. Was that Mr. Du Cane?”

“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “He went across yonder into the lounge.”

“You know him—eh?”

“Oh yes, sir. He’s often been here. Not lately. At one time, however, he was a frequent visitor.”

And so Sylvia’s father was living there under the assumed name of Arnold Du Cane!

For business purposes names are often assumed, of course. But Pennington’s business was such a mysterious one that, even against my will, I became filled with suspicion.

I resolved to wait and catch him on his return. He had probably only gone to the telegraph office. Had Sylvia wilfully concealed the fact that her father travelled under the name of Du Cane, in order that I should not meet him? Surely there could be no reason why she should have done so.

Therefore I returned to a chair near the entrance to the smoking-lounge, and waited in patience.

My vigil was not a long one, for after ten minutes or so he re-entered, spruce and gay, and cast a quick glance around, as though in search of somebody.

I rose from my chair, and as I did so saw that he regarded me strangely, as though half conscious of having met me somewhere before.

Walking straight up to him, I said—

“I believe, sir, that you are Mr. Pennington?”

He looked at me strangely, and I fancied that he started at mention of the name.

“Well, sir,” was his calm reply, “I have not the pleasure of knowing you.” I noted that he neither admitted that he was Pennington, nor did he deny it.

“We met some little time ago on the Lake of Garda,” I said. “I, unfortunately, did not get the chance of a chat with you then. You left suddenly. Don’t you recollect that I sat alone opposite you in the restaurant of the Grand at Gardone?”

“Oh yes!” he laughed. “How very foolish of me! Forgive me. I thought I recognized you, and yet couldn’t, for the life of me, recall where we had met. How are you?” and he put out his hand and shook mine warmly. “Let’s sit down. Have a drink, Mr.—er. I haven’t the pleasure of your name.”

“Biddulph,” I said. “Owen Biddulph.”

“Well, Mr. Biddulph,” he said in a cheery way, “I’m very glad you recognized me. I’m a very bad hand at recollecting people, I fear. Perhaps I meet so many.” And then he gave the waiter an order for some refreshment. “Since I was at Gardone I’ve been about a great deal—to Cairo, Bucharest, Odessa, and other places. I’m always travelling, you know.”

“And your daughter has remained at home—with Mr. Shuttleworth, near Andover,” I remarked.

He started perceptibly at my words.

“Ah! of course. The girl was with me at Gardone. You met her there, perhaps—eh?”

I replied in the affirmative. It, however, struck me as strange that he should refer to her as “the girl.” Surely that was the term used by one of his strange motoring friends when he kept that midnight appointment on the Brescia road.

“I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Sylvia,” I went on. “And more, we have become very firm friends.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, opening his eyes widely. “I’m delighted to hear it.”

Though his manner was so open and breezy, I yet somehow detected a curious sinister expression in his glance. He did not seem exactly at his ease in my presence.

“The fact is, Mr. Pennington,” I said, after we had been chatting for some time, “I have been wanting to meet you for some weeks past. I have something to say to you.”

“Oh! What’s that?” he asked, regarding me with some surprise. “I suppose Sylvia told you that I was in Manchester, and you came here to see me—eh? This was not a chance meeting—was it?”

“Not exactly,” I admitted. “I came here from London expressly to have a chat with you—a confidential chat.”

His expression altered slightly, I thought.

“Well?” he asked, twisting his cigar thoughtfully in his fingers. “Speak; I’m listening.”

For a second I hesitated. Then, in a blundering way, blurted forth—

“The fact is, Mr. Pennington, I love Sylvia! She has promised to become my wife, and I am here to beg your consent.”

He half rose from his chair, staring at me in blank amazement.

“What?” he cried. “Sylvia loves you—a perfect stranger?”

“She does,” was my calm response. “And though I may be a stranger to you, Mr. Pennington, I hope it may not be for long. I am not without means, and I am in a position to maintain your daughter properly, as the wife of a country gentleman.”

He was silent for a few moments, his brows knit thoughtfully, his eyes upon the fine ring upon his well-manicured hand.

“What is your income?” he asked quite bluntly, raising his keen eyes to mine.

I told him, giving him a few details concerning my parentage and my possessions.

“And what would you be prepared to settle on my daughter, providing I gave my consent? Have you thought of that matter?”

I confessed that I had not, but that I would be ready, if she so desired, to settle upon her twenty thousand pounds.

“And that wouldn’t cripple you—eh?”

“No, I’m pleased to say it would not. I have kept my inheritance practically intact,” I added.

