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, Penningtons 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 dOrsay, 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 dont 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 dont 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 dont 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 weeks 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 dOrsay 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
THE CLERGYMAN FROM HAMPSHIRE
What was the meaning of it all? Why had that tall, mysterious stranger watched so intently? I looked across at him, but he did not budge, even though detected.
In a flash, all the strange warnings of Sylvia Pennington crowded upon my mind.
I stood facing the man as he lurked there in the shadow, determined that he should reveal his face. Those curious words of the mysterious girl had placed me upon my mettle. Who were the unknown enemies of mine who were conspiring against me?
Should I take her advice and leave Gardone, or should I remain on my guard, and hand them over to the police at first sign of attack?
The silent watcher did not move. He stood back there in the darkness, motionless as a statue, while I remained full in the light of the moon, which had now come forth, causing the lake and mountains to look almost fairy-like.
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 mans name was the Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth, and that he came from Andover, in England. He had arrived at six oclock 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 Sylvias 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 oclock 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 gentlemans 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 vicars 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.
Shuttleworths 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 dont 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 dont understand you, I said. As far as I know, I havent 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.