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!