“Well, I must first hear what Sylvia has to say,” he said; then he added airily, “I suppose you would make over the greater part of your estate to her, in case of your death? And there are life assurances, of course? One never knows what may happen, you know. Pardon me for speaking thus frankly. As a father, however, it is my duty to see that my daughter’s future is safeguarded.”

“I quite understand all that,” I replied, with a smile. “Of course, Sylvia would inherit all I could legally bequeath to her, and as for life assurances, I would insure myself for what sum you suggest.”

“You are young,” he said. “Insure for ten thousand. The premiums would be not so very heavy.”

“As you wish,” I replied. “If I carry out your desires, I understand that I have your consent to pay my attentions to Sylvia?”

“If what you tell me proves, on inquiry, to be the truth, Mr. Biddulph, I shall have the greatest pleasure in welcoming you as my son-in-law. I can’t say more,” he replied. “Here’s my hand,” and as I took his, he gripped me heartily. “I confess I like you now,” he added, “and I feel sure I shall like you more when I know more concerning you.”

Then he added, with a laugh—

“Oh, by the way, I’m not known here as Pennington, but as Du Cane. The fact is, I had some unfortunate litigation some time ago, which led to bankruptcy, and so, for business reasons, I’m Arnold Du Cane. You’ll understand, won’t you?” he laughed.

“Entirely,” I replied, overjoyed at receiving Pennington’s consent. “When shall we meet in London?”

“I’ll be back on the 10th—that’s sixteen days from now,” he replied. “I have to go to Brussels, and on to Riga. Tell Sylvia and dear old Shuttleworth you’ve seen me. Give them both my love. We shall meet down at Middleton, most certainly.”

And so for a long time we chatted on, finishing our cigars, I replying to many questions he put to me relative to my financial and social position—questions which were most natural in the circumstances of our proposed relationship.

But while we were talking a rather curious incident arrested my attention. Pennington was sitting with his back to the door of the lounge, when, among those who came and went, was a rather stout foreigner of middle age, dressed quietly in black, wearing a gold pince-nez, and having the appearance of a French business man.

He had entered the lounge leisurely, when, suddenly catching sight of Sylvia’s father, he drew back and made a hurried exit, apparently anxious to escape the observation of us both.

So occupied was my mind with my own affairs that the occurrence completely passed from me until that same night, when, at ten o’clock, on descending the steps of White’s and proceeding to walk down St. James’s Street in the direction of home, I suddenly heard footsteps behind me, and, turning, found, to my dismay, the Frenchman from Manchester quietly walking in the same direction.

This greatly mystified me. The broad-faced foreigner in gold pince-nez, evidently in ignorance that I had seen him in Manchester, must have travelled up to London by the same train as myself, and must have remained watching outside White’s for an hour or more!

Why had the stranger so suddenly become interested in me?

Was yet another attempt to be made upon me, as Shuttleworth had so mysteriously predicted?

I was determined to show a bold front and defy my enemies; therefore, when I had crossed Pall Mall against St. James’s Palace, I suddenly faced about, and, meeting the stranger full tilt, addressed him before he could escape.

Next moment, alas! I knew that I had acted injudiciously.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“I certainly do not deny that,” he said, with a smile. “I have known Monsieur Penning-ton for some years. It is true that I saw him at the Midland.”

“And you withdrew in order to escape his observation—eh?”

“Monsieur has quick eyes,” he said. “Yes, that is quite true.”

“Why?”

“For reasons of my own.”

“And you deny having followed me here?”

He hesitated for a second, looking straight into my face in the darkness.

“Come,” I said, “you may as well admit that you followed me from Manchester.”

“Why should I admit what is not the truth?” he asked. “What motive could I have to follow you—a perfect stranger?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m a bit suspicious,” I declared, still speaking in French. “Of late there was a desperate attempt upon my life.”

“By whom?” he inquired quickly. “Please tell me, Monsieur Biddulph; I am greatly interested in this.”

“Then you know my name?” I exclaimed, surprised.

“Certainly.”

“Why are you interested in me?”

“I may now have a motive,” was his calm yet mysterious reply. “Tell me in what manner an attempt has been made upon you?”

At first I hesitated, then, after a second’s reflection, I explained the situation in a few words.

“Ah! Of course, I quite see that monsieur’s mind must be filled by suspicion,” he responded; “yet I regret if I have been the cause of any annoyance. By the way, how long have you known Monsieur Penning-ton?”

“Oh, some months,” I replied. “The fact is, I’m engaged to his daughter.”

