Hushed Up! A Mystery of London
by William Le Queux · English · Gutenberg #28337 · 423,968 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Hushed Up! A Mystery of London
Author: William Le Queux
Release date: March 15, 2009 [eBook #28337]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUSHED UP! A MYSTERY OF LONDON ***
Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
HUSHED UP!
_A MYSTERY OF LONDON_
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
LONDON
EVELEIGH NASH
1911
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE PAGE
I IS MAINLY SCANDALOUS 7
II CONCERNS TWO STRANGERS 18
THE STORY OF OWEN BIDDULPH
CHAP.
I BESIDE STILL WATERS 35
II TOLD IN THE NIGHT 46
III THE CLERGYMAN FROM HAMPSHIRE 58
IV THE PERIL BEYOND 68
V THE DARK HOUSE IN BAYSWATER 79
VI A GHASTLY TRUTH 89
VII THE FLAME OF THE CANDLE 99
VIII PRESENTS ANOTHER PROBLEM 107
IX FACE TO FACE 117
X CONTAINS A FURTHER SURPRISE 125
XI WHAT THE POLICE KNEW 136
XII THE WORD OF A WOMAN 145
XIII THE DEATH KISS 156
XIV OF THINGS UNMENTIONABLE 165
XV FORBIDDEN LOVE 175
XVI THE MAN IN GOLD PINCE-NEZ 185
XVII THE MAN IN THE STREET 196
XVIII PROOF POSITIVE 206
XIX THROUGH THE MISTS 215
XX THE STRANGER IN THE RUE DE RIVOLI 225
XXI DESCRIBES AN UNWELCOME VISIT 234
XXII MORE MYSTERY 242
XXIII IN FULL CRY 253
XXIV AN UNFORTUNATE SLIP 263
XXV MORE STRANGE FACTS 272
XXVI "SOME SENSATIONAL REVELATIONS" 281
XXVII A CONTRETEMPS 291
XXVIII THE FRENCHMAN MAKES A STATEMENT 298
XXIX FURTHER REVELATIONS 307
XXX CONCLUSION 313
HUSHED UP!
PROLOGUE
I
IS MAINLY SCANDALOUS
"And he died mysteriously?"
"The doctors certified that he died from natural causes--heart
failure."
"That is what the world believes, of course. His death was a nation's
loss, and the truth was hushed up. But you, Phil Poland, know it. Upon
the floor was found something--a cigar--eh?"
"Nothing very extraordinary in that, surely? He died while smoking."
"Yes," said the bald-headed man, bending towards the other and
lowering his voice into a harsh whisper. "He died while smoking a
cigar--a cigar that had been poisoned! You know it well enough. What's
the use of trying to affect ignorance--_with me_!"
"Well?" asked Philip Poland after a brief pause, his brows knit darkly
and his face drawn and pale.
"Well, I merely wish to recall that somewhat unpleasant fact, and to
tell you that I know the truth," said the other with slow
deliberation, his eyes fixed upon the man seated opposite him.
"Why recall unpleasant facts?" asked Poland, with a faint attempt to
smile. "I never do."
"A brief memory is always an advantage," remarked Arnold Du Cane, with
a sinister grin.
"Ah! I quite follow you," Poland said, with a hardness of the mouth.
"But I tell you, Arnold, I refuse to lend any hand in this crooked bit
of business you've just put before me. Let's talk of something else."
"Crooked business, indeed! Fancy you, Phil Poland, denouncing it as
crooked!" he laughed. "And I'm a crook, I suppose," and he
thoughtfully caressed his small moustache, which bore traces of having
been artificially darkened.
"I didn't say so."
"But you implied it. Bah! You'll be teaching the Sunday School of this
delightful English village of yours before long, I expect. No doubt
the villagers believe the gentleman at the Elms to be a model of every
virtue, especially when he wears a frock-coat and trots around with
the plate in church on Sundays!" he sneered. "My hat! Fancy you, Phil,
turning honest in your old age!"
"I admit that I'm trying to be honest, Arnold--for the girl's sake."
"And, by Jove! if the good people here, in Middleton, knew the truth,
eh--the truth that you----"
"Hush! Somebody may overhear!" cried the other, starting and glancing
apprehensively at the closed door of his cosy study. "What's the use
of discussing the business further? I've told you, once and for all,
Arnold, that I refuse to be a party to any such dastardly
transaction."
"Ho! ho!" laughed Du Cane. "Why, wasn't the Burke affair an equally
blackguardly bit of business--the more so, indeed, when one recollects
that young Ronald Burke had fallen in love with Sonia."
"Leave my girl's name out of our conversation, Arnold, or, by Gad! you
shall pay for it!" cried the tall, dark-haired, clean-shaven man, as
he sprang from his chair and faced his visitor threateningly. "Taunt
me as much as ever it pleases you. Allege what you like against me. I
know I'm an infernal blackguard, posing here as a smug and respectable
churchgoer. I admit any charge you like to lay at my door, but I'll
not have my girl's name associated with my misdeeds. Understand that!
She's pure and honest, and she knows nothing of her father's life."
"Don't you believe that, my dear fellow. She's eighteen now, remember,
and I fancy she had her eyes opened last February down at the Villa
Vespa, when that unfortunate little trouble arose."
Arnold Du Cane, the round-faced man who spoke, was rather short and
stout, with ruddy cheeks, a small moustache and a prematurely bald
head--a man whose countenance showed him to be a _bon vivant_, but
whose quick, shifty eyes would have betrayed to a close observer a
readiness of subterfuge which would have probably aroused suspicion.
His exterior was that of a highly refined and polished man. His grey
tweed suit bore evidence of having been cut by a smart tailor, and as
he lolled back in his big saddle-bag chair he contemplated the fine
diamond upon his white, well-manicured hand, and seemed entirely at
his ease.
That August afternoon was stiflingly hot, and through the open French
windows leading into the old-world garden, so typically English with
its level lawns, neatly trimmed box-hedges and blazing flowerbeds,
came the drowsy hum of the insects and the sweet scent of a wealth of
roses everywhere.
The pretty house in which his host, Philip Poland, alias Louis Lessar,
lived, stood back a little distance from the London road, two miles or
so out of the quiet market-town of Andover, a small picturesque old
place surrounded by high old elms wherein the rooks cawed incessantly,
and commanding extensive views over Harewood Forest and the undulating
meadow-lands around, while close by, at the foot of the hill, nestled
a cluster of homely thatched cottages, with a square church-tower, the
obscure village of Middleton.
In that rural retreat lived the Honourable Philip Poland beneath a
cloak of highest respectability. The Elms was, indeed, delightful
after the glare and glitter of that fevered life he so often led, and
here, with his only child, Sonia, to whom he was so entirely devoted,
he lived as a gentleman of leisure.
Seldom he went to London, and hardly ever called upon his neighbours.
With Sonia he led a most retired existence, reading much, fishing a
little, and taking long walks or cycling with his daughter and her
fox-terrier, "Spot," over all the country-side.
To the village he had been somewhat of a mystery ever since he had
taken the house, three years before. Yet, being apparently comfortably
off, subscribing to every charity, and a regular attendant at
Middleton church, the simple country-folk had grown to tolerate him,
even though he was somewhat of a recluse. Country-folk are very slow
to accept the stranger at his own valuation.
Little did they dream that when he went away each winter he went with
a mysterious purpose--that the source of his income was a mystery.
As he stood there, leaning against the roll-top writing-table of his
prettily furnished little study and facing the man who had travelled
half across Europe to see him, Phil Poland, with clean-shaven face and
closely-cropped hair tinged with grey, presented the smart and dapper
appearance of a typical British naval officer, as, indeed, he had
been, for, prior to his downfall, he had been first lieutenant on
board one of his Majesty's first-class cruisers. His had been a
strangely adventurous career, his past being one that would not bear
investigation.
In the smart, go-ahead set wherein he had moved when he was still in
the Navy opinion regarding him had been divided. There were some who
refused to believe the truth of the scandals circulated concerning
him, while others believed and quickly embellished the reports which
ran through the service clubs and ward-rooms.
Once he had been one of the most popular officers afloat, yet
to-day--well, he found it convenient to thus efface himself in rural
Hampshire, and live alone with the sweet young girl who was all in all
to him, and who was happy in her belief that her devoted father was a
gentleman.
This girl with the blue eyes and hair of sunshine was the only link
between Phil Poland and his past--that past when he held a brilliant
record as a sailor and had been honoured and respected. He held her
aloof from every one, being ever in deadly fear lest, by some chance
word, she should learn the bitter truth--the truth concerning that
despicable part which he had been compelled to play. Ah, yes, his was
a bitter story indeed.
Before Sonia should know the truth he would take his own life. She was
the only person remaining dear to him, the only one for whom he had a
single thought or care, the only person left to him to respect and to
love. Her influence upon him was always for good. For the past year he
had been striving to cut himself adrift from evil, to reform, to hold
back from participating in any dishonest action--for her dear sake.
Her soft-spoken words so often caused him to hate himself and to bite
his lip in regret, for surely she was as entirely ignorant of the
hideous truth as Mr. Shuttleworth, the white-headed parson, or the
rustic villagers themselves.
Yes, Phil Poland's position was indeed a strange one.
What Du Cane had just suggested to him would, he saw, put at least
twenty thousand pounds into the pockets of their ingenious
combination, yet he had refused--refused because of the fair-headed
girl he loved so well.
Within himself he had made a solemn vow to reform. Reformation would
probably mean a six-roomed cottage with a maid-of-all-work, yet even
that would be preferable to a continuance of the present mode of life.
Bitter memories had, of late, constantly arisen within him.
Certain scenes of violence, even of tragedy, in that beautiful
flower-embowered villa beside the Mediterranean at Beaulieu, half-way
between Nice and Monte Carlo, had recurred vividly to him. He was
unable to wipe those horrible visions from the tablets of his memory.
He had realized, at last, what a pitiless blackguard he had been, so
he had resolved to end it all.
And now, just as he had made up his mind, Arnold Du Cane had arrived
unexpectedly from Milan with an entirely new and original scheme--one
in which the risk of detection was infinitesimal, while the stakes
were high enough to merit serious consideration.
He had refused to be a party to the transaction, whereupon Du Cane had
revived a subject which he had fondly believed to be buried for
ever--that terrible affair which had startled and mystified the whole
world, and which had had such an important political bearing that, by
it, the destinies of a great nation had actually been changed.
A certain man--a great man--had died, but until that hour Phil
Poland's connection with the tragedy had never been suspected.
Yet, from what Arnold Du Cane had just said, he saw that the truth was
actually known, and he realized that his own position was now one of
distinct insecurity.
He was silent, full of wonder. How could Arnold have gained his
knowledge? What did he know? How much did he know? The strength of his
defiance must be gauged upon the extent of Arnold's knowledge.
He set his teeth hard. The scandal was one which must never see the
light of day, he told himself. Upon the suppression of the true facts
depended the honour and welfare of a nation.
Arnold Du Cane knew the truth. Of that, there could be no doubt. Did
he intend to use this knowledge in order to secure his assistance in
this latest dastardly scheme?
At last, after a long silence, Poland asked in as cool a voice as he
could--
"What causes you to suspect that Sonia knows anything?"
"Well," replied this crafty, round-faced visitor, "considering how
that young Russian let out at you when you were walking with her that
moonlight night out in the garden, I don't think there can be much
doubt that she is fully aware of the mysterious source of her father's
income."
"Sonia doesn't know Russian. The fellow spoke in that language, I
remember," was his reply. "Yet I was a fool, I know, to have taken her
over that accursed place--that hell in paradise. She is always
perfectly happy at the Hôtel de Luxembourg at Nice, where each season
she makes some pleasant friends, and never suspects the reason of my
absences."
"All of us are fools at times, Phil," was his visitor's response, as
he selected a fresh cigar from the silver box upon the table and
slowly lit it. "But," he went on, "I do really think you are going too
far in expecting that you can conceal the truth from the girl much
longer. She isn't a child, you must recollect."
"She must never know!" cried the unhappy man in a hoarse voice. "By
Gad! she must never know of my shame, Arnold."
"Then go in with us in this new affair. It'll pay you well."
"No," he cried. "I--I feel that I can't! I couldn't face her, if she
knew. Her mother was one of the best and purest women who ever lived,
and----"
"Of course, of course. I know all that, my dear fellow," cried the
other hastily. "I know all the tragedy of your marriage--but that's
years ago. Let the past bury itself, and have an eye to the main
chance and the future. Just take my advice, Phil. Drop all this
humbug about your girl and her feelings if she learnt her father's
real profession. She'll know it one day, that's certain. You surely
aren't going to allow her to stand in your way and prevent you from
participating in what is real good solid business--eh? You want money,
you know."
"I've given my answer," was the man's brief response.
Then a silence fell between the pair of well-dressed cosmopolitans--a
dead, painful silence, broken only by the low hum of the insects, the
buzzing of a fly upon the window-pane, and the ticking of the old
grandfather clock in the corner.
"Reflect," urged Du Cane at last, as he rose to his feet. Then,
lowering his voice, he said in a hoarse whisper, "You may find
yourself in a corner over that affair of young Burke. If so, it's only
I and my friends who could prove an alibi. Remember that."
"And you offer that, in return for my assistance?" Poland said
reflectively, hesitating for a moment and turning to the window.
His visitor nodded in the affirmative.
Next second the man to whom those terms had been offered quickly faced
his friend. His countenance was haggard, blanched to the lips, for he
had been quick to realize the full meaning of that covert threat.
"Arnold!" he said in a hoarse, strained voice, full of bitter
reproach, "you may turn upon me, give me away to the police--tell them
the truth--but my decision remains the same. I will lend no hand in
that affair."
"You are prepared to face arrest--eh?"
"If it is your will--yes."
"And your daughter?"
"That is my own affair."
"Very well, then. As you will," was the bald-headed man's response, as
he put on his grey felt hat and, taking his stick, strode through the
open French windows and disappeared.
Phil Poland stood rigid as a statue. The blow had fallen. His secret
was out.
He sprang forward towards the garden, in order to recall his visitor.
But next instant he drew himself back.
No. Now that the friend whom he had trusted had turned upon him, he
would face the music rather than add another crime to his discredit
and dishonour.
Philip Poland, alias Louis Lessar and half-a-score of other names,
halted, and raised his pale, repentant face to Heaven for help and
guidance.
II
CONCERNS TWO STRANGERS
That night Phil Poland glanced longingly around the well-furnished
dining-room with its white napery, its antique plate, and its great
bowl of yellow roses in the centre of the table between the silver
candelabra with white silk shades. Alone he sat at his dinner, being
waited upon by Felix, the thin-faced, silent Frenchman in black who
was so devoted to his master and so faithful in his service.
It was the last time he would eat his dinner there, he reflected. The
choice of two things lay before him--flight, or arrest.
Sonia was on a visit to an old school-fellow in London, and would not
return until the morrow. For some reasons he was glad, for he desired
to be alone--alone in order to think.
Since the abrupt departure of his visitor he had become a changed man.
His usually merry face was hard and drawn, his cheeks pale, with red
spots in the centre, and about his clean-shaven mouth a hardness quite
unusual.
Dinner concluded, he had strolled out upon the lawn, and, reclining in
a long deck-chair, sipped his coffee and curaçao, his face turned to
the crimson sundown showing across the dark edge of the forest. He was
full of dark forebodings.
The end of his career--a scandalous career--was near. The truth was
out!
As he lay back with his hot, fevered head upon the cushion of the long
cane chair, his dead cigar between his nerveless fingers, a thousand
bitter thoughts crowded upon him. He had striven to reform, he had
tried hard to turn aside and lead an honest life, yet it seemed as
though his good intentions had only brought upon him exposure and
disaster.
