Part 29 (2/2)
”Oh yes!” he laughed. ”How very foolish of me! Forgive me. I thought I recognized you, and yet couldn't, for the life of me, recall where we had met. How are you?” and he put out his hand and shook mine warmly.
”Let's sit down. Have a drink, Mr.--er. I haven't the pleasure of your name.”
”Biddulph,” I said. ”Owen Biddulph.”
”Well, Mr. Biddulph,” he said in a cheery way, ”I'm very glad you recognized me. I'm a very bad hand at recollecting people, I fear.
Perhaps I meet so many.” And then he gave the waiter an order for some refreshment. ”Since I was at Gardone I've been about a great deal--to Cairo, Bucharest, Odessa, and other places. I'm always travelling, you know.”
”And your daughter has remained at home--with Mr. Shuttleworth, near Andover,” I remarked.
He started perceptibly at my words.
”Ah! of course. The girl was with me at Gardone. You met her there, perhaps--eh?”
I replied in the affirmative. It, however, struck me as strange that he should refer to her as ”the girl.” Surely that was the term used by one of his strange motoring friends when he kept that midnight appointment on the Brescia road.
”I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Sylvia,” I went on. ”And more, we have become very firm friends.”
”Oh!” he exclaimed, opening his eyes widely. ”I'm delighted to hear it.”
Though his manner was so open and breezy, I yet somehow detected a curious sinister expression in his glance. He did not seem exactly at his ease in my presence.
”The fact is, Mr. Pennington,” I said, after we had been chatting for some time, ”I have been wanting to meet you for some weeks past. I have something to say to you.”
”Oh! What's that?” he asked, regarding me with some surprise. ”I suppose Sylvia told you that I was in Manchester, and you came here to see me--eh? This was not a chance meeting--was it?”
”Not exactly,” I admitted. ”I came here from London expressly to have a chat with you--a confidential chat.”
His expression altered slightly, I thought.
”Well?” he asked, twisting his cigar thoughtfully in his fingers.
”Speak; I'm listening.”
For a second I hesitated. Then, in a blundering way, blurted forth--
”The fact is, Mr. Pennington, I love Sylvia! She has promised to become my wife, and I am here to beg your consent.”
He half rose from his chair, staring at me in blank amazement.
”What?” he cried. ”Sylvia loves you--a perfect stranger?”
”She does,” was my calm response. ”And though I may be a stranger to you, Mr. Pennington, I hope it may not be for long. I am not without means, and I am in a position to maintain your daughter properly, as the wife of a country gentleman.”
He was silent for a few moments, his brows knit thoughtfully, his eyes upon the fine ring upon his well-manicured hand.
”What is your income?” he asked quite bluntly, raising his keen eyes to mine.
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