“His daughter!” echoed the Frenchman, looking at me quickly with a searching glance. Then he gave vent to a low grunt, and stroked his grey pointed beard.

“And it was after this engagement that the attempt was made upon you—eh?” he inquired.

“No, before.”

The foreigner remained silent for a few moments. He seemed considerably puzzled. I could not make him out. The fact that he was acquainted with my name showed that he was unduly interested in me, even though he had partially denied it.

“Why do you ask this?” I demanded, as we still stood together at the bottom of St. James’s Street.

“Ah, nothing,” he laughed. “But—well, I really fear I’ve aroused your suspicions unduly. Perhaps it is not so very extraordinary, after all, that in these days of rapid communication two men should catch sight of each other in a Manchester hotel, and, later on, meet in a street in London—eh?”

“I regard the coincidence as a strange one, monsieur,” I replied stiffly, “if it is really an actual coincidence.”

For aught I knew, the fellow might be a friend of Pennington, or an accomplice of those rascally assassins. Had I not been warned by Shuttleworth, and also by Sylvia herself, of another secret attempt upon my life?

I was wary now, and full of suspicion.

Instinctively I did not like this mysterious foreigner. The way in which he had first caught sight of my face as I descended the steps of White’s, and how he had glided after me down St. James’s Street, was not calculated to inspire confidence.

He asked permission to walk at my side along the Mall, which I rather reluctantly granted. It seemed that, now I had addressed him, I could not shake him off. Without doubt his intention was to watch, and see where I lived. Therefore, instead of going in the direction of Buckingham Palace, I turned back eastward towards the steps at the foot of the Duke of York’s Column.

As we strolled in the darkness along the front of Carlton House Terrace he chatted affably with me, then said suddenly—

“Do you know, Monsieur Biddulph, we met once before—in rather strange circumstances. You did not, however, see me. It was in Paris, some little time ago. You were staying at the Grand Hotel, and became acquainted with a certain American named Harriman.”

“Harriman!” I echoed, with a start, for that man’s name brought back to me an episode I would fain forget. The fact is, I had trusted him, and I had believed him to be an honest man engaged in big financial transactions, until I discovered the truth. My friendship with him cost me nearly one thousand eight hundred pounds.

“Harriman was very smart, was he not?” laughed my friend, with a touch of sarcasm.

Could it be, I wondered, that this Frenchman was a friend of the shrewd and unscrupulous New Yorker?

“Yes,” I replied rather faintly.

“Sharp—until found out,” went on the stranger, speaking in French. “His real name is Bell, and he——”

“Yes, I know; he was arrested for fraud in my presence as he came down the staircase in the hotel,” I interrupted.

“He was arrested upon a much more serious charge,” exclaimed the stranger. “He was certainly wanted in Berlin and Hanover for frauds in connection with an invention, but the most serious charge against him was one of murder.”

“Murder!” I gasped. “I never knew that!”

“Yes—the murder of a young English statesman named Ronald Burke at a villa near Nice. Surely you read reports of the trial?”

I confessed that I had not done so.

“Well, it was proved conclusively that he was a member of a very dangerous gang of criminals who for several years had committed some of the most clever and audacious thefts. The organization consisted of over thirty men and women, of varying ages, all of them expert jewel thieves, safe-breakers, or card-sharpers. Twice each year this interesting company held meetings—at which every member was present—and at such meetings certain members were allotted certain districts, or certain profitable pieces of business. Thus, if half-a-dozen were to-day operating in London as thieves or receivers, they would change, and in a week would be operating in St. Petersburg, while those from Russia would be here. So cleverly was the band organized that it was practically impossible for the police to make arrests. It was a more widespread and wealthy criminal organization than has ever before been unearthed. But the arrest of your friend Harriman, alias Bell, on a charge of murder was the means of exposing the conspiracy, and the ultimate breaking up of the gang.”

“And what of Bell?”

“He narrowly escaped the guillotine, and is now imprisoned for life at Devil’s Island.”

“And you saw him with me at Paris?” I remarked, in wonder at this strange revelation. “He certainly never struck me as an assassin. He was a shrewd man—a swindler, no doubt, but his humorous bearing and his good-nature were entirely opposed to the belief that his was a sinister nature.”

“Yet it was proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that he and another man killed and robbed a young Englishman named Burke,” responded the Frenchman. “Perhaps you, yourself, had a narrow escape. Who knows? It was no doubt lucky for you that he was arrested.”