He thought it all over. His had, indeed, been an amazing career of
duplicity. What a sensation would be caused when the truth became
revealed! At first he had heaped opprobrium upon the head of the man
who had been his friend, but now, on mature consideration, he realized
that Du Cane's motive in exposing him was twofold--in order to save
himself, and also to curry favour in certain high quarters affected by
the mysterious death of the young Parliamentary Under-Secretary who
had placed to his lips that fatal cigar. Self-preservation being the
first instinct of the human race, it surely was not surprising that
Arnold Du Cane should seek to place himself in a position of security.
Enormous eventualities would be consequent upon solving the mystery of
that man's death. Medical science had pronounced it to have been due
to natural causes. Dare the authorities re-open the question, and
allege assassination? Aye, that was the question. There was the press,
political parties and public opinion all to consider, in addition to
the national prestige.
He held his breath, gazing blankly away at the blood-red afterglow.
How strange, how complicated, how utterly amazing and astounding was
it all. If the truth of that dastardly plot were ever told, it would
not be believed. The depths of human wickedness were surely
unfathomable.
Because he, Phil Poland, had endeavoured to cut himself adrift from
his ingenious friends, they were about to make him the scapegoat.
He contemplated flight, but, if he fled, whither should he go? Where
could he hide successfully? Those who desired that he should pay the
penalty would search every corner of the earth. No. Death itself would
be preferable to either arrest or flight, and as he contemplated how
he might cheat his enemies a bitter smile played upon his grey lips.
The crimson light slowly faded. The balmy stillness of twilight had
settled upon everything, the soft evening air became filled with the
sweet fragrance of the flowers, and the birds were chattering before
roosting. He glanced across the lawns and well-kept walks at the
rose-embowered house itself, his harbour of refuge, the cosy place
which Sonia loved so well, and as his eyes wandered he sighed sadly.
He knew, alas! that he must bid farewell to it for ever, bid farewell
to his dear daughter--bid farewell to life itself.
He drew at his dead cigar. Then he cast it from him. It tasted bitter.
Suddenly the grave-faced Felix, the man who seldom, if ever, spoke,
and who was such a mystery in the village, came across the lawn, and,
bowing, exclaimed in French that the curé, M'sieur Shuttleworth, had
called.
"Ah! yes," exclaimed his master, quickly arousing himself. "How very
foolish of me! I quite forgot I had invited Mr. Shuttleworth to come
in and smoke to-night. Ask him to come out here, and bring the cigars
and whisky."
"Oui, M'sieur," replied the funereal-looking butler, bowing low as he
turned to go back to the house.
"How strange!" laughed Poland to himself. "What would the parson think
if he knew who I am, and the charge against me? What will he say
afterwards, I wonder?"
Then, a few moments later, a thin, grey-faced, rather ascetic-looking
clergyman, the Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth, rector of Middleton, came
across the grass and grasped his host's hand in warmest greeting.
When he had seated himself in the low chair which Poland pulled
forward, and Felix had handed the cigars, the two men commenced to
gossip, as was their habit.
Phil Poland liked the rector, because he had discovered that,
notwithstanding his rather prim exterior and most approved clerical
drawl, he was nevertheless a man of the world. In the pulpit he
preached forgiveness, and, unlike many country rectors and their
wives, was broad-minded enough to admit the impossibility of a sinless
life. Both he and Mrs. Shuttleworth treated both chapel and
church-going folk with equal kindliness, and the deserving poor never
went empty away.
Both in the pulpit and out of it the rector of Middleton called a
spade a spade with purely British bluntness, and though his parish was
only a small one he was the most popular man in it--a fact which
surely spoke volumes for a parson.
"I was much afraid I shouldn't be able to come to-night," he said
presently. "Old Mrs. Dixon, over at Forest Farm, is very ill, and I've
been with her all the afternoon."
"Then you didn't go to Lady Medland's garden-party?"
"No. I wanted to go very much, but was unable. I fear poor old Mrs.
Dixon may not last the night. She asked after Miss Sonia, and
expressed a great wish to see her. You have no idea how popular your
daughter is among the poor of Middleton, Mr. Poland."
"Sonia returns from London to-morrow afternoon," her father said. "She
shall go over and see Mrs. Dixon."
"If the old lady is still here," said the rector. "I fear her life is
fast ebbing, but it is reassuring to know she has made peace with her
Maker, and will pass happily away into the unknown beyond."
His host was silent. The bent old woman, the wife of a farm-labourer,
had made repentance. If there was repentance for her, was there not
repentance for him? He held his breath at the thought.
Little did Shuttleworth dream that the merry, easy-going man who sat
before him was doomed--a man whose tortured soul was crying aloud for
help and guidance; a man with a dread and terrible secret upon his
conscience; a man threatened by an exposure which he could never live
to face.
Poland allowed his visitor to chatter on--to gossip about the work in
his parish. He was reviewing his present position. He desired some one
in whom he could confide; some one of whom he might seek advice and
counsel. Could he expose his real self in all his naked shame; dare he
speak in confidence to Edmund Shuttleworth? Dare he reveal the ghastly
truth, and place the seal of the confessional upon his lips?
Twilight deepened into night, and the crescent moon rose slowly. Yet
the two men still sat smoking and chatting, Shuttleworth somewhat
surprised to notice how unusually preoccupied his host appeared.
At last, when the night wind blew chill, they rose and passed into the
study, where Poland closed the French windows, and then, with sudden
resolve and a word of apology to his visitor, he crossed the room and
turned the key in the lock, saying in a hard, strained tone--
"Shuttleworth, I--I want to speak to you in--in strictest
confidence--to ask your advice. Yet--yet it is upon such a serious
matter that I hesitate--fearing----"
"Fearing what?" asked the rector, somewhat surprised at his tone.
"Because, in order to speak, I must reveal to you a truth--a shameful
truth concerning myself. May I rely upon your secrecy?"
"Any fact you may reveal to me I shall regard as sacred. That is my
duty as a minister of religion, Poland," was the other's quiet reply.
"You swear to say nothing?" cried his host eagerly, standing before
him.
"Yes. I swear to regard your confidence," replied his visitor.
And then the Honourable Philip Poland slowly sank into the chair on
the opposite side of the fireplace, and in brief, hesitating sentences
related one of the strangest stories that ever fell from any sane
man's lips--a story which held its hearer aghast, transfixed,
speechless in amazement.
"There is repentance for me, Shuttleworth--tell me that there is!"
cried the man who had confessed, his eyes staring and haggard in his
agony. "I have told you the truth because--because when I am gone I
want you, if you will, to ask your wife to take care of my darling
Sonia. Financially, she is well provided for. I have seen to all that,
but--ah!" he cried wildly, "she must never know that her father
was----"
"Hush, Poland!" urged the rector, placing his hand tenderly upon his
host's arm. "Though I wear these clothes, I am still a man of the
world like yourself. I haven't been sinless. You wish to repent--to
atone for the past. It is my duty to assist you." And he put out his
strong hand frankly.
His host drew back. But next instant he grasped it, and in doing so
burst into tears.
"I make no excuse for myself," he faltered. "I am a blackguard, and
unworthy the friendship of a true honest man like yourself,
Shuttleworth. But I love my darling child. She is all that has
remained to me, and I want to leave her in the care of a good woman.
She must forget me--forget what her father was----"
"Enough!" cried the other, holding up his hand; and then, until far
into the night, the two men sat talking in low, solemn tones,
discussing the future, while the attitude of Philip Poland, as he sat
pale and motionless, his hands clasped upon his knees, was one of deep
repentance.
That same night, if the repentant transgressor could but have seen
Edmund Shuttleworth, an hour later, pacing the rectory study; if he
could have witnessed the expression of fierce, murderous hatred upon
that usually calm and kindly countenance; if he could have overheard
the strangely bitter words which escaped the dry lips of the man in
whom he had confided his secret, he would have been held
aghast--aghast at the amazing truth, a truth of which he had never
dreamed.
His confession had produced a complication unheard of, undreamed of,
so cleverly had the rector kept his countenance and controlled his
voice. But when alone he gave full vent to his anger, and laughed
aloud in the contemplation of a terrible vengeance which, he declared
aloud to himself, should be his.
"That voice!" he cried in triumph. "Why did I not recognize it before?
But I know the truth now--I know the amazing truth!"
And he laughed harshly to himself as he paced his room.
Next day Philip Poland spent in his garden, reading beneath the big
yew, as was his wont. But his thoughts ever wandered from his book, as
he grew apprehensive of the evil his enemy was about to hurl upon him.
His defiance, he knew, must cost him his liberty--his life. Yet he was
determined. For Sonia's sake he had become a changed man.
At noon Shuttleworth, calm and pleasant, came across the lawn with
outstretched hand. He uttered low words of encouragement and comfort.
He said that poor Mrs. Dixon had passed away, and later on he left to
attend to his work in the parish. After luncheon, served by the silent
Felix, Poland retired to his study with the newspaper, and sat for two
hours, staring straight before him, until, just after four o'clock,
the door was suddenly flung open, and a slim, athletic young girl,
with a wealth of soft fair hair, a perfect countenance, a sweet,
lovable expression, and a pair of merry blue eyes, burst into the
room, crying--
"Hallo, dad! Here I am--so glad to be back again with you!" And,
bending over him, she gave him a sounding kiss upon the cheek.
She was verily a picture of youthful beauty, in her cool, pale grey
gown, her hair dressed low, and secured by a bow of black velvet,
while her big black hat suited her to perfection, her blue eyes
adoring in their gaze and her lovely face flushed with pleasure at her
home-coming.
Her father took her hand, and, gazing lovingly into her eyes, said in
a slow voice--
"And I, too, darling, am glad to have you at home. Life here is very
dull indeed without you."
That night, when seated together in the pretty old-fashioned
drawing-room before retiring to bed--a room of bright chintzes, costly
knick-knacks, and big blue bowls of sweet-smelling pot-pourri--Sonia
looked delightful in her black net dinner-gown, cut slightly
_décolleté_, and wearing around her slim white throat a simple
necklace of pale pink coral.
"My dear," exclaimed her father in a slow, hesitating way, after her
fingers had been running idly over the keys of the piano, "I want to
speak very seriously to you for a few moments."
She rose in surprise, and came beside his chair. He grasped her soft
hand, and she sank upon her knees, as she so often did when they spoke
in confidence.
"Well--I've been wondering, child, what--what you will do in future,"
he said, with a catch in his voice. "Perhaps--perhaps I may have to go
away for a very, very long time--years perhaps--on a long journey, and
I shall, I fear, be compelled to leave you, to----"
"To leave me, dad!" gasped the girl, dismayed. "No--surely--you won't
do that? What could I do without you--without my dear, devoted dad--my
only friend!"
"You will have to--to do without me, dearest--to--to forget your
father," said the white-faced man in a low, broken voice. "I couldn't
take you with me. It would be impossible."
The girl was silent; her slim hand was clutching his convulsively; her
eyes filled with the light of unshed tears.
"But what should I do, dad, without you?" she cried. "Why do you speak
so strangely? Why do you hide so many things from me still--about our
past? I'm eighteen now, remember, dad, and you really ought to speak
to me as a woman--not as a child. Why all this mystery?"
"Because--because it is imperative, Sonia," he replied in a tone quite
unusual. "I--I would tell you all, only--only you would think ill of
me. So I prefer that you, my daughter, should remain in ignorance, and
still love me--still----"
His words were interrupted by Felix, who opened the door, and,
advancing with silent tread, said--
"A gentleman wishes to speak with m'sieur on very urgent business. You
are unacquainted with him, he says. His name is Max Morel, and he must
see you at once. He is in the hall."
Poland's face went a trifle paler. Whom could the stranger be? Why did
he desire an interview at that hour?--for it was already eleven
o'clock.
"Sonia dear," he said quietly, turning to his daughter, "will you
leave me for a few moments? I must see what this gentleman wants."
The girl followed Felix out somewhat reluctantly, when, a few seconds
later, a short, middle-aged Frenchman, with pointed grey beard and
wearing gold pince-nez, was ushered in.
Philip Poland started and instantly went pale at sight of his visitor.
"I need no introduction, m'sieur. You recognize me, I see," remarked
the stranger, in French.
"Yes," was the other's reply. "You are Henri Guertin, chief inspector
of the sûreté of Paris. We have met before--once."
"And you are no doubt aware of the reason of my visit?"
"I can guess," replied the unhappy man. "You are here to arrest me--I
know. I----"
The renowned detective--one of the greatest criminal investigators in
Europe--glanced quickly at the closed door, and, dropping his voice,
said--
"I am here, not to arrest you, M'sieur Poland--but to afford you an
opportunity of escape."
"Of escape!" gasped the other, his drawn countenance blanched to the
lips.
"Yes, escape. Listen. My instructions are to afford you an easy
opportunity of--well, of escaping the ignominy of arrest, exposure,
trial, and penalty, by a very simple means--death by your own hand."
"Suicide!" echoed Poland, after a painful pause. "Ah! I quite
understand! The Government are not anxious that the scandal should be
made public, eh?" he cried bitterly.
"I have merely told you my instructions," was the detective's
response, as, with a quick, foreign gesture, he displayed on his left
hand a curious old engraved amethyst set in a ring--probably an
episcopal ring of ages long ago. "At midnight I have an appointment at
the cross-roads, half-a-mile away, with Inspector Watts of Scotland
Yard, who holds a warrant for your arrest and extradition to France.
If you are still alive when we call, then you must stand your
trial--that is all. Trial will mean exposure, and----"
"And my exposure will mean the downfall and ruin of those political
thieves now in power--eh?" cried Poland. "They are not at all anxious
that I should fall into the hands of the police."
"And you are equally anxious that the world--and more especially your
daughter--shall not know the truth," remarked the detective, speaking
in a meaning tone. "I have given you the alternative, and I shall now
leave. At midnight I shall return--officially--when I hope you will
have escaped by the loophole so generously allowed you by the
authorities."
"If I fled, would you follow?"
"Most certainly. It would be my duty. You cannot escape--only by
death. I regret, m'sieur, that I have been compelled to put the
alternative so bluntly, but you know full well the great issues at
stake in this affair. Therefore I need say nothing further, except to
bid you _au revoir_--till midnight."
Then the portly man bowed--bowed as politely as though he were in the
presence of a crowned head--and, turning upon his heel, left the room,
followed by his host, who personally opened the door for him as he
bade him good-night.
One hour's grace had been given Philip Poland. After that, the
blackness of death.
His blanched features were rigid as he stood staring straight before
him. His enemy had betrayed him. His defiance had, alas! cost him his
life.
He recollected Shuttleworth's slowly uttered words on the night
before, and his finger-nails clenched themselves into his palms. Then
he passed across the square, old-fashioned hall to the study, dim-lit,
save for the zone of light around the green-shaded reading-lamp; the
sombre room where the old grandfather clock ticked so solemnly in the
corner.
Sonia had returned to the drawing-room as he let his visitor out. He
could hear her playing, and singing in her sweet contralto a tuneful
French love-song, ignorant of the hideous crisis that had fallen,
ignorant of the awful disaster which had overwhelmed him.
Three-quarters of an hour had passed when, stealthily on tiptoe, the
girl crept into the room, and there found her father seated by the
fireplace, staring in blank silence.
The long old brass-faced clock in the shadow struck three times upon
its strident bell. Only fifteen minutes more, and then the police
would enter and charge him with that foul crime. Then the solution of
a remarkable mystery which had puzzled the whole world would be
complete.
He started, and, glancing around, realized that Sonia, with her soft
hand in his, was again at his side.
"Why, dad," cried the girl in alarm, "how pale you are! Whatever ails
you? What can I get you?"
"Nothing, child, nothing," was the desperate man's hoarse response.
"I'm--I'm quite well--only a little upset at some bad news I've had,
that's all. But come. Let me kiss you, dear. It's time you were in
bed."
