CHAPTER FOUR
THE PERIL BEYOND
My taxi pulled up before my own white-enamelled door in Wilton Street, off Belgrave Square, and, alighting, I entered with my latch-key.
I had been home about ten days – back again once more in dear, dirty old London, spending most of my time idling in White’s or Boodle’s; for in May one meets everybody in St. James’s Street, and men foregather in the club smoking-room from the four ends of the earth.
The house in Wilton Street was a small bijou place which my father had occupied as a pied-à-terre in town, he being a widower. He had been a man of artistic tastes, and the house, though small, was furnished lightly and brightly in the modern style. At Carrington he always declared there was enough of the heaviness of the antique. Here, in the dulness of London, he preferred light decorations and modern art in furnishing.
Through the rather narrow carpeted hall I passed into the study which lay behind the dining-room, a small, cosy apartment – the acme of comfort. I, as a bachelor, hated the big terra-cotta-and-white drawing-room upstairs. When there, I made the study my own den.
I had an important letter to write, but scarcely had I seated myself at the table when old Browning, grave, grey-faced and solemn, entered, saying —
“A clergyman called to see you about three o’clock, sir. He asked if you were at home. When I replied that you were at the club, he became rather inquisitive concerning your affairs, and asked me quite a lot of questions as to where you had been lately, and who you were. I was rather annoyed, sir, and I’m afraid I may have spoken rudely. But as he would leave no card, I felt justified in refusing to answer his inquiries.”
“Quite right, Browning,” I replied. “But what kind of a man was he? Describe him.”
“Well, sir, he was rather tall, of middle age, thin-faced and drawn, as though he had seen a lot of trouble. He spoke with a pronounced drawl, and his clerical coat was somewhat shabby. I noticed, too, sir, that he wore a black leather watch-guard.”
That last sentence at once revealed my visitor’s identity. It was the Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth! But why had he returned so suddenly from Riva? And why was he making secret inquiry concerning myself?
“I think I know the gentleman, Browning,” I replied, while the faithful old fellow stood, a quaint, stout figure in a rather tight-fitting coat and grey trousers, his white-whiskered face full of mystery. I fancy Browning viewed me with considerable suspicion. In his eyes, “young Mr. Owen” had always been far too erratic. On many occasions in my boyhood days he had expressed to my father his strong disapproval of what he termed “Master Owen’s carryings-on.”
“If he should call again, tell him that I have a very great desire to renew our acquaintance. I met him abroad,” I said.
“Very well, sir,” replied my man. “But I don’t suppose he will call again, sir. I was rude to him.”
“Your rudeness was perfectly justifiable, Browning. Please refuse to answer any questions concerning me.”
“I know my duty, sir,” was the old man’s stiff reply, “and I hope I shall always perform it.”
And he retired, closing the door silently behind him.
With my elbows upon the table, I sat thinking deeply.
Had I not acted like a fool? Those strange words, and that curious promise of Sylvia Pennington sounded ever in my ears. She had succeeded in inducing me to return home by promising to meet me clandestinely in England. Why clandestinely?
Before me every moment that I now lived arose that pale, beautiful face – that exquisite countenance with the wonderful eyes – that face which had held me in fascination, that woman who, indeed, held me now for life or death.
In those ten days which had passed, the first days of my home-coming after my long absence, I knew, by the blankness of our separation – though I would not admit it to myself – that she was my affinity. I was hers. She, the elegant little wanderer, possessed me, body and soul. I felt for her a strong affection, and affection is the half-and-half of love.
Why had her friend, that thin-faced country clergyman, called? Evidently he was endeavouring to satisfy himself as to my bona fides. And yet, for what reason? What had I to do with him? She had told me that she owed very much to that man. Why, however, should he interest himself in me?