“But I understood that the charge was one of fraud,” I said. “I intended to go to the trial, but I was called to Italy.”

“The charge of fraud was made in order not to alarm his accomplice,” replied the stranger.

“How do you know that?” I inquired.

“Well”—he hesitated—“that came out at the trial. There were full accounts of it in the Paris Matin.”

“I don’t care for reading Assize Court horrors,” I replied, still puzzled regarding my strange companion’s intimate knowledge concerning the man whose dramatic and sudden arrest had, on that memorable afternoon, so startled me.

“When I saw your face just now,” he said, “I recognized you as being at the Grand Hotel with Bell. Do you know,” he laughed, “you were such a close friend of the accused that you were suspected of being a member of the dangerous association! Indeed, you very narrowly escaped arrest on suspicion. It was only because the reception clerk in the hotel knew you well, and vouched for your respectability and that Biddulph was your real name. Yet, for a full week, you were watched closely by the sûreté.”

“And I was all unconscious of it!” I cried, realizing how narrowly I had escaped a very unpleasant time. “How do you know all this?” I asked.

But the Frenchman with the gold glasses and the big amethyst ring upon his finger merely laughed, and refused to satisfy me.

From him, however, I learned that the depredations of the formidable gang had been unequalled in the annals of crime. Many of the greatest jewel robberies in the European capitals in recent years had, it was now proved, been effected by them, as well as the theft of the Marchioness of Mottisfont’s jewels at Victoria Station, which were valued at eighteen thousand pounds, and were never recovered; the breaking open of the safe of Levi & Andrews, the well-known diamond-merchants of Hatton Garden, and the theft of a whole vanload of furs before a shop in New Bond Street, all of which are, no doubt, fresh within the memory of the reader of the daily newspapers.

Every single member of that remarkable association of thieves was an expert in his or her branch of dishonesty, while the common fund was a large one, hence members could disguise themselves as wealthy persons, if need be. One, when arrested, was found occupying a fine old castle in the Tyrol, he told me; another—an expert burglar—was a doctor in good practice at Hampstead; another kept a fine jeweller’s shop in Marseilles, while another, a lady, lived in style in a great château near Nevers.

“And who exposed them?” I asked, much interested. “Somebody must have betrayed them.”

“Somebody did betray them—by anonymous letters to the police—letters which were received at intervals at the Préfecture in Paris, and led to the arrest of one after another of the chief members of the gang. It seemed to have been done by some one irritated by Bell’s arrest. But the identity of the informant has never been ascertained. He deemed it best to remain hidden—for obvious reasons,” laughed my friend at my side.

“You seem to know a good many facts regarding the affair,” I said. “Have you no idea of the identity of the mysterious informant?”

“Well”—he hesitated—“I have a suspicion that it was some person associated with them—some one who became conscience-stricken. Ah! M’sieur Biddulph, if you only knew the marvellous cunning of that invulnerable gang. Had it not been for that informant, they would still be operating—in open defiance of the police of Europe. Criminal methods, if expert, only fail for want of funds. Are not some of our wealthiest financiers mere criminals who, by dealing in thousands, as other men deal in francs, conceal their criminal methods? Half your successful financiers are merely successful adventurers. The dossiers of some of them, preserved in the police bureaux, would be astounding reading to those who admire them and proclaim them the successful men of to-day—kings of finance they call them!”

“You are certainly something of a philosopher,” I laughed, compelled to admit the truth of his argument; “but tell me—how is it that you know so much concerning George Harriman, alias Bell, and his antecedents?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Yes, but I don’t believe it,” was my very frank reply. He had certainly explained that, but his manner was not earnest. I could see that he was only trifling with me, trifling in an easy, good-natured way.

“Bien!” he said; “and if I followed you, Monsieur Biddulph, I assert that it is with no sinister intent.”

“How do I know that?” I queried. “You are a stranger.”

“I admit that. But you are not a stranger to me, my dear monsieur.”

“Well, let us come to the point,” I said. “What do you want with me?”

“Nothing,” he laughed. “Was it not you yourself who addressed me?”

“But you followed me!” I cried. “You can’t deny that.”

“Monsieur may hold of me whatever opinion he pleases,” was Delanne’s polite reply. “I repeat my regrets, and I ask pardon.”

He spoke English remarkably well. But I recollected that the international thief—the man who is a cosmopolitan, and who commits theft in one country to-night, and is across the frontier in the morning—is always a perfect linguist. Harriman was. Though American, with all his nasal intonation and quaint Americanisms, he spoke half-a-dozen Continental languages quite fluently.