And he drew her down until he could print a last fond caress upon her
white open brow.
"But, dad," exclaimed the girl anxiously, "I really can't leave you.
You're not well. You're not yourself to-night."
As she uttered those words, Felix entered the room, saying in an
agitated voice--
"May I speak with you alone, m'sieur?"
His master started violently, and, rising, went forth into the hall,
where the butler, his face scared and white, whispered--
"Something terrible has occurred, m'sieur! Davis, the groom, has just
found a gentleman lying dead in the drive outside. He's been murdered,
m'sieur!"
"Murdered!" gasped Poland breathlessly. "Who is he?"
"The gentleman who called upon you three-quarters of an hour ago. He's
lying dead--out yonder."
"Where's a lantern? Let me go and see!" cried Poland. And a few
moments later master and man were standing with the groom beside the
lifeless body of Henri Guertin, the great detective, the terror of
all French criminals. The white countenance, with its open, staring
eyes, bore a horrified expression, but the only wound that could be
distinguished was a deep cut across the palm of the right hand, a
clean cut, evidently inflicted by a keen-edged knife.
Davis, on his way in, had, he explained, stumbled across the body in
the darkness, ten minutes before.
Philip Poland had knelt, his hand upon the dead man's heart, when
suddenly all three were startled by the sound of footsteps upon the
gravel, and next moment two men loomed up into the uncertain light of
the lantern.
One was tall and middle-aged, in dark tweeds and a brown hat of soft
felt; the other, short and stout, wearing gold pince-nez.
A loud cry of dismay broke from Poland's fevered lips as his eyes fell
upon the latter.
"Hallo! What's this?" cried a sharp, imperious voice in French, the
voice of the man in pince-nez, as, next moment, he stood gazing down
upon the dead unknown, who, strangely enough, resembled him in
countenance, in dress--indeed, in every particular.
The startled men halted for a moment, speechless. The situation was
staggering.
Henri Guertin stood there alive, and as he bent over the prostrate
body an astounding truth became instantly revealed: the dead man had
been cleverly made-up to resemble the world-renowned police official.
The reason of this was an entire mystery, although one fact became
plain: he had, through posing as Guertin, been foully and swiftly
assassinated.
Who was he? Was he really the man who came there to suggest suicide in
preference to arrest, or had that strange suggestion been conveyed by
Guertin himself?
The point was next moment decided.
"You see, m'sieur," exclaimed Poland defiantly, turning to the great
detective, "I have preferred to take my trial--to allow the public the
satisfaction of a solution of the problem, rather than accept the
generous terms you offered me an hour ago."
"Terms I offered you!" cried the Frenchman. "What are you saying? I
was not here an hour ago. If you have had a visitor, it must have been
this impostor--this man who has lost his life because he has
impersonated me!"
Philip Poland, without replying, snatched at the detective's left hand
and examined it. There was no ring upon it.
Swiftly he bent beside the victim, and there, sure enough, upon the
dead white finger was revealed the curious ring he had noticed--an
oval amethyst engraved with a coat-of-arms surmounted by a cardinal's
hat--the ring worn by the man who had called upon him an hour before!
THE STORY OF OWEN BIDDULPH
CHAPTER ONE
BESIDE STILL WATERS
If I make too frequent use of the first person singular in these
pages, I crave forgiveness of the reader.
I have written down this strange story for two reasons: first, because
I venture to believe it to be one of the most remarkable sequences of
curious events that have ever occurred in a man's life; and secondly,
by so doing, I am able to prove conclusively before the world the
innocence of one sadly misjudged, and also to set at rest certain
scandalous tales which have arisen in consequence.
At risk of betraying certain confidences; at risk of placing myself in
the unenviable position of chronicler of my own misfortunes; at risk
even of defying those who have threatened my life should I dare speak
the truth, I have resolved to recount the whole amazing affair, just
as it occurred to me, and further, to reveal completely what has
hitherto been regarded as a mystery by readers of the daily
newspapers.
You already know my name--Owen Biddulph. As introduction, I suppose I
ought to add that, after coming down from Oxford, I pretended to read
for the Bar, just to please the dear old governor--Sir Alfred
Biddulph, Knight. At the age of twenty-five, owing to his unfortunate
death in the hunting-field, I found myself possessor of Carrington
Court, our fine Elizabethan place in North Devon, and town-house, 64a
Wilton Street, Belgrave Square, together with a comfortable income of
about nine thousand a year, mostly derived from sound industrial
enterprises.
My father, before his retirement, had been a Liverpool ship-owner,
and, like many others of his class, had received his knighthood on the
occasion of Queen Victoria's Jubilee. My mother had been dead long
since. I had but few relatives, and those mostly poor ones; therefore,
on succeeding to the property, I went down to Carrington just to
interview Browning, the butler, and the other servants, all of them
old and faithful retainers; and then, having given up all thought of a
legal career, I went abroad, in order to attain my long-desired
ambition to travel, and to "see the world."
Continental life attracted me, just as it attracts most young men.
Paris, with its glare and glitter, its superficial gaiety, its bright
boulevards, and its feminine beauty, is the candle to the moth of
youth. I revelled in Paris just as many a thousand other young men had
done before me. I knew French, Italian and German, and I was vain
enough to believe that I might have within me the making of a
cosmopolitan. So many young men believe that--and, alas! so many fail
on account of either indolence, or of narrow-mindedness. To be a
thorough-going cosmopolitan one must be imbued with the true spirit
of adventure, and must be a citizen of all cities, a countryman of all
countries. This I tried to be, and perhaps--in a manner--succeeded. At
any rate, I spent nearly three whole years travelling hither and
thither across the face of Europe, from Trondhjem to Constantinople,
and from Bordeaux to Petersburg.
Truly, if one has money, one can lead a very pleasant life, year in,
year out, at the various European health and pleasure resorts, without
even setting foot in our dear old England. I was young--and
enthusiastic. I spent the glorious golden autumn in Florence and in
Perugia, the Tuscan vintage in old Siena; December in Sicily; January
in Corsica; February and March at Nice, taking part in the Carnival
and Battles of Flowers; April in Venice; May at the Villa d'Este on
the Lake of Como; June and July at Aix; August, the month of the Lion,
among the chestnut-woods high up at Vallombrosa, and September at San
Sebastian in Spain, that pretty town of sea-bathing and of gambling.
Next year I spent the winter in Russia, the guest of a prince who
lived near Moscow; the early spring at the Hermitage at Monte Carlo;
May at the Meurice in Paris; the summer in various parts of
Switzerland, and most of the autumn in the high Tatra, the foot-hills
of the Carpathians.
And so, with my faithful Italian valet, Lorenzo, a dark-haired, smart
man of thirty, who had been six years in my service, and who had, on
so many occasions, proved himself entirely trustworthy, I passed away
the seasons as they came and went, always living in the best hotels,
and making a good many passing acquaintances. Life was, indeed, a
perfect phantasmagoria.
Now there is a certain section of English society who, being for some
reason or another beyond the pale at home, make their happy
hunting-ground in the foreign hotel. Men and women, consumptive sons
and scraggy daughters, they generally live in the cheapest rooms _en
pension_, and are ever ready to scrape up acquaintance with anybody of
good appearance and of either sex, as long as they are possessed of
money. Every one who has lived much on the Continent knows them--and,
be it said, gives them a wide berth.
I was not long before I experienced many queer acquaintanceships in
hotels, some amusing, some the reverse. At Verona a man, an Englishman
named Davis, who had been at my college in Oxford, borrowed fifty
pounds of me, but disappeared from the hotel next morning before I
came down; while, among other similar incidents, a dear,
quiet-mannered old widow--a Russian, who spoke English--induced me at
Ostend to assist her to pay her hotel bill of one thousand six hundred
francs, giving me a cheque upon her bank in Petersburg, a cheque
which, in due course, was returned to me marked "no account."
Still, I enjoyed myself. The carelessness of life suited me, for I
managed to obtain sunshine the whole year round, and to have a good
deal of fun for my money.
I had a fine sixty horse-power motor-car, and usually travelled from
place to place on it, my friend Jack Marlowe, who had been at Oxford
with me, and whose father's estates marched with mine on the edge of
Dartmoor, frequently coming out to spend a week or two with me on the
roads. He was studying for the diplomatic service, but made many
excuses for holidays, which he invariably spent at my side. And we had
a merry time together, I can assure you.
For nearly three years I had led this life of erratic wandering,
returning to London only for a week or so in June, to see my lawyers
and put in an appearance for a few days at Carrington to interview old
Browning. And I must confess I found the old place deadly dull and
lonely.
Boodles, to which I belonged, just as my father had belonged, I found
full of pompous bores and old fogeys; and though at White's there was
a little more life and movement now they had built a new roof, yet I
preferred the merry recklessness of Monte Carlo, or the gaiety of the
white-and-gold casinos at Nice or Cannes.
Thus nearly three years went by, careless years of luxury and
idleness, years of living _à la carte_ at restaurants of the first
order, from the Reserve at Beaulieu to the Hermitage at Moscow, from
Armenonville in the Bois to Salvini's in Milan--years of the education
of an epicure.
The first incident of this strange history, however, occurred while I
was spending the early spring at Gardone. Possibly you, as an English
reader, have never heard of the place. If, however, you were
Austrian, you would know it as one of the most popular resorts on the
beautiful mountain-fringed Lake of Garda, that deep blue lake, half in
Italian territory and half in Austrian, with the quaint little town of
Desenzano at the Italian end, and Riva, with its square old
church-tower and big white hotels, at the extreme north.
Of all the spring resorts on the Italian lakes, Gardone appeals to the
visitor as one of the quietest and most picturesque. The Grand Hotel,
with its long terrace at the lake-side, is, during February and March,
filled with a gay crowd who spend most of their time in climbing the
steep mountain-sides towards the jealously guarded frontier, or taking
motor-boat excursions up and down the picturesque lake.
From the balcony of my room spread a panorama as beautiful as any in
Europe; more charming, indeed, than at Lugano or Bellagio, or other of
the many lake-side resorts, for here along the sheltered banks grew
all the luxuriant vegetation of the Riviera--the camellias, magnolias,
aloes and palms.
I had been there ten days or so when, one evening at dinner in the
long restaurant which overlooked the lake, there came to the small
table opposite mine a tall, fair-haired girl with great blue eyes,
dressed elegantly but quietly in black chiffon, with a band of pale
pink velvet twisted in her hair.
She glanced at me quickly as she drew aside her skirt and took her
seat opposite her companion, a rather stout, dark, bald-headed man,
red-faced and well-dressed, whose air was distinctly paternal as he
bent and handed the menu across to her.
The man turned and glanced sharply around. By his well-cut
dinner-coat, the way his dress-shirt fitted, and his refinement of
manner, I at once put him down as a gentleman, and her father.
I instantly decided, on account of their smartness of dress, that they
were not English. Indeed, the man addressed her in French, to which
she responded. Her coiffure was in the latest mode of Paris, her gown
showed unmistakably the hand of the French dressmaker, while her
elegance was essentially that of the Parisienne. There is always a
something--something indescribable--about the Frenchwoman which is
marked and distinctive, and which the English-bred woman can never
actually imitate.
Not that I like Frenchwomen. Far from it. They are too vain and
shallow, too fond of gaiety and flattery to suit my taste. No; among
all the many women I have met I have never found any to compare with
those of my own people.
I don't know why I watched the new-comers so intently. Perhaps it was
on account of the deliberate and careful manner in which the man
selected his dinner, his instructions to the _maître d'hotel_ as to
the manner the entrée was to be made, and the infinite pains he took
over the exact vintage he required. He spoke in French, fluent and
exact, and his manner was entirely that of the epicure.
Or was it because of that girl?--the girl with eyes of that deep,
fathomless blue, the wonderful blue of the lake as it lay in the
sunlight--the lake that was nearly a mile in depth. In her face I
detected a strange, almost wistful look, an expression which showed
that her thoughts were far away from the laughter and chatter of that
gay restaurant. She looked at me without seeing me; she spoke to her
father without knowing what she replied. There was, in those wonderful
eyes, a strange, far-off look, and it was that which, more than
anything else, attracted my attention and caused me to notice the
pair.
Her fair, sweet countenance was perfect in its contour, her cheeks
innocent of the Parisienne's usual aids to beauty, her lips red and
well moulded, while two tiny dimples gave a piquancy to a face which
was far more beautiful than any I had met in all my wanderings.
Again she raised her eyes from the table and gazed across the flowers
at me fixedly, with just a sudden inquisitiveness shown by her
slightly knit brows. Then, suddenly starting, as though realizing she
was looking at a stranger, she dropped her eyes again, and replied to
some question her father had addressed to her.
Her dead black gown was cut just discreetly _décolleté_, which well
became a girl not yet twenty, while at her throat, suspended by a very
thin gold chain, was a single stone, a splendid ruby of enormous size,
and of evident value. The only other ornament she wore was a curious
antique bracelet in the form of a jewelled snake, the tail of which
was in its mouth--the ancient emblem of Eternity.
Why she possessed such an attraction for me I cannot tell, except that
she seemed totally unlike any other woman I had ever met before--a
face that was as perfect as any I had seen on the canvases of the
great painters, or in the marbles of the Louvre or the Vatican.
Again she raised her eyes to mine. Again I realized that the
expression was entirely unusual. Then she dropped them again, and in a
slow, inert way ate the crayfish soup which the waiter had placed
before her.
Others in the big, long room had noticed her beauty, for I saw people
whispering among themselves, while her father, leaning back in his
chair on placing down his spoon, was entirely conscious of the
sensation his daughter had evoked.
Throughout the meal I watched the pair carefully, trying to overhear
their conversation. It was, however, always in low, confidential
tones, and, strain my ears how I might, I could gather nothing. They
spoke in French, which I detected from the girl's monosyllables, but
beyond that I could understand nothing.
From the obsequious manner of the _maître d'hotel_ I knew that her
father was a person of importance. Yet the man who knows what to order
in a restaurant, and orders it with instructions, is certain to
receive marked attention. The epicure always commands the respect of
those who serve him. And surely this stranger was an epicure, for
after his dessert I heard him order with his coffee a _petit verre_ of
gold-water of Dantzig, a rare liqueur only known and appreciated by
the very select few who really know what is what--a bottle of which,
if you search Europe from end to end, you will not find in perhaps
twenty restaurants, and those only of the very first order.
The eyes of the fair-haired girl haunted me. Instinctively I knew that
she was no ordinary person. Her apathy and listlessness, her strangely
vacant look, combined with the wonderful beauty of her countenance,
held me fascinated.
Who was she? What mystery surrounded her? I felt, by some strange
intuition, that there was a mystery, and that that curious wistfulness
in her glance betrayed itself because, though accompanied by her
father, she was nevertheless in sore need of a friend.
When her father had drained his coffee they rose and passed into the
great lounge, with its many little tables set beneath the palms, where
a fine orchestra was playing Maillart's tuneful "Les Dragons de
Villars."
As they seated themselves many among that well-dressed, gay crowd of
winter idlers turned to look at them. I, however, seldom went into the
nightly concert; therefore I strolled along the wide corridor to the
hall-porter, and inquired the names of the fresh arrivals.
"Yes, monsieur," replied the big, dark-bearded German; "you mean, of
course, numbers one hundred and seventeen and one hundred and
forty-six--English, father and daughter, arrived by the five o'clock
boat from Riva with a great deal of baggage--here are the names," and
he showed me the slips signed by them on arrival. "They are the only
new-comers to-day."
There I saw, written on one in a man's bold hand, "Richard Pennington,
rentier, Salisbury, England," and on the other, "Sylvia Pennington."
"I thought they were French," I remarked.
"So did I, monsieur; they speak French so well. I was surprised when
they registered themselves as English."
