Part 21 (2/2)

It was strangely true, as Shuttleworth had declared, the grave lay as a gulf between us.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE WORD OF A WOMAN

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 a.s.sa.s.sins! 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 pa.s.s 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.

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