My bitter experiences of the past caused considerable doubt to arise within me. I had had warnings that my mysterious enemies would attack me secretly, by some subtle means. Was this Frenchman one of them?

He saw that I treated him with some suspicion, but it evidently amused him. His face beamed with good-nature.

At the bottom of the broad flight of stairs which lead up to the United Service Club and Pall Mall, I halted.

“Now look here, Monsieur Delanne,” I said, much puzzled and mystified by the man’s manner and the curious story he had related, “I have neither desire nor inclination for your company further. You understand?”

“Ah, monsieur, a thousand pardons,” cried the man, raising his hat and bowing with the elegance of the true Parisian. “I have simply spoken the truth. Did you not put to me questions which I have answered? You have said you are engaged to the daughter of my friend Penning-ton. That has interested me.”

“Why?”

“Because the daughter of my friend Penning-ton always interests me,” was his curious reply.

“Is that an intended sarcasm?” I asked resentfully.

“Not in the least, m’sieur,” he said quickly. “I have every admiration for the young lady.”

“Then you know her—eh?”

“By repute.”

“Why?”

“Well, her father was connected with one of the strangest and most extraordinary incidents in my life,” he said. “Even to-day, the mystery of it all has not been cleared up. I have tried, times without number, to elucidate it, but have always failed.”

“What part did Sylvia play in the affair, may I ask?”

“Really,” he replied, “I scarcely know. It was so utterly extraordinary—beyond human credence.”

“Tell me—explain to me,” I said, instantly interested. What could this man know of my well-beloved?

He was silent for some minutes. We were still standing by the steps. Surely it was scarcely the place for an exchange of confidences.

“I fear that monsieur must really excuse me. The matter is purely a personal one—purely confidential, and concerns myself alone—just—just as your close acquaintanceship with Mademoiselle Sylvia concerns you.”

“It seems that it concerns other persons as well, if one may judge by what has recently occurred.”

“Ah! Then your enemies have arisen because of your engagement to the girl—eh?”

“The girl!” How strange! Pennington’s mysterious friends of the Brescia road had referred to her as “the girl.” So had those two assassins in Porchester Terrace! Was it a mere coincidence, or had he, too, betrayed a collusion with those mean blackguards who had put me to that horrible torture?

Had you met this strange man at night in St. James’s Park, would you have placed any faith in him? I think not. I maintain that I was perfectly justified in treating him as an enemy. He was rather too intimately acquainted with the doings of Harriman and his gang to suit my liking. Even as he stood there beneath the light of the street-lamp, I saw that his bright eyes twinkled behind those gold pince-nez, while the big old-fashioned amethyst he wore on his finger was a conspicuous object. He gave one the appearance of a prosperous merchant or shopkeeper.

“What makes you suggest that the attempt was due to my affection for Sylvia?” I asked him.

“Well, it furnishes a motive, does it not?”

“No, it doesn’t. I have no enemies—as far as I am aware.”

“But there exists some person who is highly jealous of mademoiselle, and who is therefore working against you in secret.”

“Is that your opinion?”

“I regret to admit that it is. Indeed, Monsieur Biddulph, you have every need to exercise the greatest care. Otherwise misfortune will occur to you. Mark what I—a stranger—tell you.”

I started. Here again was a warning uttered! The situation was growing quite uncanny.

“What makes you expect this?”

“It is more than mere surmise,” he said slowly and in deep earnestness. “I happen to know.”

From that last sentence of his I jumped to the conclusion that he was, after all, one of the malefactors. He was warning me with the distinct object of putting me off my guard. His next move, no doubt, would be to try and pose as my friend and adviser! I laughed within myself, for I was too wary for him.

“Well,” I said, after a few moments’ silence, as together we ascended the broad flight of steps, with the high column looming in the darkness, “the fact is, I’ve become tired of all these warnings. Everybody I meet seems to predict disaster for me. Why, I can’t make out.”

“No one has revealed to you the reason—eh?” he asked in a low, meaning voice.

“No.”

“Ah! Then, of course, you cannot discern the peril. It is but natural that you should treat all well-meant advice lightly. Probably I should, mon cher ami, if I were in your place.”

“Well,” I exclaimed impatiently, halting again, “now, what is it that you really know? Don’t beat about the bush any longer. Tell me, frankly and openly.”

The man merely raised his shoulders significantly, but made no response. In the ray of light which fell upon him, his gold-rimmed spectacles glinted, while his shrewd dark eyes twinkled behind them, as though he delighted in mystifying me.

