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."