"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.