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 fathers. 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 havent 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 dont 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 oclock, 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. Ill promise anything. Ill 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
THE PERIL BEYOND
My taxi pulled up before my own white-enamelled door in Wilton Street, off Belgrave Square, and, alighting, I entered with my latch-key.
I had been home about ten days back again once more in dear, dirty old London, spending most of my time idling in Whites or Boodles; for in May one meets everybody in St. Jamess Street, and men foregather in the club smoking-room from the four ends of the earth.
The house in Wilton Street was a small bijou place which my father had occupied as a pied-à-terre in town, he being a widower. He had been a man of artistic tastes, and the house, though small, was furnished lightly and brightly in the modern style. At Carrington he always declared there was enough of the heaviness of the antique. Here, in the dulness of London, he preferred light decorations and modern art in furnishing.
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 oclock, 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 Im 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 visitors 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 Owens 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 dont 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 mans 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 Crockfords 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 Sylvias 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 owners 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, its all a question of ones 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.
Thats 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 dont 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.