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_!"