I took down a big black volume from the shelf —Crockford’s Clerical Directory– and from it learned that Edmund Charles Talbot Shuttleworth, M.A., was rector of the parish of Middleton-cum-Bowbridge, near Andover, in the Bishopric of Winchester. He had held his living for the past eight years, and its value was £550 per annum. He had had a distinguished career at Cambridge, and had been curate in half-a-dozen places in various parts of the country.
I felt half inclined to run down to Middleton and call upon him. I could make some excuse or other, for I felt that he might, perhaps, give me some further information regarding the mysterious Pennington and his daughter.
Yet, on further reflection, I hesitated, for I saw that by acting thus I might incur Sylvia’s displeasure.
During the three following days I remained much puzzled. I deeply regretted that Browning had treated the country parson abruptly, and wondered whether I could not make excuse to call by pretending to express regret for the rudeness of my servant.
I was all eagerness to know something concerning this man Pennington, and was prepared even to sink my own pride in order to learn it.
Jack Marlowe was away in Copenhagen, and would not return for a week. In London I had many friends, but there were few who interested me, for I was ever thinking of Sylvia – of her only and always.
At last, one morning I made up my mind, and, leaving Waterloo, travelled down to Andover Junction, where I hired a trap, and, after driving through the little old-fashioned town out upon the dusty London Road for a couple of miles or so, I came to the long straggling village of Middleton, at the further end of which stood the ancient little church, and near it the comfortable old-world rectory.
Entering the gateway, I found myself in pretty, well-wooded and well-kept grounds; the house itself, long, low, and covered with trailing roses, was a typical English country rectory. Beyond that lay a paddock, while in the distance the beautiful Harewood Forest showed away upon the skyline.
Yes, Mr. Shuttleworth was at home, the neat maid told me, and I was ushered into a long old-fashioned study, the French windows of which opened out upon a well-rolled tennis-lawn.
The place smelt of tobacco-smoke. Upon the table lay a couple of well-seasoned briars, and on the wall an escutcheon bearing its owner’s college arms. Crossed above the window was a pair of rowing-sculls, and these, with a pair of fencing-foils in close proximity, told mutely of long-past athletics. It was a quiet, book-lined den, an ideal retreat for a studious man.
As my eyes travelled around the room, they suddenly fell upon a photograph in a dark leather frame, the picture of a young girl of seventeen or so, with her hair dressed low and secured by a big black bow. I started at sight of it. It was the picture of Sylvia Pennington!
I crossed to look at it more closely, but as I did so the door opened, and I found myself face to face with the rector of Middleton.
He halted as he recognized me – halted for just a second in hesitation; then, putting out his hand, he welcomed me, saying in his habitual drawl —
“Mr. Biddulph, I believe?” and invited me to be seated.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, with a smile, “I see you recognize me, though we were only passers-by on the Lake of Garda! I must apologize for this intrusion, but, as a matter of fact, my servant Browning described a gentleman who called upon me a few days ago, and I at once recognized him to have been you. He was rather rude to you, I fear, and – ”
“My dear fellow!” he interrupted, with a hearty, good-natured laugh. “He only did his duty as your servant. He objected to my infernal impertinence – and very rightly, too.”
“It was surely no impertinence to call upon me!” I exclaimed.
“Well, it’s all a question of one’s definition of impertinence,” he said. “I made certain inquiries – rather searching inquiries regarding you – that was all.”
“Why?” I asked.
He moved uneasily in his padded writing-chair, then reached over and placed a box of cigarettes before me. After we had both lit up, he answered in a rather low, changed voice —
“Well, I wanted to satisfy myself as to who you were, Mr. Biddulph,” he laughed. “Merely to gratify a natural curiosity.”
“That’s just it,” I said. “Why should your curiosity have been aroused concerning me? I do not think I have ever made a secret to any one regarding my name or my position, or anything else.”
“But you might have done, remember,” replied the thin-faced rector, looking at me calmly yet mysteriously with those straight grey eyes of his.
“I don’t follow you, Mr. Shuttleworth,” I said, much puzzled.