“Surely you can reply,” I cried in anger. “What is the reason of all this? What have I done?”

“Ah! it is what monsieur has not done.”

“Pray explain.”

“Pardon. I cannot explain. Why not ask mademoiselle? She knows everything.”

“Everything!” I echoed. “Then why does she not tell me?”

“She fears—most probably.”

Could it be that this strange foreigner was purposely misleading me? I gazed upon his stout, well-dressed figure, and the well-brushed silk hat which he wore with such jaunty air.

In Pall Mall a string of taxi-cabs was passing westward, conveying homeward-bound theatre folk, while across at the brightly-lit entrance of the Carlton, cabs and taxis were drawing up and depositing well-dressed people about to sup.

At the corner of the Athenæum Club we halted again, for I wanted to rid myself of him. I had acted foolishly in addressing him in the first instance. For aught I knew, he might be an accomplice of those absconding assassins of Porchester Terrace.

As we stood there, he had the audacity to produce his cigarette-case and offer me one. But I resentfully declined it.

“Ah!” he laughed, stroking his greyish beard again, “I fear, Monsieur Biddulph, that you are displeased with me. I have annoyed you by not satisfying your natural curiosity. But were I to do so, it would be against my own interests. Hence my silence. Am I not perfectly honest with you?”

That speech of his corroborated all my suspicions. His motive in following me, whatever it could be, was a sinister one. He had admitted knowledge of Harriman, the man found guilty and sentenced for the murder of the young English member of Parliament, Ronald Burke. His intimate acquaintance with Harriman’s past and with his undesirable friends showed that he must have been an associate of that daring and dangerous gang.

I was a diligent reader of the English papers, but had never seen any mention of the great association of expert criminals. His assertion that the Paris Matin had published all the details was, in all probability, untrue. I instinctively mistrusted him, because he had kept such a watchful eye upon me ever since I had sat with Sylvia’s father in the lounge of that big hotel in Manchester.

“I don’t think you are honest with me, Monsieur Delanne,” I said stiffly. “Therefore I refuse to believe you further.”

“As you wish,” laughed my companion. “You will believe me, however, ere long—when you have proof. Depend upon it.”

And he glanced at his watch, closing it quickly with a snap.

“You see——” he began, but as he uttered the words a taxi, coming from the direction of Charing Cross, suddenly pulled up at the kerb where we were standing—so suddenly that, for a moment, I did not notice that it had come to a standstill.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, when he saw the cab, “I quite forgot! I have an appointment. I will wish you bon soir, Monsieur Biddulph. We may meet again—perhaps.” And he raised his hat in farewell.

As he turned towards the taxi to enter it, I realized that some one was inside—that the person in the cab had met the strange foreigner by appointment at that corner!

A man’s face peered out for a second, and a voice exclaimed cheerily—

“Hulloa! Sorry I’m late, old chap!”

Then, next instant, on seeing me, the face was withdrawn into the shadow.

Delanne had entered quickly, and, slamming the door, told the man to drive with all speed to Paddington Station.

The taxi was well on its way down Pall Mall ere I could recover from my surprise.

The face of the man in the cab was a countenance the remembrance of which will ever haunt me if I live to be a hundred years—the evil, pimply, dissipated face of Charles Reckitt!

My surmise had been correct, after all. Delanne was his friend!

Another conspiracy was afoot against me!

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Pennington appeared highly pleased with all he saw, while Sylvia, her arms entwined about my neck, kissed me in silent thanks for my efforts on her behalf.

Then came the wedding—a very quiet one at St. Mary Abbot’s, Kensington. Besides Jack Marlowe and a couple of other men who were intimate friends, not more than a dozen persons were present. Shuttleworth assisted the vicar, but Pennington was unfortunately ill in bed at the Hôtel Métropole, suffering from a bad cold. Still, we held the wedding luncheon at the Savoy, and afterwards went up to Scarborough, where we were now living in a pretty suite at the Grand Hotel overlooking the harbour, the blue bay, and the castle-crowned cliffs.

It was disappointing to Sylvia that her father had not been present at the wedding, but Elsie Durnford and her mother were there, as well as two or three other of her girl friends. The ceremony was very plain. At her own request, she had been married in her travelling-dress, while I, man-like, had secretly been glad that there was no fuss.

Just a visit to the church, the brief ceremony, the signature in the register, and a four-line announcement in the Times and Morning Post, and Sylvia and I had become man and wife.

