Part 21 (1/2)

”Not to my knowledge,” was his prompt reply. ”Who are they? What are they like?”

I gave him a minute description of both, but he apparently did not recognize them.

”I suppose you've never met a fellow called Pennington--eh? A stoutish, dark-haired man with a baldish head and a reddish face?”

”Well,” he replied thoughtfully, ”I've met a good many men who might answer to that description. What is he?”

”I don't exactly know. I've met him on the Continent.”

”And I suppose some people one meets at Continental hotels are undesirables, aren't they?” he said.

I nodded in the affirmative.

Then I asked--

”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 acquaintances.h.i.+p with Pennington!

No doubt the a.s.sa.s.sins 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 a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sion?