"Yes," she faltered, "I know--I know! Forgive me if I have spoken harshly, Mr. Shuttleworth. I know you are my friend--and you are Owen's. Only--only it seems very hard that you should thus put this ban upon us--you, who preach the gospel of truth and love."

Shuttleworth drew a deep breath. His thin lips were pursed; his grey eyebrows contracted slightly, and I saw in his countenance a distinctly pained expression.

"I have spoken with all good intention, Sylvia," he said. "Your love for Mr. Biddulph must only bring evil upon both of you. Surely you realize that?"

"Sylvia has already realized it," I declared. "But we have resolved to risk it."

"The risk is, alas! too great," he declared. "Already you are a marked man. Your only chance of escape is to take Sylvia's advice and to go into hiding. Go away--into the country--and live in some quiet, remote village under another name. It is your best mode of evading disaster.

To remain and become the lover of Sylvia Pennington is, I tell you, the height of folly--it is suicide!"

"Let it be so," I responded in quiet defiance. "I will never forsake the woman I love. Frankly, I suspect a hidden motive in this suggestion of yours; therefore I refuse to accept it."

"Not to save your own life?"

"Not even to save my life. This is surely my own affair."

"And hers."

"I shall protect Sylvia, never fear. I am not afraid. Let our enemies betray their presence by sign or word, and I will set myself out to combat them. They have already those crimes in Bayswater to account for. And they will take a good deal of explaining away."

"Then you really intend to reveal the secret of that house in Porchester Terrace?" he asked, not without some apprehension.

"My enemies, you say, intend to plot and encompa.s.s my death. Good!

Then I shall take my own means of vindication. Naturally I am a quiet, law-abiding man. But if any enemy rises against me without cause, then I strike out with a sledgehammer."

"You are hopeless," he declared.

"I am, where my love is concerned," I admitted. "Sylvia has promised to-day that she will become my wife. The future is surely our own affair, Mr. Shuttleworth--not yours!"

"And if her father forbids?" he asked quite quietly, his eyes fixed straight upon my well-beloved.

"Let me meet him face to face," I said in defiance. "He will not interfere after I have spoken," I added, with confidence. "I, perhaps, know more than you believe concerning him."

Sylvia started, staring at me, her face blanched in an instant. The scene was tragic and painful.

"What do you know?" she asked breathlessly.

"Nothing, dearest, which will interfere with our love," I rea.s.sured her. "Your father's affairs are not yours, and for his doings you cannot be held responsible."

She exchanged a quick glance with Shuttleworth, I noticed.

Then it seemed as though a great weight were lifted from her mind by my words, for, turning to me, she smiled sweetly, saying--

"Ah! how can I thank you sufficiently? I am helpless and defenceless.

If I only dared, I could tell you a strange story--for surely mine is as strange as any ever printed in the pages of fiction. But Mr.

Shuttleworth will not permit it."

"You may speak--if you deem it wise," exclaimed the rector in a strangely altered voice. He seemed much annoyed at my open defiance.

"Mr. Biddulph may as well, perhaps, know the truth at first as at last."

"The truth!" I echoed. "Yes, tell me the truth," I begged her.

"No," she cried wildly, again covering her fair face with her hands.

"No--forgive me. I can't--_I can't!_"

"No," remarked Shuttleworth in a strange, hard, reproachful tone, and with a cruel, cynical smile upon his lips. "You cannot--for it is too hideous--too disgraceful--too utterly scandalous! It is for that reason I forbid you to love!"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE MAN IN GOLD PINCE-NEZ

For a whole month our engagement was kept a profound secret.

Only Shuttleworth and his wife knew. The first-named had been compelled to bow to the inevitable, and for him, it must be said that he behaved splendidly. Sylvia remained his guest, and on several days each week I travelled down from Waterloo to Andover and spent the warm summer hours with her, wandering in the woods, or lounging upon the pretty lawn of the old rectory.

The rector had ceased to utter warnings, yet sometimes I noticed a strange, apprehensive look upon his grave countenance. Elsie Durnford still remained there, and she and Sylvia were close friends.

Through those four happy weeks I had tried to get into communication with Mr. Pennington. I telegraphed to an address in Scotland which Sylvia had given me, but received no reply. I then telegraphed to the Caledonian Hotel in Edinburgh, and then learned, with considerable surprise, that n.o.body named Pennington was, or had been, staying there.

I told Sylvia this. But she merely remarked--

"Father is so erratic in his movements that he probably never went to Edinburgh, after all. I have not heard from him now for a full week."

I somehow felt, why, I cannot well explain, that she was rather disinclined to allow me to communicate with Pennington. Did she fear that he might forbid our marriage?

Without seeing him or obtaining his consent, I confess I did not feel absolute security. The mystery surrounding her was such a curious and complicated one that the deeper I probed into it, the more complex did it appear.

Some few days later, in reply to my question, she said that she had heard from her father, who was at the Midland Grand Hotel in Manchester. He would not, however, be in London for two or three weeks, as he was about to leave in two days' time, by way of Hook of Holland, for Berlin, where he had business.

Therefore, early the following morning, I took train to Manchester, and made inquiry at the big hotel.

"We have no gentleman of that name here, sir," replied the smart reception clerk, referring to his list. "He hasn't arrived yet, I expect. A lady was asking for a Mr. Pennington yesterday--a French lady."

"You don't know the name, then?"

He replied in the negative.

"No doubt he is expected, if the lady called to see him?"

"No doubt, sir. Perhaps he'll be here to-day."

And with that, I was compelled to turn disappointed away. I wandered into the restaurant, and there ate my lunch alone. The place was crowded, as it always is, mostly by people interested in cotton and its products, for it is, perhaps, one of the most cosmopolitan hotels in the whole kingdom. Sick of the chatter and clatter of the place, I paid my bill and pa.s.sed out into the big smoking-lounge to take my coffee and liqueur and idle over the newspaper.

I was not quite certain whether to remain there the night and watch for Pennington's arrival, or to return to London. As a matter of fact, so certain had I been of finding him that I had not brought a suit-case.