Hushed Up! A Mystery of London Part 7

Should I take her advice and leave Gardone, or should I remain on my guard, and hand them over to the police at first sign of attack?

The silent watcher did not move. He stood back there in the darkness, motionless as a statue, while I remained full in the light of the moon, which had now come forth, causing the lake and mountains to look almost fairy-like.

In order to impress upon him the fact that I was in no hurry, I lit a cigarette, and seated myself upon the low wall of the terrace, softly whistling an air of the cafe chantant. The night was now glorious, the mountain crests showing white in the moonlight.

Who was this man, I wondered? I regretted that we had not discovered his presence before Sylvia had left. She would, no doubt, have recognized him, and told me the reason of his watchfulness.

At last, I suppose, I must have tired him out, for suddenly he hastened from his hiding-place, and, creeping beneath the shadow of the hotel, succeeded in reaching the door through which Sylvia had pa.s.sed.

As he entered, the light from the lounge within gave me a swift glance of his features. He was a thin, grey-faced, rather sad-looking man, dressed in black, but, to my surprise, I noticed that his collar was that of an English clergyman!

This struck me as most remarkable. Clergymen are not usually persons to be feared.

I smiled to myself, for, after all, was it not quite possible that the reverend gentleman had found himself within earshot of us, and had been too embarra.s.sed to show himself at once? What sinister motive could such a man possess?

I looked around the great lounge, with its many tables and great palms, but it was empty. He had pa.s.sed through and ascended in the lift to his room.

Inquiry of the night-porter revealed that the man's name was the Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth, and that he came from Andover, in England. He had arrived at six o'clock that evening, and was only remaining the night, having expressed his intention of going on to Riva on the morrow.

So, laughing at my fears--fears which had been aroused by that strange warning of Sylvia's--I ascended to my room.

I did not leave next morning, as my fair-faced little friend had suggested, neither did Pennington return.

About eleven o'clock I strolled forth into the warm sunshine on the terrace, and there, to my surprise, saw Sylvia sitting upon one of the seats, with a cream sunshade over her head, a book in her lap, while by her side lounged the mysterious watcher of the night before--the English clergyman, Mr. Shuttleworth of Andover.

Neither noticed me. He was speaking to her slowly and earnestly, she listening attentively to his words. I saw that she sighed deeply, her fine eyes cast upon the ground.

It all seemed as though he were reproaching her with something, for she was silent, in an att.i.tude almost of penitence.

Now that I obtained a full view of the reverend gentleman's features in full daylight they seemed less mysterious, less sinister than in the half-light of midnight. He looked a grave, earnest, sober-living man, with that slight affectation of the Church which one finds more in the rural districts than in cities, for the black clerical straw hat and the clerical drawl seem always to go together. It is strange that the village curate is always more affected in his speech than the popular preacher of the West End, and the country vicar's wife is even more exclusive in her tea-and-tennis acquaintances than the wife of the lord bishop himself.

For a few moments I watched unseen. I rather liked the appearance of the Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth, whoever he might be. He had the look of an honest, open, G.o.d-fearing man.

Yet why was he in such earnest consultation with the mysterious Sylvia?

With his forefinger he was touching the palm of his left hand, apparently to emphasize his words, while she looked pale, even frightened. She was listening without comment, without protest, while I stood watching them from behind. Many other visitors were idling about the terrace, reading letters or newspapers, or chatting or flirting--the usual morning occupations of a fashionable lake-side hotel far removed from the strenuous turmoil of the business or social worlds.

Suddenly she objected to some words which he uttered, objected strongly, with rapid interruption and quick protest.

But he laid his hand quietly upon her arm, and seemed to convince her of the truth or justice of his words.

Then, as she turned, she recognized me, and I raised my hat politely in pa.s.sing.

Shuttleworth's eyes met mine, and he stared at me. But I pa.s.sed on, in pretence that I had not recognized him as the watcher of the previous night.

I idled about the terrace and the little landing-stage till noon, when the steamer for Riva came up from Desenzano; and Shuttleworth, taking leave of Sylvia, boarded the little craft with his two kit-bags, and waved her farewell as the vessel drew away, making a wide wake upon the gla.s.sy surface of the deep blue waters.

When he had gone, I crossed to her and spoke. She looked inexpressibly charming in her white cotton gown and neat straw sailor hat with black velvet band. There was nothing ostentatious about her dress, but it was always well cut and fitted her to perfection. She possessed a style and elegance all her own.

"Ah! Mr. Biddulph!" she exclaimed reproachfully. "Why have you not heeded my words last night? Why have you not left? Go!--go, before it is too late!" she urged, looking straight into my face with those wonderful eyes of hers.

"But I don't understand you, Miss Pennington," I replied. "Why should I leave here? What danger threatens me?"

"A grave one--a very grave one," she said in a low, hoa.r.s.e whisper.

"If you value your life you should get away from this place."

"Who are these enemies of mine?" I demanded. "You surely should tell me, so that I can take precautions against them."

"Your only precaution lies in flight," she said.

"But will you not tell me what is intended? If there is a conspiracy against me, is it not your duty, as a friend, to reveal it?"

"Did I not tell you last night that I am not your friend--that our friendship is forbidden?"

"I don't understand you," I said. "As far as I know, I haven't an enemy in the world. Why should I fear the unknown?"

"Ah! will you not take heed of what I have told you?" she cried in desperation. "Leave here. Return to England--hide yourself--anywhere--for a time, until the danger pa.s.ses."

"I have no fear of this mysterious danger, Miss Pennington," I said.

"If these secret enemies of mine attack me, then I am perfectly ready and able to defend myself."

"But they will not attack openly. They will strike at a moment when you least expect it--and strike with accuracy and deadly effect."

"Last night, after you had left me, I found a man standing in the shadow watching us," I said. "He was the clergyman whom I saw sitting with you just now. Who is he?"

"Mr. Shuttleworth--an old friend of mine in England. An intimate friend of my father's. To him, I owe very much. I had no idea he was here until an hour ago, when we met quite accidentally on the terrace.

I haven't seen him for a year. We once lived in his parish near Andover, in Hampshire. He was about our only friend."

"Why did he spy upon us?"

"I had no idea that he did. It must have been only by chance," she a.s.sured me. "From Edmund Shuttleworth you certainly have nothing to fear. He and his wife are my best friends. She is staying up at Riva, it seems, and he is on his way to join her."

"Your father is absent," I said abruptly.

"Yes," she replied, with slight hesitation. "He has gone away on business. I don't expect he will be back till to-night."

"And how long do you remain here?"

"Who knows? Our movements are always so sudden and erratic. We may leave to-night for the other end of Europe, or we may remain here for weeks yet. Father is so uncertain always."

"But why are you so eager that I shall leave you?" I asked, as we strolled together along the terrace. "You have admitted that you are in need of a friend, and yet you will not allow me to approach you with the open hand of friendship."

"Because--ah! have I not already explained the reason why--why I dare not allow you to show undue friendship towards me?"

"Well, tell me frankly," I said, "who is this secret enemy of mine?"

She was silent. In that hesitation I suspected an intention to deceive.

"Is it against your own father that you are warning me?" I exclaimed in hesitation. "You fear him, evidently, and you urge me to leave here and return to England. Why should I not remain here in defiance?"