Hushed Up! A Mystery of London Part 29

I suppose I had been in the lounge half-an-hour or so, when I looked up, and then, to my surprise, saw Pennington, smartly dressed, and looking very spruce for his years, crossing from the bureau with a number of letters in his hand. It was apparent that he had just received them from the mail-clerk.

And yet I had been told that he was not staying there!

I held my paper in such position as to conceal my face while I watched his movements.

He halted, opened a telegram, and read it eagerly. Then, crushing it in his hand with a gesture of annoyance, he thrust it into his jacket pocket.

He was dressed in a smart dark grey suit, which fitted him perfectly, a grey soft felt hat, while his easy manner and bearing were those of a gentleman of wealth and leisure. He held a cigar between his fingers, and, walking slowly as he opened one of the letters, he presently threw himself into one of the big arm-chairs near me, and became absorbed in his correspondence.

There was a waste-paper basket near, and into this he tossed something as valueless. One of the letters evidently caused him considerable annoyance, for, removing his hat, he pa.s.sed his hand slowly over his bald head as he sat staring at it in mystification. Then he rang the bell, and ordered something from a waiter. A liqueur of brandy was brought, and, tossing it off at a gulp, he rose, wrote a telegram at the table near him, and went quickly out.

After he had gone I also rose, and, without attracting attention, crossed, took up another paper, and then seated myself in the chair he had vacated.

My eye was upon the waste-paper basket, and when no one was looking I reached out and took therefrom a crumpled blue envelope--the paper he had flung away.

Smoothing it out, I found that it was not addressed to him, but to "Arnold Du Cane, Esq., Travellers' Club, Paris," and had been re-directed to this hotel.

This surprised me.

I rose, and, crossing to the mail-clerk, asked--

"You gave some letters and a telegram to a rather short gentleman in grey a few minutes ago. Was that Mr. Du Cane?"

"Yes, sir," was the reply. "He went across yonder into the lounge."

"You know him--eh?"

"Oh yes, sir. He's often been here. Not lately. At one time, however, he was a frequent visitor."

And so Sylvia's father was living there under the a.s.sumed name of Arnold Du Cane!

For business purposes names are often a.s.sumed, of course. But Pennington's business was such a mysterious one that, even against my will, I became filled with suspicion.

I resolved to wait and catch him on his return. He had probably only gone to the telegraph office. Had Sylvia wilfully concealed the fact that her father travelled under the name of Du Cane, in order that I should not meet him? Surely there could be no reason why she should have done so.

Therefore I returned to a chair near the entrance to the smoking-lounge, and waited in patience.

My vigil was not a long one, for after ten minutes or so he re-entered, spruce and gay, and cast a quick glance around, as though in search of somebody.

I rose from my chair, and as I did so saw that he regarded me strangely, as though half conscious of having met me somewhere before.

Walking straight up to him, I said--

"I believe, sir, that you are Mr. Pennington?"

He looked at me strangely, and I fancied that he started at mention of the name.

"Well, sir," was his calm reply, "I have not the pleasure of knowing you." I noted that he neither admitted that he was Pennington, nor did he deny it.

"We met some little time ago on the Lake of Garda," I said. "I, unfortunately, did not get the chance of a chat with you then. You left suddenly. Don't you recollect that I sat alone opposite you in the restaurant of the Grand at Gardone?"

"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.