CHAPTER TWO
TOLD IN THE NIGHT
Sylvia Pennington! The face, the name, those wistful, appealing eyes
haunted me in my dreams that night.
Why? Even now I am at a loss to tell, unless--well, unless I had
become fascinated by that strange, mysterious, indescribable
expression; fascinated, perhaps, by her marvellous beauty, unequalled
in all my experience.
Next morning, while my man Lorenzo was waiting for me, I told him to
make discreet inquiry regarding the pair when in the steward's room,
where he ate his meals. Soon after noon he came to me, saying he had
discovered that the young lady had been heard by the night-porter
weeping alone in her room for hours, and that, as soon as it was dawn,
she had gone out for a long walk alone along the lake-side. It was
apparent that she and her father were not on the very best of terms.
"The servants believe they are French, sir," my man added; "but it
seems that they tell people they are English. The man speaks English
like an Englishman. I heard him, half-an-hour ago, asking the
hall-porter about a telegram."
"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
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 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
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 White's or Boodle's;
for in May one meets everybody in St. James's 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 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
THE DARK HOUSE IN BAYSWATER
Edmund Shuttleworth, the thin-faced, clean-shaven Hampshire rector,
had spoken the truth. His manner and speech were that of an honest
man.
Within myself I could but admit it. Yet I loved Sylvia. Why, I cannot
tell. How can a man tell why he loves? First love is more than the
mere awakening of a passion: it is transition to another state of
being. When it is born the man is new-made.
Yet, as the spring days passed, I lived in suspicion and wonder, ever
mystified, ever apprehensive.
Each morning I looked eagerly for a letter from her, yet each morning
I was disappointed.
It seemed true, as Shuttleworth had said, that an open gulf lay
between us.
Where was she, I wondered? I dared not write to Gardone, as she had
begged me not to do so. She had left there, no doubt, for was she not
a constant wanderer? Was not her stout, bald-headed father the modern
incarnation of the Wandering Jew?
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.
CHAPTER SIX
A GHASTLY TRUTH
Ere I could recover myself or utter a word, the pair dashed towards
me, seized my hands deftly and secured them behind the chair.
"What do you mean by this, you infernal blackguards!" I cried angrily.
"Release me!"
They only grinned in triumph. I struggled to free my right hand, in
order to get at my revolver. But it was held far too securely.
I saw that I had been cleverly entrapped!
The man with the pimply face placed his hand within my breast pocket
and took therefrom its contents with such confidence that it appeared
certain I had been watched while writing the cheque. He selected it
from among my letters and papers, and, opening it, said in a tone of
satisfaction--
"That's all right--as far as it goes. But we must have another
thousand."
"You'll have nothing from me," I replied, sitting there powerless, yet
defiant. "I don't believe Marlowe has been here at all! It's only a
trap, and I've fallen into it!"
"You've paid your friend's debts," replied the man gruffly; "now
you'll pay your own."
"I owe you nothing, you infernal swindler!" I responded quickly. "This
is a pretty game you are playing--one which you've played before, it
seems! The police shall know of this. It will interest them."
"They won't know through you," laughed the fellow. "But we don't want
to discuss that matter. I'm just going to write out a cheque for one
thousand, and you'll sign it."
"I'll do nothing of the sort!" I declared firmly.
"Oh yes, you will," remarked the younger man. "You've got money, and
you can easily afford a thousand."
"I'll not give you one single penny," I declared. "And, further, I
shall stop that cheque you've stolen from me."
Reckitt had already seated himself, opened my cheque-book, and was
writing out a draft.
When he had finished it he crossed to me, with the book and pen in
hand, saying--
"Now you may as well just sign this at first, as at last."
"I shall do no such thing," was my answer. "You've entrapped me here,
but you are holding me at your peril. You can't frighten me into
giving you a thousand pounds, for I haven't it at the bank."
"Oh yes, you have," replied the man with the red face. "We've already
taken the precaution to find out. We don't make haphazard guesses, you
know. Now sign it, and at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning you shall
be released--after we have cashed your cheques."
"Where is Marlowe?" I inquired.
"With the girl, I suppose."
"What girl?"
"Well," exclaimed the other, "her photograph is in the next room;
perhaps you'd like to see it."
"It does not interest me," I replied.
But the fellow Forbes left the room for a moment and returned with a
fine panel photograph in his hand. He held it before my gaze. I
started in utter amazement.
It was the picture of Sylvia! The same that I had seen in
Shuttleworth's study.
"You know her--eh?" remarked Reckitt, with a grim smile.
"Yes," I gasped. "Where is she?"
"Across the road--with your friend Jack Marlowe."
"It's a lie! A confounded lie! I won't believe it," I cried. Yet at
that moment I realized the ghastly truth, that I had tumbled into the
hidden pitfall against which both Shuttleworth and Sylvia had warned
me.
Could it be possible, I asked myself, that Sylvia--my adored
Sylvia--had some connection with these blackguards--that she had been
aware of their secret intentions?
"Sign this cheque, and you shall see her if you wish," said the man
who had written out the draft. "She will remain with you here till
eleven to-morrow."
"Why should I give you a thousand pounds?" I demanded.
"Is not a thousand a small price to pay for the service we are
prepared to render you--to return to you your lost lady-love?" queried
the fellow.
I was dying with anxiety to see her, to speak with her, to hold her
hand. Had she not warned me against this cunningly-devised trap, yet
had I not foolishly fallen into it? They had followed me to England,
and run me to earth at home!
"And supposing that I gave you the money, how do I know that you would
keep faith with me?" I asked.
"We shall keep faith with you, never fear," Reckitt replied, his
sinister face broadening into a smile. "It is simply for you to pay
for your release; or we shall hold you here--until you submit. Just
your signature, and to-morrow at eleven you are a free man."
"And if I refuse, what then?" I asked.
"If you refuse--well, I fear that you will ever regret it, that's all.
I can only tell you that it is not wise to refuse. We are not in the
habit of being met with refusal--the punishment is too severe." The
man spoke calmly, leaning with his back against the table, the cheque
and pen still in his hand.
"And if I sign, you will bring Sylvia here? You will promise me
that--upon your word of honour?"
"Yes, we promise you," was the man's reply.
"I want to see Marlowe, if he is here."
"I tell you he's not here. He's across the way with her."
I believe, if I could have got to my revolver at that moment, I should
have shot the fellow dead. I bit my lip, and remained silent.
I now felt no doubt that this was the trap of which Sylvia had given
me warning on that moonlit terrace beside the Italian lake. By some
unaccountable means she knew what was intended against me. This clever
trapping of men was apparently a regular trade of theirs!
If I could but gain time I felt that I might outwit them. Yet, sitting
there like a trussed fowl, I must have cut a pretty sorry figure. How
many victims had, like myself, sat there and been "bled"?
"Come," exclaimed the red-faced adventurer impatiently, "we are losing
time. Are you going to sign the cheque, or not?"
"I shall not," was my firm response. "You already have stolen one
cheque of mine."
"And we shall cash it when your bank opens in the morning, my dear
sir," remarked Forbes airily.
"And make yourselves scarce afterwards, eh? But I've had a good look
at you, remember; I could identify you anywhere," I said.
"You won't have that chance, I'm afraid," declared Reckitt meaningly.
"You must think we're blunderers, if you contemplate that!" and he
grinned at his companion.
"Now," he added, turning again to me; "for the last time I ask you if
you will sign this cheque I have written."
"And for the last time I tell you that you are a pair of blackguards,
and that I will do nothing of the sort."
"Not even if we bring the girl here--to you?"
I hesitated, much puzzled by the strangeness of the attitude of the
pair. Their self-confidence was amazing.
"Sign it," he urged. "Sign it in your own interests--and in hers."
"Why in hers?"
"You will see, after you have appended your signature."
"When I have seen her I will sign," I replied at last; "but not
before. You seem to have regarded me as a pigeon to pluck. But you'll
find out I'm a hawk before you've done with me."
"I think not," smiled the cool-mannered Reckitt. "Even if you are a
hawk, you're caged. You must admit that!"
"I shall shout murder, and alarm the police," I threatened.
"Shout away, my dear fellow," replied my captor. "No sound can be
heard outside this room. Shriek! We shall like to hear you. You won't
have opportunity to do so very much longer."
"Why?"
"Because refusal will bring upon you a fate more terrible than you
have ever imagined," was the fellow's hard reply. "We are men of our
word, remember! It is not wise to trifle with us."
"And I am also a man of my word. You cannot obtain money from me by
threats."
"But we offer you a service in return--to bring Sylvia to you."
"Where is her father?" I demanded.
"You'd better ask her," replied Forbes, with a grin. "Sign this, and
see her. She is anxious--very anxious to meet you."
"How do you know that?"
"We know more than you think, Mr. Biddulph," was the sharper's reply.
His exterior was certainly that of a gentleman, in his well-cut dinner
jacket and a fine diamond stud in his shirt.
I could only think that the collapsible chair in which I sat was
worked by a lever from outside the room. There was a spy-hole
somewhere, at which they could watch the actions of their victims, and
take them unawares as I had been taken.
"And now," asked Reckitt, "have you fully reflected upon the serious
consequences of your refusal to sign this cheque?"
"I have," was my unwavering reply. "Do as you will, I refuse to be
blackmailed."
"Your refusal will cause disaster to yourself--and to her! You will
share the same fate--a horrible one. She tried to warn you, and you
refused to heed her. So you will both experience the same horror."
"What horror? I have no fear of you," I said.
"He refuses," Reckitt said, with a harsh laugh, addressing his
accomplice. "We will now let him see what is in store for him--how we
punish those who remain defiant. Bring in the table."
Forbes disappeared for a moment and then returned, bearing a small
round table upon which stood a silver cigar-box and a lighted candle.
The table he placed at my side, close to my elbow. Then Forbes took
something from a drawer, and ere I was aware of it he had slipped a
leathern collar over my head and strapped it to the back of the chair
so that in a few seconds I was unable to move my head from side to
side.
"What are you doing, you blackguards?" I cried in fierce anger. "You
shall pay for this, I warrant."
But they only laughed in triumph, for, held as I was, I was utterly
helpless in their unscrupulous hands and unable to lift a finger in
self-defence, my defiance must have struck them as ridiculous.
"Now," said Reckitt, standing near the small table, "you see this!"
and, leaning forward, he touched the cigar-box, the lid of which
opened with a spring.
Next second something shot quite close to my face, startling me.
I looked, and instantly became filled with an inexpressible horror,
for there, upon the table, lay a small, black, venomous snake. To its
tail was attached a fine green silken cord, and this was, in turn,
fastened to the candle. The wooden candle-stick was, I saw, screwed
down to the table. The cord entered the wax candle about two inches
lower than the flame.
I gave a cry of horror, whereat both men laughed heartily.
"Now," said Reckitt, "I promised you an unexpected surprise. There it
is! In half-an-hour the flame will reach the cord, and sever it. Then
the snake will strike. That half-hour will give you ample time for
reflection."
"You fiends!" I cried, struggling desperately to free myself. In doing
so I moved my head slightly, when the snake again darted at me like a
flash, only falling short about an inch from my cheek.
The reptile fell back, recoiled itself, and with head erect, its
cruel, beady eyes watching me intently, sat up ready to strike again.
The blood froze in my veins. I was horrified, held there only one
single inch from death.
"We wish you a very good night," laughed Forbes, as both he and his
companion walked towards the door. "You will have made a closer
acquaintance with the snake ere we cash your cheque in the morning."
"Yes," said Reckitt, turning upon me with a grin. "And Sylvia too will
share the same fate as yourself, for daring to warn you against us!"
"No!" I cried; "spare her, spare her!" I implored.
But the men had already passed out of the room, locking the door
securely after them.
I lay back silent, motionless, listening, not daring to move a muscle
because of that hideous reptile closely guarding me.
I suppose ten minutes must have passed--ten of the most awful minutes
of terror and disgust I have ever experienced in all my life--then a
sound broke the dead stillness of the night.
I heard a woman's loud, piercing scream--a scream of sudden horror.
Sylvia's voice! It seemed to emanate from the room beyond!
Again it was repeated. I heard her shriek distinctly--
"Ah! No, spare me! Not that--_not that_!"
Only a wall divided us, yet I was powerless, held there face to face
with a terrible and revolting death, unable to save her, unable to
raise my hand in self-defence.
She shrieked again, in an agony of terror.
I lay there breathless, petrified by horror.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE FLAME OF THE CANDLE
I shuddered at the horrible fate to which those scoundrels had
abandoned me.
Again the cruel flat head of the snake darted forth viciously to
within a single inch of my left cheek. I tried to draw back, but to
move was impossible, held as I was by that leathern collar, made
expressly for securing the head immovable.
My eyes were fixed upon the steady candle-flame. It was burning lower
and lower each moment. I watched it in fascination. Each second I grew
nearer that terrible, revolting end.
What had happened to Sylvia? I strained my ears to catch any further
sound. But there was none. The house was now silent as the grave.
That pair of scoundrels had stolen my cheque, and in the morning,
after my death, would cash it and escape with the proceeds!
I glanced around that weird room. How many previous victims had sat in
that fatal chair and awaited death as I was waiting, I wondered? The
whole plot betrayed a devilish ingenuity and cunning. Its very
character showed that the conspirators were no ordinary
criminals--they were past-masters in crime.
The incidents of the night in London are too often incredible. A man
can meet with adventures in the metropolis as strange, as exciting and
as perilous as any in unknown lands. Here, surely, was one in point.
I remember experiencing a strange dizziness, a curious nausea, due,
perhaps, to the fact that my head lay lower than my body. My thoughts
became muddled. I regretted deeply that I had not signed the cheque
and saved Sylvia. Yet were they not absolute blackguards? Would they
have kept faith with me?
I was breathless in apprehension. What had happened to Sylvia?
By slow, imperceptible degrees the candle burned lower. The flame was
long and steady. Nearer and nearer it approached that thin green cord
which alone separated me from death.
Again the serpent hissed and darted forth, angry at being so near its
prey, and yet prevented from striking--angry that its tail was knotted
to the cord.
I saw it writhing and twisting upon the table, and noted its peculiar
markings of black and yellow. Its eyes were bright and searching. I
had read of the fascination which a snake's gaze exercises over its
prey, and now I experienced it--a fatal fascination. I could not keep
my eyes off the deadly reptile. It watched me intently, as though it
knew full well that ere long it must be victorious.
Victorious! What did that mean? A sharp, stinging pain, and then an
agonizing, painful death, my head swollen hideously to twice its
size, my body held there in that mechanical vice, suffering all the
tortures of the damned!
The mere contemplation of that awful fate held me transfixed by
horror.
Suddenly I heard Sylvia's shriek repeated. I shouted, but no words
came back to me in return. Was she suffering the same fearful agony of
mind as myself? Had those brutes carried out their threat? They knew
she had betrayed them, it seemed, and they had, therefore, taken their
bitter and cowardly revenge.
Where was Pennington, that he did not rescue her?
I cursed myself for being such an idiot. Yet I had no idea that such a
cunningly-devised trap could be prepared. I had never dreamed, when I
went forth to pull Jack out of a hole, that I was deliberately placing
my head in such a noose.
What did it all mean? Why had these men formed this plot against me?
What had I done to merit such deadly vengeance as this?--a torture of
the Middle Ages!
Vainly I tried to think. As far as I knew, I had never met either
Forbes or Reckitt before in all my life. They were complete strangers
to me. I remembered there had been something about the man-servant who
admitted me that seemed familiar, but what it was, I could not decide.
Perhaps I had seen him before somewhere in the course of my
wanderings, but where, I knew not.
I recollected that soon after I had entered there I had heard the
sound of a motor-car receding. My waiting taxi had evidently been
paid, and dismissed.