“Probably not,” was his response; “I had no intention to obtrude myself upon you. I merely called at Wilton Street in order to learn what I could, and I came away quite satisfied, even though your butler spoke so sharply.”
“But with what motive did you make your inquiries?” I demanded.
“Well, as a matter of fact, my motive was in your own interests, Mr. Biddulph,” he replied, as he thoughtfully contemplated the end of his cigarette. “This may sound strange to you, but the truth, could I but reveal it to you, would be found much stranger – a truth utterly incredible.”
“The truth of what?”
“The truth concerning a certain young lady in whom, I understand, you have evinced an unusual interest,” was his reply.
I could see that he was slightly embarrassed. I recollected how he had silently watched us on that memorable night by the moonlit lake, and a feeling of resentment arose within me.
“Yes,” I said anxiously next moment, “I am here to learn the truth concerning Miss Pennington. Tell me about her. She has explained to me that you are her friend – and I see, yonder, you have her photograph.”
“It is true,” he said very slowly, in a low, earnest voice, “quite true, Son – er, Sylvia – is my friend,” and he coughed quickly to conceal the slip in the name.
“Then tell me something about her, and her father. Who is he?” I urged. “At her request I left Gardone suddenly, and came home to England.”
“At her request!” he echoed in surprise. “Why did she send you away from her side?”
I hesitated. Should I reveal to him the truth?
“She declared that it was better for us to remain apart,” I said.
“Yes,” he sighed. “And she spoke the truth, Mr. Biddulph – the entire truth, remember.”
“Why? Do tell me what you know concerning the man Pennington.”
“I regret that I am not permitted to do that.”
“Why?”
For some moments he did not reply. He twisted his cigarette in his thin, nervous fingers, his gaze being fixed upon the lawn outside. At last, however, he turned to me, and in a low, rather strained tone said slowly —
“The minister of religion sometimes learns strange family secrets, but, as a servant of God, the confidences and confessions reposed in him must always be treated as absolutely sacred. Therefore,” he added, “please do not ask me again to betray my trust.”
His was, indeed, a stern rebuke. I saw that, in my eager enthusiasm, I had expected him to reveal a forbidden truth. Therefore I stammered an apology.
“No apology is needed,” was his grave reply, his keen eyes fixed upon me. “But I hope you will forgive me if I presume to give you, in your own interests, a piece of advice.”
“And what is that?”
“To keep yourself as far as possible from both Pennington and his daughter,” he responded slowly and distinctly, a strange expression upon his clean-shaven face.
“But why do you tell me this?” I cried, still much mystified. “Have you not told me that you are Sylvia’s friend?”
“I have told you this because it is my duty to warn those in whose path a pitfall is spread.”
“And is a pitfall spread in mine?”
“Yes,” replied the grave-faced, ascetic-looking rector, as he leaned forward to emphasize his words. “Before you, my dear sir, there lies an open grave. Behind it stands that girl yonder” – and he pointed with his lean finger to the framed photograph – “and if you attempt to reach her you must inevitably fall into the pit – that death-trap so cunningly prepared. Do not, I beg of you, attempt to approach the unattainable.”
I saw that he was in dead earnest.
“But why?” I demanded in my despair, for assuredly the enigma was increasing hourly. “Why are you not open and frank with me? I – I confess I – ”
“You love her, eh?” he asked, looking at me quickly as he interrupted me. “Ah, yes,” he sighed, as a dark shadow overspread his thin, pale face, “I guessed as much – a fatal love. You are young and enthusiastic, and her pretty face, her sweet voice and her soft eyes have fascinated you. How I wish, Mr. Biddulph, that I could reveal to you the ghastly, horrible truth. Though I am your friend – and hers, yet I must, alas! remain silent! The inviolable seal of The Confessional is upon my lips!”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE DARK HOUSE IN BAYSWATER
Edmund Shuttleworth, the thin-faced, clean-shaven Hampshire rector, had spoken the truth. His manner and speech were that of an honest man.