I had resolved, on the morning of my marriage, to put behind me all thought of the mysteries and gruesomeness of the past. Now that I was Sylvia’s husband, I felt that she would have my protection, as well as that of her father. I had said nothing to her of her strange apprehensions, for we had mutually allowed them to drop.

We had come to Scarborough in preference to going abroad, for my well-beloved declared that she had had already too much of Continental life, and preferred a quiet time in England. So we had chosen the East Coast, and now each day we either drove out over the Yorkshire moors, or wandered by the rolling seas.

She was now my own—my very own! Ah! the sweet significance of those words when I uttered them and she clung to me, raising her full red lips to mine to kiss.

I loved her—aye, loved her with an all-consuming love. I told myself a thousand times that no man on earth had ever loved a woman more than I loved Sylvia. She was my idol, and more, we were wedded, firmly united to one another, insunderably joined with each other so that we two were one.

You satirists, cynics, misogamists and misogynists may sneer at love, and jeer at marriage. So melancholy is this our age that even by some women marriage seems to be doubted. Yet we may believe that there is not a woman in all Christendom who does not dote upon the name of “wife.” It carries a spell which even the most rebellious suffragette must acknowledge. They may speak of the subjection, the trammel, the “slavery,” and the inferiority to which marriage reduces them, but, after all, “wife” is a word against which they cannot harden their hearts.

Ah! how fervently we loved each other. As Sylvia and I wandered together by the sea on those calm September evenings, avoiding the holiday crowd, preferring the less-frequented walks to the fashionable promenades of the South Cliff or the Spa, we linked arm in arm, and I often, when not observed, kissed her upon the brow.

One evening, with the golden sunset in our faces, we were walking over the cliffs to Cayton Bay, a favourite walk of ours, when we halted at a stile, and sat together upon it to rest.

The wide waters deep below, bathed in the green and gold of the sinking sun, were calm, almost unruffled, unusual indeed for the North Sea, while about us the birds were singing their evening song, and the cattle in the fields were lying down in peace. There was not a breath of wind. The calmness was the same as the perfect calmness of our own hearts.

“How still it is, Owen,” remarked my love, after sitting in silence for a few minutes. From where we sat we could see that it was high tide, and the waves were lazily lapping the base of the cliffs deep below. Now and then a gull would circle about us with its shrill, plaintive cry, while far on the distant horizon lay the trail of smoke from a passing steamer. “How delightful it is to be here—alone with you!”

My arm stole round her slim waist, and my lips met hers in a fond, passionate caress. She looked very dainty in a plain walking costume of cream serge, with a boa of ostrich feathers about her throat, and a large straw hat trimmed with autumn flowers. It was exceptionally warm for the time of year; yet at night, on the breezy East Coast, there is a cold nip in the air even in the height of summer.

That afternoon we had, by favour of its owner, Mr. George Beeforth, one of the pioneers of Scarborough, wandered through the beautiful private gardens of the Belvedere, which, with their rose-walks, lawns and plantations, stretched from the promenade down to the sea, and had spent some charming hours in what its genial owner called “the sun-trap.” In all the north of England there are surely no more beautiful gardens beside the sea than those, and happily their good-natured owner is never averse to granting a stranger permission to visit them.

As we now sat upon that stile our hearts were too full for words, devoted as we were to each other.

“Owen,” my wife exclaimed at last, her soft little hand upon my shoulder as she looked up into my face, “are you certain you will never regret marrying me?”

“Why, of course not, dearest,” I said quickly, looking into her great wide-open eyes.

“But—but, somehow——”

“Somehow, what?” I asked slowly.

“Well,” she sighed, gazing away towards the far-off horizon, her wonderful eyes bluer than the sea itself, “I have a strange, indescribable feeling of impending evil—a presage of disaster.”

“My darling,” I exclaimed, “why trouble yourself over what are merely melancholy fancies? We are happy in each other’s love; therefore why should we anticipate evil? If it comes, then we will unite to resist it.”

“Ah, yes, Owen,” she replied quickly, “but this strange feeling came over me yesterday when we were together at Whitby. I cannot describe it—only it is a weird, uncanny feeling, a fixed idea that something must happen to mar this perfect happiness of ours.”

“What can mar our happiness when we both trust each other—when we both love each other, and our two hearts beat as one?”

“Has not the French poet written a very serious truth in those lines: ‘Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment; chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie’?”

“Yes, but we shall experience no chagrin, sweetheart,” I assured her. “After another week here we will travel where you will. If you wish, we will go to Carrington. There we shall be perfectly happy together, away in beautiful Devonshire.”