How would they dispose of my body, I lay wondering? There were many
ways of doing so, I reflected. They might burn it, or bury it, or pack
it in a trunk and consign it to some distant address. When one
remembers how many persons are every year reported to the London
police as missing, one can only believe that the difficulties in
getting rid of the corpse of a victim are not so great as is popularly
imagined.
Speak with any detective officer of the Metropolitan Police, and, if
he is frank, he will tell you that a good many people meet with foul
play each year in every quarter of London--they disappear and are
never again heard of. Sometimes their disappearance is reported in the
newspapers--a brief paragraph--but in the case of people of the middle
class only their immediate relatives know that they are missing.
Many a London house with deep basement and a flight of steps leading
to its front door could, if its walls had lips, tell a tragic and
terrible story.
For one assassination discovered, ten remain unknown or merely vaguely
suspected.
How many thousands of pounds had these men, Forbes and Reckitt,
secured, I wondered? And how many poor helpless victims had felt the
serpent's fang and breathed their last in that fatal chair I now
occupied?
A dog howled dismally somewhere at the back. The men had told me that
no sound could be heard beyond those walls, yet had I not heard
Sylvia's shrieks? If I had heard them, then she could also hear me!
I shouted her name--shouted as loud as I could. But my voice in that
small room somehow seemed dulled and drowned.
"Sylvia," I shouted, "I am here! I--Owen Biddulph! Where are you?"
But there was no response. That horrible snake rose erect, looking at
me with its never-wavering gaze. I saw the pointed tongue darting from
its mouth. There--before me--soon to be released, was Death in reptile
form--Death the most revolting and most terrible.
That silence appalled me. Sylvia had not replied! Was she already
dead--stricken down by the fatal fang?
I called again: "Sylvia! Sylvia!"
But there came no answer. I set my teeth, and struggled to free myself
until the veins in my forehead were knotted and my bonds cut into the
flesh. But, alas! I was held as in the tentacles of an octopus. Every
limb was gripped, so that already a numbness had overspread them,
while my senses were frozen with horror.
Suddenly the lamp failed and died out, and the room was plunged in
darkness, save for the zone of light shed by the unflickering flame of
the candle. And there lay the weird and horrible reptile coiled,
awaiting its release.
It seemed to watch the lessening candle, just as I myself watched it.
That sudden failure of the light caused me anxious reflections.
A moment later I heard the front door bang. That decided me. It was as
I had feared. The pair of scoundrels had departed and left me to my
fate.
The small marble clock upon the mantelshelf opposite struck three. I
counted the strokes. I had been in that room nearly an hour and a
half.
How did they know of Jack Marlowe and his penchant for cards? Surely
the trap had been well baited, and devised with marvellous cunning.
That cheque of mine would be cashed at my bank in the morning without
question. I should be dead--and they would be free.
For myself, I did not care so very much. My chief thought was of
Sylvia, and of the awful fate which had overtaken her because she had
dared to warn me--that fate of which she had spoken so strangely on
the night when we had talked on the hotel terrace at Gardone.
That moonlit scene--the whole of it--passed through my fevered,
unbalanced brain. I lived those moments of ecstasy over again. I felt
her soft hand in mine. I looked again into those wonderful, fathomless
eyes; I heard that sweet, musical voice; I listened to those solemn
words of warning. I believed myself to be once more beside the
mysterious girl who had come into my life so strangely--who had held
me in fascination for life or death.
The candle-flame, still straight and unflickering, seemed like a
pillar of fire, while beyond, lay a cavernous blackness. I thought I
heard a slight noise, as though my enemies were lurking there in the
shadow. Yet it was a mere chimera of my overwrought brain.
I recollected the strange bracelet of Sylvia's--the serpent with its
tail in its mouth--the ancient symbol of Eternity. And I soon would be
launched into Eternity by the poisonous fang of that flat-headed
little reptile.
Thoughts of Sylvia--that strange, sweet-faced girl of my
dreams--filled my senses. Those shrieks resounded in my ears. She had
cried for help, and yet I was powerless to rescue her from the hands
of that pair of hell-fiends.
I struggled, and succeeded in moving slightly.
But the snake, maddened by its bond, struck again at me viciously, his
darting tongue almost touching my shrinking flesh.
A blood-red mist rose suddenly before my eyes. My head swam. My
overwrought brain, paralyzed by horror, became unbalanced. I felt a
tightness in the throat. In my ears once again I heard the hiss of the
loathsome reptile, a venomous, threatening hiss, as its dark shadow
darted before me, struggling to strike my cheek.
Through the red mist I saw that the candle burned so low that the edge
of the wax was on a level with the green silk cord, that slender
thread which withheld Death from me.
I looked again. A groan of agony escaped me.
Again the angry hiss of the serpent sounded. Again its dark form shot
between my eyes and the unflickering flame of the candle.
That flame was slowly but surely consuming the cord!
I shrieked for help in my abject despair.
The mist grew more red, more impenetrable. A lump arose in my throat,
preventing me from breathing.
And then I lapsed into the blackness of unconsciousness.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PRESENTS ANOTHER PROBLEM
When, by slow degrees, I became aware of things about me, I found
myself in total darkness, save that, straight before my eyes, some few
feet away, showed a thin, narrow line of light.
Next second, a flood of the most horrible recollections surged through
my brain. I dare not move a muscle, fearing that the reptile was
lurking near my face. My senses seemed dulled and dazed, yet my
recollections were quite clear. Every detail of those moments of awful
terror stood out clear and fearsome in my mind.
Slowly, so slow, indeed, as to be imperceptible, I managed to turn my
head aside, and glance at the small table. But it was in darkness. I
could distinguish nothing. To my surprise, I discovered, however, that
though I still remained in that position, my legs higher than my head,
yet the arms of the chair had unclasped, and my bonds had been freed!
What had happened?
In fear of bringing the watchful reptile upon me, I moved slightly.
But there was no movement from that table in the darkness.
I waited, dreading lest I should be suddenly attacked. Then,
summoning courage, I suddenly sprang out of the chair on the side
opposite the table, and dashed across to where showed that narrow
streak of light.
I saw that it came through the lower crevice of the heavy wooden
shutters. With frantic haste my hands slid over them. I found an iron
bar, and, this unlatched, I threw them back, and let in the broad
light of day.
For a moment my eyes were dazzled by the sunlight.
Then, on looking behind me, I saw that upon the table the candle had
burned itself to its socket, while on the floor, near by, lay the
small black reptile stretched out motionless.
I feared at first to approach it. To its tail the cord was still
attached, but it had been severed. I crept towards it, and, bending
down, realized with great relief that it was dead.
The leathern collar which had secured my head had been loosened and
the mechanism of the chair reversed, allowing me my freedom. I looked
around the room in wonder. There stood the littered card-table and the
empty glasses of the previous night, while the air was still heavy
with the odour of stale cigars.
Making quite certain that the reptile was dead, I turned my attention
to the chair, and noted how cleverly the devilish mechanism had been
hidden. It could, as I had suspected, be worked from without. The
victim, once seated there, had no chance whatever of escape.
In the light of day, the room--that fatal apartment wherein more than
one innocent man had, no doubt, met with a horrible end--looked very
shabby and dingy. The furniture was cheap and tawdry, and the carpet
very dirty.
There, upon the card-table, stood the ink, while the pen used by
Reckitt lay upon the floor. My wallet lay open near by. I took it up
quickly to glance through its contents. As far as I could discover,
nothing had been taken except the cheque I had written out, believing
I was to assist Jack Marlowe.
Eagerly I glanced at my watch, and found it was already a quarter past
ten.
The scoundrels had, no doubt, already been to the bank, cashed my
cheque, and were by this time clear away!
Remembering Sylvia, I drew my revolver, which still remained in my
hip-pocket, and, finding the door unlocked, went forth to search for
her. The fact that the door was now unlocked showed that some one had
entered there during my unconsciousness, and released me. From the
appearance of the snake, it seemed to have been killed by a sharp blow
across its back.
Some one had rescued me just in the nick of time.
I entered the front room on the same floor, the room whence those
woman's screams had emanated. It was a big bare drawing-room,
furnished in the ugly Early Victorian style, musty-smelling and
moth-eaten. The dirty holland blinds fitted badly and had holes in
them; therefore sufficient light was admitted to afford me a good view
of the large apartment.
There was nothing unusual there, save upon a small work-table lay some
embroidery work, where apparently it had been put down. An open novel
lay near, while close by was a big bowl filled with yellow roses. Yet
the apartment seemed to have been long closed and neglected, while the
atmosphere had a musty odour which was not dispelled by the sweet
perfume of the flowers.
Had Sylvia been in this room when she had shrieked?
I saw something upon the floor, and picked it up. It proved to be a
narrow band of turquoise-blue velvet, the ornament from a woman's
hair. Did it belong to her?
In vain I looked around for a candle--for evidences of the same
mediæval torture to which I had been submitted, but there were none.
In fear and trepidation I entered yet another room on the same floor,
but it was dusty and neglected--a kind of sitting-room, or perhaps
boudoir, for there was an old-fashioned high-backed piano in it. Yet
there was no sign that anybody had entered there for weeks--perhaps
for months. In the sunlight, I saw that there were cobwebs everywhere.
Surely it was a very strange house. It struck me that its owner had
perhaps died years ago, and since then it had remained untenanted.
Everywhere the style of furniture was that of sixty years ago, and
thick dust was covering all.
On entering the previous night I had not noticed this, but now, in the
broad light of day, the place looked very different. I saw, to my
surprise, that the windows had not been cleaned for years, and that
cobwebs hung everywhere.
Revolver in hand, I searched the place to the basement, but there was
no evidence of occupation. The doors of the kitchens had not,
apparently, been opened for years!
Upstairs, the bedrooms were old-fashioned, with heavy hangings, grey
with dust, and half hidden by festoons of cobwebs. In not a single
room was a bed that had been slept in. Indeed, I question if any one
had ascended to the second floor for several years!
As I stood in one of the rooms, gazing round in wonder, and half
suffocated by the dust my footsteps had disturbed, it suddenly
occurred to me that the pair of assassins, believing that I had died,
would, no doubt, return and dispose of my body. To me it seemed
certain that this was not the first occasion that they had played the
dastardly and brutal game. Yes, I felt positive they would return.
I searched the place to find a telephone, but there was none. The
bogus message sent to me had been sent from elsewhere.
The only trace of Sylvia I could find was that piece of velvet
ribbon, the embroidery which had so hastily been flung down, and the
bowl of fresh roses.
Why had she been there? The book and the embroidery showed that she
had waited. For what? That bowl of roses had been placed there to make
the room look fresh, for some attempt had been made to clean the
apartment, just as it had been made in the room wherein I had suffered
such torture.
Why had Sylvia uttered those screams of horror? I recollected those
words of hers. I recognized her voice. I would, indeed, have
recognized it among the voices of a thousand women.
I returned to the drawing-room, and gazed around it in wonder. If, as
it seemed, Reckitt and Forbes had taken unlawful possession of an
untenanted house, then it was probable they would not return to get
rid of my remains. The whole affair was incomprehensible. It seemed
evident that Sylvia had not fallen a victim to the vengeance of the
pair, as I had feared, but that perhaps I had owed my life to her.
Could it be that she had learned of my peril, released me, killed the
venomous reptile, and escaped?
Suddenly, as my eyes wandered about the dingy old room, I caught sight
of something shining. A golden bangle of curious Indian design was
lying upon the mantelshelf. I took it up, and in a moment recognized
it as one I had seen upon her wrist one evening while she sat at
dinner at Gardone.
I replaced it, stood for a moment deep in thought, and then, with
sudden resolve, returned to the chamber of horror, obtained my hat,
and, descending the stairs, went forth into Porchester Terrace.
I had to walk as far as Bayswater Road before I could find a taxi. The
sun was now shining brightly, and there were many people about in the
streets. Finding a cab at last, I told the man to drive with all speed
to my bank in Oxford Street.
It was just eleven when I went up to the counter to one of the paying
cashiers I knew, and asked him breathlessly if a cheque of mine had
been paid to a person named Reckitt. He saw by my manner that I was in
hot haste.
"I've cashed it not a moment ago, Mr. Biddulph," was his reply. "Why,
you must have passed the man as you came in! He's only this moment
gone out."
Without a word I dashed back to the swing-doors, and there, sure
enough, only a few yards away, I caught sight of Forbes, in a smart
grey flannel suit, entering a taxi. I shouted, but the taxi man did
not hear me. He was facing westward, and ere I could attract his
attention he was slowly moving in the direction of the Marble Arch.
The quick eyes of Forbes had, however, detected me, and, leaning out,
he said something to his driver. Quickly I re-entered my cab, and told
my man to turn and follow, pointing out the taxi in front. Mine was
open, while that in which the assassin sat was closed.
In his pocket the scoundrel carried over a thousand pounds of my
money.
My first impulse was to stop and inform a police-constable, but if I
did so I saw that he must escape. I shouted to my driver to try and
see the number of the cab, but there was a lot of traffic, and he was
unable to see it clearly.
I suppose I must have cut a sorry figure, dishevelled as I was by my
night's weird experience, and covered with the dust of that untenanted
house. What the bank-clerk must have thought, I know not.
It was an exciting chase. For a moment we were held up by the police
at Regent Circus, for there was much traffic, but only for a brief
space; then we tore after the receding cab at a pace which made many
passers-by stare. The cab in which Forbes was, being closed, the
driver did not see us, but I knew that the assassin was watching us
from the tiny window in the back, and was giving his driver
instructions through the front window.
My man had entered fully into the spirit of the chase.
"That fellow in yonder taxi has just stolen a thousand pounds!" I told
him.
"All right, sir," replied my driver, as he bent over his wheel; "we
shall catch him presently, never fear. I'm keeping my eye upon him all
right."
There were many taxis coming into the line of traffic from Bond Street
and from the other main thoroughfares crossing Oxford Street--red
taxis, just like the one in which Forbes was escaping. Yet we both
kept our eyes fixed upon that particular one, the driver of which
presently bent sideways, and shot back a glance at us.
Then he put on speed, and with marvellous dexterity threaded in and
out of the motor-buses and carts in front of him. I was compelled to
admire his driving. I could only suppose that Forbes had offered him
something handsome if he got safely away.
At the Marble Arch he suddenly turned down Park Lane, where the
traffic was less, and there gaining upon us, he turned into one of the
smaller streets, through Upper Grosvenor Street, winding in and out
the intricate thoroughfares which lay between Grosvenor Square and
Regent Street. Across Hanover Square and along Hanover Street we sped,
until, passing out on to the opposite side of Regent Street, the
driver, evidently believing that he had outwitted us, slowed down, and
then pulled up suddenly before a shop.
Ere the fugitive could escape, indeed ere the door could be opened, we
had pulled up a few yards away, and I dashed out and up to the door of
the cab, my revolver gripped in my hand.
My driver had descended also, and gained the other side of the cab
almost as soon as I had.
I opened the door, and met the fugitive boldly face to face.
Next second I fell back as though I had received a blow. I stood
aghast.
I could utter no word. The mystery had, I realized in that second,
been increased a hundredfold.
CHAPTER NINE
FACE TO FACE
On opening the door of the taxi I stood amazed to find that the
occupant was not a man--but a woman.
It was Sylvia!
She started at sight of me. Her countenance blanched to the lips as
she drew back and sat erect, a cry of dismay escaping her lips.
"You!" I gasped, utterly dumbfounded.
"Why--Mr. Biddulph!" she cried, recovering herself in a moment and
stretching forth her small gloved hand; "fancy meeting you like this!"
What words I uttered I scarcely knew. This sudden transformation of
the scoundrel Forbes into Sylvia Pennington held me bewildered. All I
could imagine was that Sylvia must have been awaiting the man in
another cab close to the bank, and that, in the course of our chase,
we had confused the two taxis. Forbes had succeeded in turning away
into some side street, while we had followed the cab of his companion.