Within myself I could but admit it. Yet I loved Sylvia. Why, I cannot tell. How can a man tell why he loves? First love is more than the mere awakening of a passion: it is transition to another state of being. When it is born the man is new-made.
Yet, as the spring days passed, I lived in suspicion and wonder, ever mystified, ever apprehensive.
Each morning I looked eagerly for a letter from her, yet each morning I was disappointed.
It seemed true, as Shuttleworth had said, that an open gulf lay between us.
Where was she, I wondered? I dared not write to Gardone, as she had begged me not to do so. She had left there, no doubt, for was she not a constant wanderer? Was not her stout, bald-headed father the modern incarnation of the Wandering Jew?
May lengthened into June, with its usual society functions and all the wild gaiety of the London season. The Derby passed and Ascot came, the Park was full every day, theatres and clubs were crowded, and the hotels overflowed with Americans and country cousins. I had many invitations, but accepted few. Somehow, my careless cosmopolitanism had left me. I had become a changed man.
And if I were to believe the woman who had come so strangely and so suddenly into my life, I was a marked man also.
Disturbing thoughts often arose within me in the silence of the night, but, laughing at them, I crushed them down. What had I possibly to fear? I had no enemy that I was aware of. The whole suggestion seemed so utterly absurd and far-fetched.
Jack Marlowe came back from Denmark hale and hearty, and more than once I was sorely tempted to explain to him the whole situation. Only I feared he would jeer at me as a love-sick idiot.
What was the secret held by that grey-faced country parson? Whatever it might be, it was no ordinary one. He had spoken of the seal of The Confessional. What sin had Sylvia Pennington confessed to him?
Day after day, as I sat in my den at Wilton Street smoking moodily and thinking, I tried vainly to imagine what cardinal sin she could have committed. My sole thoughts were of her, and my all-consuming eagerness was to meet her again.
On the night of the twentieth of June – I remember the date well because the Gold Cup had been run that afternoon – I had come in from supper at the Ritz about a quarter to one, and retired to bed. I suppose I must have turned in about half-an-hour, when the telephone at my bedside rang, and I answered.
“Hulloa!” asked a voice. “Is that you, Owen?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Jack speaking – Jack Marlowe,” exclaimed the distant voice. “Is that you, Owen? Your voice sounds different.”
“So does yours, a bit,” I said. “Voices often do on the ’phone. Where are you?”
“I’m out in Bayswater – Althorp House, Porchester Terrace,” my friend replied. “I’m in a bit of a tight corner. Can you come here? I’m so sorry to trouble you, old man. I wouldn’t ask you to turn out at this hour if it weren’t imperative.”
“Certainly I’ll come,” I said, my curiosity at once aroused. “But what’s up?”
“Oh, nothing very alarming,” he laughed. “Nothing to worry over. I’ve been playing cards, and lost a bit, that’s all. Bring your cheque-book; I want to pay up before I leave. You understand. I know you’ll help me, like the good pal you always are.”
“Why, of course I will, old man,” was my prompt reply.
“I’ve got to pay up my debts for the whole week – nearly a thousand. Been infernally unlucky. Never had such vile luck. Have you got it in the bank? I can pay you all right at the end of next week.”
“Yes,” I said, “I can let you have it.”
“These people know you, and they’ll take your cheque, they say.”
“Right-ho!” I said; “I’ll get a taxi and be up with you in half-an-hour.”
“You’re a real good pal, Owen. Remember the address: Althorp House, Porchester Terrace,” cried my friend cheerily. “Get here as soon as you can, as I want to get home. So-long.”
And, after promising to hurry, I hung up the receiver again.