“I know you want to go there for the shooting, Owen,” she said quietly, yet regarding me somewhat strangely, I thought. “You have asked Mr. Marlowe?”

“With your permission, dearest.”

But her face changed, and she sighed slightly.

In an instant I recollected the admission that they had either met before, or at least they knew something concerning each other.

“Perhaps you do not desire to entertain company yet?” I said quickly. “Very well; I’ll ask your father; he and I can have some sport together.”

“Owen,” she said at last, turning her fair face again to mine, “would you think it very, very strange of me, after all that you have done at beautiful old Carrington, if I told you that I—well, that I do not exactly like the place?”

This rather surprised me, for she had hitherto been full of admiration of the fine, well-preserved relic of the Elizabethan age.

“Dearest, if you do not care for Carrington we will not go there. We can either live at Wilton Street, or travel.”

“I’m tired of travelling, dear,” she declared. “Ah, so tired! So, if you are content, let us live in Wilton Street. Carrington is so huge. When we were there I always felt lost in those big old rooms and long, echoing corridors.”

“But your own rooms that I’ve had redecorated and furnished are smaller,” I said. “I admit that the old part of the house is very dark and weird—full of ghosts of other times. There are a dozen or more legends concerning it, as you know.”

“Yes, I read them in the guide-book to Devon. Some are distinctly quaint, are they not?”

“Some are tragic also—especially the story of little Lady Holbrook, who was so brutally killed by the Roundheads because she refused to reveal the whereabouts of her husband,” I said.

“Poor little lady!” sighed Sylvia. “But that is not mere legend: it is historical fact.”

“Well,” I said, “if you do not care for Carrington—if it is too dull for you—we’ll live in London. Personally, I, too, should soon grow tired of a country life; and yet how could I grow tired of life with you, my own darling, at my side?”

“And how could I either, Owen?” she asked, kissing me fondly. “With you, no place can ever be dull. It is not the dulness I dread, but other things.”

“What things?”

“Catastrophe—of what kind, I know not. But I have been seized with a kind of instinctive dread.”

For a few moments I was silent, my arm still about her neat waist. This sudden depression of hers was not reassuring.

“Try and rid yourself of the idea, dearest,” I urged presently. “You have nothing to fear. We may both have enemies, but they will not now dare to attack us. Remember, I am now your husband.”

“And I your wife, Owen,” she said, with a sweet love-look. Then, with a heavy sigh, she gazed thoughtfully away with her eyes fixed upon the darkening sea, and added: “I only fear, dearest—for your sake.”

I was silent again.

“Sylvia,” I said slowly at last, “have you learnt anything—anything fresh which has awakened these strange apprehensions of yours?”

“No,” she faltered, “nothing exactly fresh. It is only a strange and unaccountable dread which has seized me—a dread of impending disaster.”

“Forget it,” I urged, endeavouring to laugh. “All your fears are now without foundation, dearest. Now we are wedded, we will fearlessly face the world together.”

“I have no fear when I am at your side, Owen,” she replied, looking at me pale and troubled. “But when we are parted I—I always fear. The day before yesterday I was full of apprehension all the time you had gone to York. I felt that something was to happen to you.”

“Really, dear,” I said, smiling, “you make me feel quite creepy. Don’t allow your mind to run on the subject. Try and think of something else.”

“But I can’t,” she declared. “That’s just it. I only wish I could rid myself of this horrible feeling of insecurity.”

“We are perfectly secure,” I assured her. “My enemies are now aware that I’m quite wide awake.” And in a few brief sentences I explained my curious meeting with the Frenchman Delanne.

The instant I described him—his stout body, his grey pointed beard, his gold pince-nez, his amethyst ring—she sat staring at me, white to the lips.

“Why,” she gasped, “I know! The description is exact. And—and you say he saw my father in Manchester! He actually rode away in the same cab as Reckitt! Impossible! You must have dreamt it all, Owen.”

“No, dearest,” I said quite calmly. “It all occurred just as I have repeated it to you.”

“And he really entered the taxi with Reckitt? He said, too, that he knew my father—eh?”

“He did.”

She held her breath. Her eyes were staring straight before her, her breath came and went quickly, and she gripped the wooden post to steady herself, for she swayed forward suddenly, and I stretched out my hand, fearing lest she should fall.

What I had told her seemed to stagger her. It revealed something of intense importance to her—something which, to me, remained hidden.

It was still a complete enigma.