She had actually awaited him in another cab while he had entered the
bank and cashed the stolen cheque!
My taxi-driver, when he saw that a lady, and not a man, occupied the
fugitive cab, drew back, returning to his seat.
"Do you know!" exclaimed the girl, with wonderful calmness, "only
yesterday I was thinking of you, and wondering whether you were in
London!"
"And only yesterday, too, Miss Pennington, I also was thinking of
you," I said meaningly.
She was dressed very quietly in dead black, which increased the
fairness of her skin and hair, wearing a big black hat and black
gloves. She was inexpressibly smart, from the thin gauzy veil to the
tips of her tiny patent-leather shoes, with a neat waist and a figure
that any woman might envy. Indeed, in her London attire she seemed
even smarter than she had appeared on the terrace beside the blue
Italian lake.
"Where is your father?" I managed to ask.
"Oh!--well, he's away just now. He was with me in London only the
other day," she replied. "But, as you know, he's always travelling."
Then she added: "I'm going into this shop a moment. Will you wait for
me? I'm so pleased to see you again, and looking so well. It seems
really ages since we were at Gardone, doesn't it?" and she smiled that
old sweet smile I so well remembered.
"I'll wait, of course," I replied, and, assisting her out, I watched
her pass into the big drapery establishment. Then I idled outside amid
the crowd of women who were dawdling before the attractive windows, as
is the feminine habit.
If it had been she who had rescued me from death and had released me,
what a perfect actress she was. Her confusion had only lasted for a
few seconds. Then she had welcomed me, and expressed pleasure at our
re-encounter.
I recollected the bow of ribbon-velvet which reposed in my pocket, and
the Indian bangle I had found. I remembered, too, those agonized,
terrified cries in the night--and all the mysteries of that weird and
silent house!
When she came forth I would question her; I would obtain from her the
truth anent those remarkable happenings.
Was it of that most ingenious and dastardly plot she had warned me?
Was her own conviction that she must suffer the penalty of death based
upon the knowledge of the deadly instrument, that venomous reptile
used by the assassins?
Could it be that Pennington himself--her own father--was implicated in
this shameful method of obtaining money and closing the lips of the
victims?
As I stood there amid the morning bustle of Regent Street out in the
broad sunshine, all the ghastly horrors of the previous night crowded
thickly upon me. Why had she shrieked: "Ah! not that--_not that_!" Had
she, while held prisoner in that old-fashioned drawing-room, been told
of the awful fate to which I had been consigned?
I remembered how I had called to her, but received no response. And
yet she must have been in the adjoining room.
Perhaps, like myself, she had fainted.
I recalled her voice distinctly. I certainly had made no mistake. She
had been actually present in that house of black torture. Therefore,
being my friend, there seemed no doubt that, to her, I owed my
mysterious salvation. But how? Aye, that was the question.
Suddenly, as I stood there on the crowded pavement, I became conscious
that I was attracting attention. I recollected my dusty clothes and
dirty, dishevelled face. I must have presented a strange, dissipated,
out-all-night appearance. And further, I had lost a thousand pounds.
Up and down before the long range of shop-windows I walked, patiently
awaiting her reappearance. I was anxious to know the truth concerning
the previous night's happenings--a truth which I intended she should
not conceal from me.
I glanced at my watch. It was already past eleven o'clock. Morning
shopping in Regent Street had now commenced in real earnest. The
thoroughfare was lined with carriages, for was it not the height of
the London season?
In and out of the big drapery establishment passed crowds of
well-dressed women, most of them with pet dogs, and others with male
friends led like lambs to the slaughter. The spectacle of a man in
silk hat out shopping with a lady friend is always a pitiable one. His
very look craves the sympathy of the onlooker, especially if he be
laden with soft-paper parcels.
My brain was awhirl. My only thought was of Sylvia and of her strange
connection with these undesirable persons who had so ingeniously
stolen my money, and who had baited such a fatal trap.
Anxious as I was to get to a telephone and ring up Jack, yet I could
not leave my post--I had promised to await her.
Nearly an hour went by; I entered the shop and searched its labyrinth
of "departments." But I could not distinguish her anywhere. Upstairs
and downstairs I went, inquiring here and there, but nobody seemed to
have seen the fair young lady in black; the great emporium seemed to
have swallowed her up.
It was now noon. Even though she might have been through a
dress-fitting ordeal, an hour was certainly ample time. Therefore I
began to fear that she had missed me. There were several other exits
higher up the street, and also one which I discovered in a side
street.
I returned to her taxi, for I had already paid off my man. The driver
had not seen his "fare."
"I was hailed by the lady close to Chapel Street," he said, "and I
drove 'er to Oxford Street, not far from Tottenham Court Road. We
stood at the kerb for about ten minutes. Then she ordered me to drive
with all speed over 'ere."
"Did you see her speak with any gentleman?"
"She was with a dark, youngish gentleman when they hailed me. She got
in and left 'im in Chapel Street. I heard 'im say as we went off that
he'd see 'er again soon."
"That's all you know of her?"
"Yes, sir. I've never seen 'er before," replied the driver. Then he
added with a smile, "Your man's been tellin' me as how you thought I
had a bank-thief in my cab!"
"Yes, but I was mistaken," I said. "I must have made a mistake in the
cab."
"That's very easy, sir. We're so much alike--us red 'uns."
Sylvia's non-appearance much puzzled me. What could it mean? For
another half-hour--an anxious, impatient, breathless half-hour--I
waited, but she did not return.
Had she, too, cleverly escaped by entering the shop, and passing out
by another entrance?
Another careful tour of the establishment revealed the fact that she
certainly was not there.
And so, after a wait of nearly two hours, I was compelled to accept
the hard and very remarkable fact that she had purposely evaded me,
and escaped!
Then she was in league with the men who had stolen my thousand pounds!
And yet had not that selfsame man declared that she, having betrayed
him, was to meet the same terrible fate as that prepared for me?
For a final five minutes I waited; then annoyed, disappointed and
dismayed, entered the taxi, and drove to Wilton Street.
On entering with my latch-key, Browning came forward with a puzzled
expression, surprised, no doubt, at my dishevelled appearance.
"I've been very anxious about you, Mr. Owen," exclaimed the old man. I
was always Mr. Owen to him, just as I had been when a lad. "When I
went to your room this morning I found your bed empty. I wondered
where you had gone."
"I've had a strange adventure, Browning," I laughed, rather forcedly I
fear. "Has Mr. Marlowe rung me up?"
"No, sir. But somebody else rang up about an hour ago, and asked
whether you were in."
"Who was it?"
"I couldn't quite catch the name, sir. It sounded like
Shuffle--something."
"Shuttleworth!" I cried. "Did he leave any message?"
"No, sir. He merely asked if you were in--that's all."
As Sylvia was in London, perhaps Shuttleworth was in town also, I
reflected. Yet she had cleverly made her escape--in order to avoid
being questioned. Her secret was a guilty one!
I called up Jack, who answered cheerily as usual.
"You didn't ring me up about one o'clock this morning, did you?" I
inquired.
"No. Why?" he asked.
"Oh--well, nothing," I said. "I thought perhaps it might have been
you--that's all. What time shall you be in at White's?"
"About four. Will you be there?"
"Yes."
"Right-ho! Good-bye, old man," and he rang off.
I ascended to my room, changed my clothes, and made myself
respectable. But during the time I was dressing I reflected whether I
should go to Scotland Yard and relate my strange experience. Such
clever fiends as Reckitt and Forbes deserved punishment. What fearful
crimes had been committed in that weird, neglected house I dreaded to
think. My only hesitation, however, was caused by the thought that
perhaps Sylvia might be implicated. I felt somehow impelled to try and
solve the problem for myself. I had lost a thousand pounds. Yet had I
not fallen into that trap in utter disregard of Sylvia's warning?
Therefore, I resolved to keep my own counsel for the present, and to
make a few inquiries in order to satisfy my curiosity. So, putting on
a different suit, a different collar, and a soft felt hat which I
never wore, in a perhaps feeble attempt to transform myself from my
usual appearance, I went forth again.
My first visit was to the bank, where I saw the manager and explained
that the cheque had been stolen from my pocket, though I did not
expose the real facts. Then, after he had condoled with me upon my
loss, and offered to send the description of the thief to the police
at once, I re-entered the taxi, and drove back to Porchester Terrace,
alighting a short distance from Althorp House.
CHAPTER TEN
CONTAINS A FURTHER SURPRISE
It was nearly one o'clock, and the sun was high, as I walked beneath
the dingy brick walls which separate each short garden from the
pavement. In some gardens were stunted trees, blackened by the London
smoke, while the houses were mostly large and comfortable, for it is
still considered a "genteel," if somewhat decayed neighbourhood.
Before that house of horror I paused for a moment. The dingy blinds of
yellow holland were drawn at each of the soot-grimed windows,
blackened by age and dirt. The garden was weedy and neglected, for the
grass grew high on the patch of lawn, and the dead leaves of the
tulips and daffodils of spring had not been removed.
The whole place presented a sadly neglected, sorry appearance--a state
of uncared-for disorder which, in the darkness of night, I had, of
course, not noticed.
As I looked within the garden I saw lying behind the wall an old
weather-beaten notice-board which bore the words "To be let,
Furnished," and giving the name of a well-known firm of estate agents
in Pall Mall.
The house next door was smart and well kept, therefore I resolved to
make inquiry there.
Of the tall, thin, old man-servant who answered my ring, I inquired
the name of the occupant of Althorp House.
"Well, sir," he replied, "there hasn't been an occupant since I've
been in service here, and that's ten years last March. An old lady
lived there, I've heard--a rather eccentric old lady. They've tried to
let it furnished, but nobody has taken it. It is said that the old
lady left instructions in her will that the furniture was to be left
just as it was for twenty years after her death. I expect the place
must be fine and dirty! An old woman goes there once every six weeks
or so, I believe, just to open the doors and let in a little air. But
it's never cleaned."
"And nobody has been over it with a view to renting it?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir."
"There's never been anybody going in or out--eh?"
"Well, I've never seen them, sir," was the man's reply.
"But there have been people coming and going, have there not?"
The man hesitated for a moment, apparently slightly puzzled at my
question.
"Well, sir, to tell the truth, there's been a very funny story about
lately. It is said that some of the old woman's relatives have
returned, and they've been seen going in and out--but always in the
middle of the night."
"What sort of people?" I asked quickly.
"Oh! two men and a woman--so they say. But of course I've never seen
anybody. I've asked the constables on night duty, and they've never
seen any one, or they would, no doubt, have reported it."
"Then who has seen them?"
"I really don't know. I heard the gossip over in the Royal Oak. How it
originated, or whether it had any foundation in fact, I can't find
out."
"I see the board has fallen down."
"Yes, that's been down for a couple of months or more--blown down by
the wind, I suppose."
"You haven't heard cabs stopping outside at night, for instance?"
"No, sir. I sleep at the back, and should therefore not hear."
I could see that he was a little uncertain as to the reason of my
inquiries, therefore I made an excuse that having been struck by the
appearance of the house so long neglected my curiosity had been
aroused.
"You've never heard of cabs stopping there at night?" I asked, a few
moments later.
"Well, this morning the cook, who sleeps upstairs in front, funnily
enough, told me a curious story of how in the night a taxi stopped and
a gentleman got out and entered the house. A few minutes later
another man came forth from the house, paid the taxi-driver, and he
moved off. But," laughed the man-servant, "I fancy cook had been
dreaming. I'm going to ask the constable when he comes on duty
to-night if he saw any strangers here."
I smiled. The man whom the cook saw had evidently been myself.
Then, after a further chat, I pressed half-a-crown into his ready palm
and left.
My next visit was to the estate agents in Pall Mall, where, presenting
myself as a possible tenant, the clerk at whose table I had taken a
seat said--
"Well, sir, Althorp House is in such a bad, neglected state that we do
not now-a-days send clients to view it. Old Mrs. Carpenter died some
thirteen years ago, and according to her will the place had to be left
undisturbed, and let furnished. The solicitors placed it in our hands,
but the property until the twenty years have elapsed, is quite
untenantable. The whole place has now gone to rack and ruin. We have a
number of other furnished houses which I will be most delighted to
give you orders to view."
In pretence that I wanted a house I allowed him to select three for
me, and while doing so learnt some further particulars regarding the
dark house in Porchester Terrace. As far as he knew, the story of Mrs.
Carpenter's relatives taking secret possession was a myth.
The caretaker had been withdrawn two years ago, and the place simply
locked up and left. If burglars broke in, there was nothing of value
for them to take, he added.
Thus the result of my inquiries went to confirm my suspicion that the
ingenious pair of malefactors had taken possession of the place
temporarily, in order to pursue their nefarious plans.
There was a garden at the rear. Might it not also be the grave wherein
the bodies of their innocent victims were interred?
That afternoon, at four, I met Jack Marlowe in White's, and as we sat
in our big arm-chairs gazing through the windows out into the sunshine
of St. James's Street, I asked him whether he would be prepared to
accompany me upon an adventurous visit to a house in Bayswater.
The long-legged, clean-shaven, clean-limbed fellow with the fairish
hair and merry grey eyes looked askance for a moment, and then
inquired--
"What's up, old man? What's the game?" He was always eager for an
adventure, I knew.
"Well, the fact is I want to look around a house in Porchester
Terrace, that's all. I want to search the garden when nobody's about."
"Why?"
"In order to satisfy myself about something."
"Become an amateur detective--eh, Owen?"
"Well, my curiosity has certainly been aroused, and I intend to go to
the house late to-night and look round the garden. Will you come?"
He was one of the best of good fellows, overflowing with good humour
and good nature. His face seemed to wear a perpetual smile of
contentment.
"Of course. But tell me more," he asked.
"I will--afterwards," I said. "Let's dine together somewhere, and turn
in at the Empire afterwards. We don't want to get to Bayswater before
midnight, as we mustn't be seen. Don't dress. I'll bring an electric
torch."
"I've got one. I'll bring mine also," he replied, at once entering
into the spirit of the adventure. "Only you might tell me what's in
the wind, Owen," he added.
"I'll tell you afterwards, old chap," I promised.
And then we separated, agreeing to meet at eight at a well-known
restaurant which we often patronized.
That night, when the curtain fell at the Empire, we both went forth
and strolled along to St. James's Street to get a drink at the club.
The later we went forth on our nocturnal inquiry, the better.
I recollected that look of terror and astonishment on Forbes's
countenance when his gaze had met mine outside the bank--a look which
showed that he had believed me to be safely out of the way. He had
never dreamed I was still alive! Hence it seemed to me certain that
the pair of malefactors, having secured the money, would at once make
themselves scarce. How, I wondered, could they have known of Jack
Marlowe, unless they had watched us both in secret, as seemed most
likely.
That they would not return again to that house of horror in Bayswater
seemed certain.
Towards one o'clock we took a taxi off the stand outside White's and
drove to Porchester Terrace, alighting some distance from our
destination. We passed the constable strolling slowly in the opposite
direction, and when at last we gained the rusty iron gate we both
slipped inside, quietly and unobserved.
The street lamp in the vicinity lit up the front of the dingy house,
therefore fearing observation from any of the servants next door, we
moved noiselessly in the shadow of the bushes along the side of the
premises, past a small conservatory, many panes of glass of which were
broken, and so into the darkness of the small back garden, which
seemed knee-deep in grass and weeds, and which, from its position,
hemmed in by blank walls, could not be overlooked save from the house
itself.
All was silence. The scene was weird in the extreme. In the distance
could be heard the faint hum of the never-ceasing traffic of London.
Above, showed the dark windows of that grim old place wherein I had so
nearly lost my life.
"I want to examine this garden thoroughly," I whispered to Jack, and
then I switched on my torch and showed a light around. A tangle of
weeds and undergrowth was revealed--a tangle so great that to
penetrate it without the use of a bill-hook appeared impossible.
Still we went forward, examining everywhere with our powerful electric
lights.
"What will the people say?" laughed Jack. "They'll take us for
burglars, old chap!"
"The place is empty," I replied. "Our only fear is of the police. To
them we would be compelled to make an explanation--and that's just
what I don't want to do."
For some time we carefully searched, conversing only in whispers. My
hands were scratched, and stung by nettles, and Jack had his coat
badly torn by thorns. The garden had been allowed to run wild for all
the years since old Mrs. Carpenter's death, and the two ash trees had
spread until their thick branches overshadowed a large portion of the
ground.
Beneath one of these trees I suddenly halted as an ejaculation escaped
me. Near the trunk, and in such a position that it would not be seen
even from the windows of the house, yawned a hole, and at its side a
mound of newly-dug earth.
"Ah!" I cried. "This is what I've been in search of!" The discovery
revealed a ghastly truth. I shuddered at the sight of it.
"What, that hole?" asked Jack, in a low voice as we approached and
peered into it. I judged it to be about three feet or so in depth.
"What a funny thing to search for!"
"That hole, Jack, was intended for a man's grave!" I whispered
hoarsely, "and the man intended was _myself_!"
"You!" he gasped. "What do you mean, Owen?"
"I mean that that grave yonder was dug in order to conceal my dead
body," was my low, meaning answer. "And I fear--fear very much--that
the remains of others who have met with foul play have been concealed
here!"
"You mean that murder was actually intended!" he exclaimed in
astonishment. "When?"
"Last night. I was entrapped here and narrowly escaped."
"How? Tell me all about it," he urged.
"Later on. Not here," I said. "Let us see if there is any further
evidence of recent digging," and together we examined the ground
beneath the second tree.
Presently Jack in the course of searching about, came to a spot where
the ground seemed perceptibly softer. My stick sank in, while in other
parts the ground seemed hard. Beneath the trees the weeds and grass
grew thinly, and I presumed that the miscreants could work there under
the canopy of leaves without fear of observation.
I bent down and carefully examined the surface, which, for about four
feet square, bore plain traces of having recently been moved.
Something had evidently been interred there. Yet tiny fresh blades of
green were just springing up, as though grass-seed had been sprinkled
over in order to obliterate traces of the recent excavation.
"What do you think of it?" I inquired of my companion.
"Well, perhaps somebody has really been buried here--eh?" he said.
"Don't you think you ought to go and tell the police at once?"
I was silent, in bewilderment.
"My own opinion is, Owen, that if a serious attempt has been made upon
you, and you really suspect that that hole yonder was prepared to
receive you, then it is your duty to tell the police. Others may fall
into the trap," Jack added.
"Not here," I said. "The assassins will not return, never fear. They
know of their failure in my case, and by this time they are, in all
probability, out of the country."
"But surely we ought to examine this spot and ascertain whether the
remains of any one is concealed here!" exclaimed my old friend.
Yet I still hesitated, hesitated because I feared that any exposure
must implicate that sweet little girl who, though my friend, had so
ingeniously escaped me.
At the same moment, however, our ears both caught a slight movement
among the tangled shrubs under the wall at the extreme end of the
garden. Instantly we shut off our lamps, and stood motionless,
listening.
At first I believed it to be only the scrambling of a cat. But next
second Jack nudged my arm, and straining my eyes I saw a dark figure
moving stealthily along, half crouching so as to be less conspicuous,
but moving slowly towards that side of the house which was the only
exit.
Fearing discovery there, our examination being so thorough, the
intruder was slowly creeping off, endeavouring to escape observation.
For an instant I remained motionless, watching the dark, crouching
figure. Then, drawing my revolver, I made a dash straight in its
direction.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WHAT THE POLICE KNEW
As I pushed my way through the tangle of weeds and undergrowth, Jack
followed closely at my heels.
The dark figure leapt away in an instant, and dashed round the corner
by the ruined conservatory, but I was too quick for him. I caught him
up when he gained the front of the house, and there, in the light of
the street-lamp, my eyes fell upon a strange-looking object.
He proved to be a ragged, hunchbacked youth, so deformed as to be
extremely ugly, both in face and figure. His hair, long and lank, hung
about his shoulders, while his dark eyes stood out in terror when I
ordered him to halt, and covered him with my shining weapon.
His was the most weird figure that I had seen for many a day. I judged
him to be about eighteen or nineteen, though he looked older. His legs
were short, his head seemed far too big for his crooked body, while
his arms were long and ape-like, and his fingers thin, like talons.
"Now then, what are you doing here?" I demanded in a firm, commanding
voice.
But he only quivered, and crouched against the wall like a whipped
dog.
"Speak!" I said. "Who are you?"
He gave vent to a loud, harsh laugh, almost a screech, and then
grinned horribly in my face.
"Who are you?" I repeated. "Where do you live?"
But though his mouth moved, as though he replied, no sound escaped
him.
I spoke again, but he only laughed wildly, his thin fingers twitching.
"Ho! ho! ho!" he ejaculated, pointing back to the neglected garden.
"I wonder what he means!" exclaimed Jack.
"Why, I believe he's an idiot!" I remarked.
"He has every appearance of one," declared my companion, who then
addressed him, with the same negative result.
Again the weird, repulsive youth pointed back to the garden, and,
laughing hideously, uttered some words in gibberish which were quite
unintelligible.
"If we remain here chattering, the constable will find us," I
remarked, so we all three went forth into the street, the ugly
hunchback walking at my side, quite tractable and quiet.
Presently, unable to gather a single intelligible sentence from him,
Jack and I resolved to leave him, and afterwards follow him and
ascertain where he lived.
Why had he pointed to the garden and laughed so hilariously? Had he
witnessed any of those nocturnal preparations--or interments?
At last, at the corner of Bishop's Road, we wished him farewell and
turned away. Then, at a respectable distance, we drew into a gateway
to watch. He remained standing where we had left him for some ten
minutes or so, until a constable slowly approached, and, halting,
began to chat to him.
Apparently he was a well-known figure, for we could hear the policeman
speaking, and could distinguish the poor fellow laughing that queer,
harsh, discordant laugh--the laugh of the idiot.
Presently the constable moved forward again, whereupon I said--
"I'll get on and have a chat with the policeman, Jack. You follow the
hunchback if he moves away."
"Right-ho," replied my friend, while I sped off, crossing the road and
making a detour until I met the constable.
Having wished him good-night, I inquired the identity of the deformed
youth.
"Oh, sir," he laughed, "that's Mad 'Arry. 'E's quite 'armless. 'E's
out most nights, but we never see 'im in the day, poor chap. I've
known 'im ever since he was about nine."
"Does no work, I suppose?"
"None. 'Ow can 'e? 'E's as mad as a hatter, as the sayin' goes,"
replied the constable, his thumbs hitched in his belt as he stood.
"A kind of midnight wanderer, eh?"
"Yes, 'e's always a-pryin' about at night. Not long ago 'e found
burglars in a 'ouse in Gloucester Terrace, and gave us the alarm. We
copped four of 'em. The magistrate gave 'im a guinea out o' the
poor-box."
"Ah! so he's of use to you?"
"Yes, sir, 'e's most intelligent where there's any suspicious
characters about. I've often put 'im on the watch myself."
"Then he's not quite insane?"
"Not on that point, at any rate," laughed the officer.
"Where does he live?"
"'Is father's a hackney-carriage driver, and 'e lives with 'im up in
Gloucester Mews, just at the back of Porchester Mews--I don't know if
you know it?"
I was compelled to confess ignorance of the locality, but he directed
me.
"Are you on night-duty in Porchester Terrace, constable?" I asked a
few moments later.
"Yes, sir, sometimes. Why?"
"You know Althorp House, of course?"
"Yes, the 'aunted 'ouse, as some people call it. Myself, I don't
believe in ghosts."
"Neither do I," I laughed, "but I've heard many funny stories about
that place. Have you ever heard any?"
"Lots, sir," replied the man. "We're always being told of strange
things that 'ave 'appened there, yet when we 'ave a look around we
never find anything, so we've ceased to trouble. Our inspector's
given us orders not to make any further inquiries, 'e's been worried
too often over idle gossip."
"What's the latest story afloat concerning the place?" I asked. "I'm
always interested in mysteries of that sort."
"Oh, I 'eard yesterday that somebody was seen to get out of a taxi-cab
and enter. And 'e 'asn't been seen to come forth again."
"That's curious," I said. "And haven't you looked over the place?"
"I'm not on duty there. Perhaps my mate 'as. I don't know.
But, funnily enough," added the officer, "Mad 'Arry has been
tellin' me something about it a moment ago--something I can't
understand--something about the garden. I suppose 'e's been a-fancyin'
something or other. Everybody seems to see something in the garden, or
at the windows. Why, about a week ago, a servant from one of the
'ouses in the Terrace came up to me at three o'clock in the afternoon,
in broad daylight, and said as how she'd distinctly seen at the
drawin'-room window the face of a pretty, fair-haired girl a-peerin'
through the side of the dirty blind. She described the girl, too, and
said that as soon as she saw she was noticed the inmate of the place
drew back instantly."
"A fair-haired girl!" I exclaimed, quickly interested.
"Yes; she described her as wearin' a black velvet band on her hair."
"And what did you do?" I asked anxiously.
"Why, nothing. I've 'eard too many o' them kind o' tales before."
"Yes," I said reflectively. "Of course all kinds of legends and
rumours must naturally spring up around a house so long closed."
"Of course. It's all in people's imagination. I suppose they'll say
next that a murder's been committed in the place!" he laughed.
"I suppose so," I said, and then, putting a shilling in his hand,
wished him good-night, and passed along.
Jack and the idiot had gone, but, knowing the direction they had
taken--for the youth was, no doubt, on his way home--I was not long
before I caught up my friend, and then together we retraced our steps
towards the Bayswater Road, in search of a taxi.
I could not forget that curious statement that a girl's face had been
seen at the drawing-room window--a fair-headed girl with a band of
black velvet in her hair.
Could it have been Sylvia Pennington?
It was past three o'clock in the morning before I retraced my steps to
Wilton Street. We were unable to find a cab, therefore we walked down
Park Lane together.
On the way Jack had pressed me to tell him the reason of my visit to
that weird house and the circumstances in which my life had been
attempted. For the present, however, I refused to satisfy his
curiosity. I promised him I would tell him the whole facts of the
case some day.
"But why are you at home now?" he asked. "I can't really make you out
lately, Owen. You told me you hated London, and preferred life on the
Continent, yet here you are, back again, and quite settled down in
town!"
"Well, a fellow must come here for the London season sometimes," I
said. "I feel that I've been away far too long, and am a bit out of
touch with things. Why, my tailor hardly knew me, and the hall-porter
at White's had to look twice before he realized who I was."
"But there's some attraction which has brought you to London," he
declared. "I'm sure there is!"
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him how cleverly the two
scoundrels had used his name wherewith to entrap me on the previous
night. But I refrained. Instead, I asked--
"Have you ever met two men named Reckitt and Forbes, Jack?"
"Not to my knowledge," was his prompt reply. "Who are they? What are
they like?"
I gave him a minute description of both, but he apparently did not
recognize them.
"I suppose you've never met a fellow called Pennington--eh? A
stoutish, dark-haired man with a baldish head and a reddish face?"
"Well," he replied thoughtfully, "I've met a good many men who might
answer to that description. What is he?"
"I don't exactly know. I've met him on the Continent."
"And I suppose some people one meets at Continental hotels are
undesirables, aren't they?" he said.
I nodded in the affirmative.
Then I asked--
"You've never known a person named Shuttleworth--Edmund Shuttleworth?
Lives at a little village close to Andover."
"Shuttleworth!" he echoed, looking straight into my face. "What do you
know of Edmund Shuttleworth?" he asked quickly.
"Very little. Do you know him?"
"Er--well--no, not exactly," was his faltering reply, and I saw in his
slight hesitation an intention to conceal the actual knowledge which
he possessed. "I've heard of him--through a friend of mine--a lady
friend."
"A lady! Who's she?" I inquired quickly.
"Well," he laughed a trifle uneasily, "the fact is, old chap, perhaps
it wouldn't be fair to tell the story. You understand?"
I was silent. What did he mean? In a second the allegation made by
that pair of scoundrels recurred to me. They had declared that Sylvia
had been in a house opposite, and that my friend had fallen in love
with her.
Yet he had denied acquaintanceship with Pennington!
No doubt the assassins had lied to me, yet my suspicions had been
aroused. Jack had admitted his acquaintance with the thin-faced
village rector--he knew of him through a woman. Was that woman Sylvia
herself?
From his manner and the great curiosity he evinced, I felt assured
that he had never known of Althorp House before. Reckitt and Forbes
had uttered lies when they had shown me that photograph, and told me
that she was beloved by my best friend. It had been done to increase
my anger and chagrin. Yet might there not, after all, have been some
foundation in truth in what they had said? The suggestion gripped my
senses.
Again I asked him to tell me the lady's name.
But, quite contrary to his usual habit of confiding in me all his most
private affairs, he steadfastly refused.
"No, my dear old chap," he replied, "I really can't tell you that.
Please excuse me, but it is a matter I would rather not discuss."
So at the corner of Piccadilly we parted, for it was now broad
daylight, and while he returned to his rooms, I walked down Grosvenor
Place to Wilton Street, more than ever puzzled and confounded.
Was I a fool, that I loved Sylvia Pennington with such an
all-absorbing passion?
It was strangely true, as Shuttleworth had declared, the grave lay as
a gulf between us.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE WORD OF A WOMAN
A week went by--a week of keen anxiety and apprehension.
Jack had spoken the truth when he had declared that it was my duty to
go to Scotland Yard and reveal what I had discovered regarding that
dark house in Bayswater.
Yet somehow I felt that any such action on my part must necessarily
reflect upon my fair-haired divinity, that sweet, soft-spoken girl who
had warned me, and who, moreover, was my affinity.
Had you found yourself in such a position, how would you have acted?
Remember that, notwithstanding the veil of mystery which overspread
Sylvia Pennington, I loved her, and tried to conceal the truth from
myself a hundred times, but it was impossible. She had warned me, and
I, unfortunately, had not heeded. I had fallen into a trap, and
without a doubt it had been she who had entered and rescued me from a
fate most horrible to contemplate.
I shuddered when I lived that hour of terror over again. I longed once
more to see that pale, sweet, wistful face which was now ever in my
dreams. Had not Shuttleworth told me that the grave lay between my
love and myself? And he had spoken the truth!
Jack met me at the club daily, but he only once referred to our
midnight search and the gruesome discovery in the neglected garden.
Frequently it crossed my mind that Mad Harry might have watched there
unseen, and witnessed strange things. How many men reported to the
police as missing had been interred in that private burying-ground of
the assassins! I dreaded to think of it.
In vain I waited for Mr. Shuttleworth to call again. He had inquired
if I were at home, and, finding me absent, had gone away.
I therefore, a week later, made it an excuse to run down to Andover
and see him, hoping to obtain from him some further information
regarding Sylvia.
The afternoon was bright and warm, and the country looked its best,
with the scent of new-mown hay in the air, and flowers everywhere, as
I descended from the station fly and walked up the rectory garden to
the house.
The maid admitted me to the study, saying that Mr. Shuttleworth was
only "down the paddock," and would be back in a few minutes. And as I
seated myself in the big, comfortable arm-chair, I saw, straight
before me, in its frame the smiling face of the mysterious woman I
loved.
Through the open French windows came the warm sunlight, the song of
the birds, and the drowsy hum of the insects. The lawn was marked for
tennis, and beyond lay the paddock and the dark forest-border.
I had remained there some few minutes, when suddenly I heard a quick
footstep in the hall outside; then, next moment, the door was opened,
and there, upon the threshold, stood Sylvia herself.
"You!" she gasped, starting back. "I--I didn't know you were here!"
she stammered in confusion.
She was evidently a guest there, and was about to pass through the
study into the garden. Charming in a soft white ninon gown and a big
white hat, she held a tennis-racket in her hand, presenting a pretty
picture framed by the dark doorway.
"Sylvia!" I cried, springing forward to her in joy, and catching her
small white trembling hand in mine. "Fancy you--here!"
She held her breath, suffering me to lead her into the room and to
close the door.
"I had no idea you were here," I said. "I--lost you the other day in
Regent Street--I----"
She made a quick gesture, as though she desired me to refrain from
referring to that incident. I saw that her cheeks were deadly pale,
and that in her face was an expression of utter confusion.
"This meeting," she said slowly in a low voice, "is certainly an
unexpected one. Mr. Shuttleworth doesn't know you are here, does he?"
"No," I replied. "He's down in the paddock, I believe."
"He has been called out suddenly," she said. "He's driven over to
Clatford with Mrs. Shuttleworth."
"And you are here alone?" I exclaimed quickly.
"No. There's another guest--Elsie Durnford," she answered. "But," she
added, her self-possession at once returning, "but why are you here,
Mr. Biddulph?"
"I wanted to see Mr. Shuttleworth. Being a friend of yours, I believed
that he would know where you were. But, thank Heaven, I have found you
at last. Now," I said, smiling as I looked straight into her
fathomless eyes, "tell me the truth, Miss Pennington. I did not lose
you the other morning--on the contrary, you lost me--didn't you?"
Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she gave vent to a nervous little
laugh.
"Well," she answered, after a moment's hesitation, "to tell the truth,
I did. I had reasons--important ones."
"I was _de trop_--eh?"
She shrugged her well-formed shoulders, and smiled reproachfully.
"But why?" I asked. "When I found you, it was under very curious
circumstances. A man--a thief--had just cashed a cheque of mine for a
thousand pounds, and made off with the proceeds--and----"
"Ah! please do not refer to it, Mr. Biddulph!" she exclaimed quickly,
laying her slim fingers upon my arm. "Let us speak of something
else--anything but that."
"I have no wish to reproach you, Miss Pennington," I hastened to
assure her. "The past is to me of the past. That man has a thousand
pounds of mine, and he's welcome to it, so long as----" and I
hesitated.
"So long as what?" she asked in a voice of trepidation.
"So long as you are alive and well," I replied in slow, meaning tones,
my gaze fixed immovably on hers. "In Gardone you expressed fear for
your own safety, but so long as you are still safe I have no care as
to what has happened to myself."
"But----"
"I know," I went on, "the ingenious attempt upon my life of which you
warned me has been made by those two scoundrels, and I have narrowly
escaped. To you, Miss Pennington, I owe my life."
She started, and lowered her eyes. Apparently she could not face me.
The hand I held trembled within my grasp, and I saw that her white
lips quivered.
For a few seconds a silence fell between us. Then slowly she raised
her eyes to mine again, and said--
"Mr. Biddulph, this is an exceedingly painful subject to me. May we
not drop it? Will you not forget it--if you really are my friend?"
"To secure your further friendship, I will do anything you wish!" I
declared. "You have already proved yourself my friend by rescuing me
from death," I added.
"How do you know that?" she asked quickly.
"Because you were alone with me in that house of death in Bayswater.
It was you who killed the hideous reptile and who severed the bonds
which held me. They intended that I should die. My grave had already
been prepared. Cannot you tell me the motive of that dastardly
attack?" I begged of her.
"Alas! I cannot," she said. "I warned you when at Gardone that I knew
what was intended, but of the true motive I was, and am still,
entirely ignorant. Their motives are always hidden ones."
"They endeavoured to get from me another thousand pounds," I
exclaimed.
"It is well that you did not give it to them. The result would have
been just the same. They intended that you should die, fearing lest
you should inform the police."
"And you were outside the bank with Forbes when he cashed my cheque!"
I remarked in slow tones.
"I know," she answered hoarsely. "I know that you must believe me to
be their associate, perhaps their accomplice. Ah! well. Judge me, Mr.
Biddulph, as you will. I have no defence. Only recollect that I warned
you to go into hiding--to efface yourself--and you would not heed. You
believed that I only spoke wildly--perhaps that I was merely an
hysterical girl, making all sorts of unfounded assertions."
"I believed, nay, I knew, Miss Pennington, that you were my friend.
You admitted in Gardone that you were friendless, and I offered you
the friendship of one who, I hope, is an honest man."
"Ah! thank you!" she cried, taking my hand warmly in hers. "You have
been so very generous, Mr. Biddulph, that I can only thank you from
the bottom of my heart. It is true an attempt was made upon you, but
you fortunately escaped, even though they secured a thousand pounds of
your money. Yet, had you taken my advice and disappeared, they would
soon have given up the chase."
"Tell me," I urged in deep earnestness, "others have been entrapped in
that dark house--have they not? That mechanical chair--that devilish
invention--was not constructed for me alone."
She did not answer, but I regarded her silence as an affirmative
response.
"Your friends at least seem highly dangerous persons," I said,
smiling. "I've been undecided, since discovering that my grave was
already prepared, whether to go to Scotland Yard and reveal the whole
game."
"No!" she cried in quick apprehension. "No, don't do that. It could
serve no end, and would only implicate certain innocent
persons--myself included."
"But how could you be implicated?"
"Was I not at the bank when the cheque was cashed?"
"Yes. Why were you there?" I asked.
But she only excused herself from replying to my question.
"Ah!" she cried wildly a moment later, clutching my arm convulsively,
"you do not know my horrible position--you cannot dream what I have
suffered, or how much I have sacrificed."
I saw that she was now terribly in earnest, and, by the quick rising
and falling of the lace upon her bodice, I knew that she was stirred
by a great emotion. She had refused to allow me to stand her friend
because she feared what the result might be. And yet, had she not
rescued me from the serpent's fang?
"Sylvia," I cried, "Sylvia--for I feel that I must call you by your
Christian name--let us forget it all. The trap set by those
blackguards was most ingenious, and in innocence I fell into it. I
should have lost my life--except for you. You were present in that
house of death. They told me you were there--they showed me your
picture, and, to add to my horror, said that you, their betrayer, were
to share the same fate as myself."
"Yes, yes, I know!" she cried, starting. "Oh, it was all too
terrible--too terrible! How can I face you, Mr. Biddulph, after that!"
"My only desire is to forget it all, Sylvia," was my low and quiet
response. "It was all my fault--my fault, for not heeding your
warning. I never realized the evil machinations of those unknown
enemies. How should I? As far as I know, I had never set eyes upon
them before."
"You would have done wiser to have gone into hiding, as I suggested,"
she remarked quietly.
"Never mind," I said cheerily. "It is all past. Let us dismiss it.
There is surely no more danger--now that I am forearmed."
"May they not fear your reprisals?" she exclaimed. "They did not
intend that you should escape, remember."
"No, they had already prepared my grave. I have seen it."
"That grave was prepared for both of us," she said in a calm,
reflective voice.
"Then how did you escape?" I inquired, with curiosity.
"I do not know. I can only guess."
"May I not know?" I asked eagerly.
"When I have confirmed my belief, I will tell you," she replied.
"Then let us dismiss the subject. It is horrible, gruesome. Look how
lovely and bright the world is outside. Let us live in peace and in
happiness. Let us turn aside these grim shadows which have lately
fallen upon us."
"Ah!" she exclaimed, with a sigh, "you are indeed generous to me, Mr.
Biddulph. But could you be so generous, I wonder, if you knew the
actual truth? Alas! I fear you would not. Instead of remaining my
friend, you would hate me--just--just as I hate myself!"
"Sylvia," I said, placing my hand again tenderly upon her shoulder
and trying to calm her, and looking earnestly into her blue, wide-open
eyes, "I shall never hate you. On the contrary, let me confess, now
and openly," I whispered, "let me tell you that I--I love you!"
She started, her lips parted at the suddenness of my impetuous
declaration, and stood for a moment, motionless as a statue, pale and
rigid.
Then I felt a convulsive tremor run through her, and her breast heaved
and fell rapidly. She placed her hand to her heart, as though to calm
the rising tempest of emotion within her. Her breath came and went
rapidly.
"Love me!" she echoed in a strange, hoarse tone. "Ah! no, Mr.
Biddulph, no, a thousand times no! You do not know what you are
saying. Recall those words--I beg of you!"
And I saw by her hard, set countenance and the strange look in her
eyes that she was deadly in earnest.
"Why should I recall them?" I cried, my hand still upon her shoulder.
"You are not my enemy, Sylvia, even though you may be the friend of my
enemies. I love you, and I fear nothing--nothing!"
"Hush! Do not say that," she protested very quietly.
"Why?"
"Because--well, because even though you have escaped, they----" and
she hesitated, her lips set as though unable to articulate the truth.
"They what?" I demanded.
"Because, Mr. Biddulph--because, alas! I know these men only too well.
You have triumphed; but yours is, I fear, but a short-lived victory.
They still intend that you shall die!"
"How do you know that?" I asked quickly.
"Listen," she said hoarsely. "I will tell you."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE DEATH KISS
Sylvia sank into a chair, while I stood upon the hearth-rug facing
her, eager to hear her explanation.
Her hands were clasped as she raised her wonderful blue eyes to mine.
Yes, her beauty was perfect--more perfect than any I had ever seen in
all my wandering, erratic life.
"Why do those men still intend that I shall die?" I asked. "Now that I
know the truth I shall remain wary."
"Ah, yes," she responded. "But they will take you unawares. You do not
know the devilish cunning and ingenuity of such men as they, who live
upon their wits, and are utterly unscrupulous."
"Well, what do they now intend?" I asked, much interested, for it
seemed that she knew very much more than she would admit.
"You have escaped," she said, looking straight into my face. "They
naturally fear that you will tell the police."
"I shall not do that--not at present, at least," I replied. "I am
keeping my own counsel."
"Yes. But cannot you see that while you live you are a menace to their
dastardly plans? They dare not return to that deserted house in
Bayswater."
"Where are they now?"
"Abroad, I believe. They always take care to have an outlet for
escape," she answered. "Ah! you don't know what a formidable
combination they are. They snap their fingers at the police of
Europe."
"What? Then you really admit that there have been other victims?" I
exclaimed.
"I have no actual knowledge," she declared, "only suspicions."
"Why are you friendly with them?" I asked. "What does your father say
to such acquaintances?"
"I am friendly only under compulsion," she answered. "Ah! Mr.
Biddulph, you cannot know how I hate the very sight or knowledge of
those inhuman fiends. Their treatment of you is, in itself, sufficient
proof of their pitiless plans."
"Tell me this, Sylvia," I said, after a second's pause. "Have you any
knowledge of a man--a great friend of mine--named Jack Marlowe?"
Her face changed. It became paler, and I saw she was slightly
confused.
"I--well, I believe we met once," she said. "His father lives
somewhere down in Devonshire."
"Yes," I said quickly. "What do you know of him?"
"Nothing. We met only once."
"Where?"
"Well--our meeting was under rather curious circumstances. He is your
friend, therefore please pardon me if I do not reply to your
question," was her vague response.
"Then what do you anticipate from those men, Reckitt and Forbes?" I
asked.
"Only evil--distinct evil," she replied. "They will return, and strike
when you least expect attack."
"But if I do not go to the police, why should they fear me? They are
quite welcome to the money they have stolen--so long as they allow me
peace in the future."
"Which I fear they will not do," replied the girl, shaking her head.
"You speak very apprehensively," I said. "What is there really to
fear? Perhaps it would be best if I went to the police at once. They
would then dig over that neglected garden and reveal its secrets."
"No!" she cried again, starting wildly from her chair as though in
sudden terror. "I beg of you not to do that, Mr. Biddulph. It would
serve no purpose, and only create a great sensation. But the culprits
would never be brought to justice. They are far too clever, and their
conspiracies are too far-reaching. No, remain patient. Take the
greatest care of your own personal safety--and you may yet be able to
combat your enemies with their own weapons."
"I shall be able, Sylvia--providing that you assist me," I said.
She held her breath, and remained silent. She evidently feared them.
I tried to obtain from her some details of the occurrences of that
night of horror, but she refused to satisfy my curiosity. Apparently
she feared to incriminate herself. Could it be possible that she had
only learnt at the last moment that it was I who was embraced in the
next room by that fatal chair!
Yet it was all so puzzling, so remarkable. Surely a girl with such a
pure, open, innocent face could not be the accomplice of dastardly
criminals! She was their friend. That much she had admitted to me. But
her friendship with them was made under compulsion. She urged me not
to go to the police. Why?
Did she fear that she herself would be implicated in a series of dark
and terrible crimes?
"Where is your father?" I inquired presently.
"In Scotland," was her prompt reply. "I heard from him at the
Caledonian Hotel, at Edinburgh, last Friday. I am staying here with
Mr. Shuttleworth until his return."
Was it not strange that she should be guest of a quiet-mannered
country parson, if she were actually the accomplice of a pair of
criminals! I felt convinced that Shuttleworth knew the truth--that he
could reveal a very remarkable story--if he only would.
"Your father is a friend of Mr. Shuttleworth--eh?" I asked.
She nodded in the affirmative. Then she stood with her gaze fixed
thoughtfully upon the sunlit lawn outside.
Mystery was written upon her fair countenance. She held a dread secret
which she was determined not to reveal. She knew of those awful
crimes committed in that dark house in Bayswater, but her intention
seemed to be to shield at all hazards her dangerous "friends."
"Sylvia," I said tenderly at last, again taking her hand in mine, "why
cannot you be open and frank with me?" She allowed her hand to lie
soft and inert in mine, sighing the while, her gaze still fixed beyond
as though her thoughts were far away. "I love you," I whispered.
"Cannot you see how you puzzle me?--for you seem to be my friend at
one moment, and at the next the accomplice of my enemies."
"I have told you that you must never love me, Mr. Biddulph," was her
low reply, as she withdrew her hand slowly, but very firmly.
"Ah! no," I cried. "Do not take offence at my words. I'm aware that
I'm a hopeless blunderer in love. All I know, Sylvia, is that my only
thought is of you. And I--I've wondered whether you, on your part, can
ever entertain a spark of affection for me?"
She was silent, her white lips pressed close together, a strange
expression crossing her features. Again she held her breath, as though
what I had said had caused her great surprise. Then she answered--
"How can you love me? Am I not, after all, a mere stranger?"
"I know you sufficiently well," I cried, "to be aware that for me
there exists no other woman. I fear I'm a blunt man. It is my nature.
Forgive me, Sylvia, for speaking the truth, but--well, as a matter of
fact, I could not conceal the truth any longer."
"And you tell me this, after--after all that has happened!" she
faltered in a low, tremulous voice, as I again took her tiny hand in
mine.
"Yes--because I truly and honestly love you," I said, "because ever
since we have met I have found myself thinking of you--recalling
you--nay, dreaming of happiness at your side."
She raised her splendid eyes, and looked into mine for a moment; then,
sighing, shook her head sadly.
"Ah! Mr. Biddulph," she responded in a curious, strained voice,
"passion may be perilously misleading. Ask yourself if you are not
injudicious in making this declaration--to a woman like myself?"
"Why?" I cried. "Why should it be injudicious? I trust you,
because--because I owe my life to you--because you have already proved
yourself my devoted little friend. What I beg and pray is that your
friendship may, in course of time, ripen into love--that you may
reciprocate my affection--that you may really love me!"
A slight hardness showed at the corners of her small mouth. Her eyes
were downcast, and she swallowed the lump that arose in her
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