Dear old Jack always was a bit reckless. He had a good income allowed him by his father, but was just a little too fond of games of chance. He had been hard hit in February down at Monte Carlo, and I had lent him a few hundreds to tide him over. Yet, by his remarks over the ’phone, I could only gather that he had fallen into the hands of sharpers, who held him up until he paid – no uncommon thing in London. Card-sharpers are generally blackmailers as well, and no doubt these people were bleeding poor Jack to a very considerable tune.
I rose, dressed, and, placing my revolver in my hip pocket in case of trouble, walked towards Victoria Station, where I found a belated taxi.
Within half-an-hour I alighted before a large dark house about half-way up Porchester Terrace, Bayswater, standing back from the road, with small garden in front; a house with closely-shuttered windows, the only light showing being that in the fanlight over the door.
My approaching taxi was being watched for, I suppose, for as I crossed the gravel the door fell back, and a smart, middle-aged man-servant admitted me.
“I want to see Mr. Marlowe,” I said.
“Are you Mr. Biddulph?” he inquired, eyeing me with some suspicion.
I replied in the affirmative, whereupon he invited me to step upstairs, while I followed him up the wide, well-carpeted staircase and along a corridor on the first floor into a small sitting-room at the rear of the house.
“Mr. Marlowe will be here in a few moments, sir,” he said; “he left a message asking you to wait. He and Mr. Forbes have just gone across the road to a friend’s house. I’ll send over and tell him you are here, if you’ll kindly take a seat.”
The room was small, fairly well furnished, but old-fashioned, and lit by an oil-lamp upon the table. The air was heavy with tobacco-smoke, and near the window was a card-table whereat four players had been seated. The cigar-ash bore testimony to recent occupation of the four chairs, while two packs of cards had been flung down just as the men had risen.
The window was hidden by long curtains of heavy moss-green plush, while in one corner of the room, upon a black marble pedestal, stood a beautiful sculptured statuette of a girl, her hands uplifted together above her head in the act of diving. I examined the exquisite work of art, and saw upon its brass plate the name of an eminent French sculptor.
The carpet, of a peculiar shade of red which contrasted well with the dead-white enamelled walls, was soft to the tread, so that my footsteps fell noiselessly as I moved.
Beside the fireplace was a big inviting saddle-bag chair, into which I presently sank, awaiting Jack.
Who were his friends, I wondered?
The house seemed silent as the grave. I listened for Jack’s footsteps, but could hear nothing.
I was hoping that the loss of nearly a thousand pounds would cure my friend of his gambling propensities. Myself, I had never experienced a desire to gamble. A sovereign or so on a race was the extent of my adventures.
The table, the cards, the tantalus-stand and the empty glasses told their own tale. I was sorry, truly sorry, that Jack should mix with such people – professional gamblers, without a doubt.
Every man-about-town in London knows what a crowd of professional players and blackmailers infest the big hotels, on the look-out for pigeons to pluck. The American bars of London each have their little circle of well-dressed sharks, and woe betide the victims who fall into their unscrupulous hands. I had believed Jack Marlowe to be more wary. He was essentially a man of the world, and had always laughed at the idea that he could be “had” by sharpers, or induced to play with strangers.
I think I must have waited for about a quarter of an hour. As I sat there, I felt overcome by a curious drowsiness, due, no doubt, to the strenuous day I had had, for I had driven down to Ascot in the car, and had gone very tired to bed.
Suddenly, without a sound, the door opened, and a youngish, dark-haired, clean-shaven man in evening dress entered swiftly, accompanied by another man a few years older, tall and thin, whose nose and pimply face was that of a person much dissipated. Both were smoking cigars.
“You are Mr. Biddulph, I believe!” exclaimed the younger. “Marlowe expects you. He’s over the road, talking to the girl.”
“What girl?”
“Oh, a little girl who lives over there,” he said, with a mysterious smile. “But have you brought the cheque?” he asked. “He told us that you’d settle up with us.”
“Yes,” I said, “I have my cheque-book in my pocket.”
“Then perhaps you’ll write it?” he said, taking a pen-and-ink and blotter from a side-table and placing it upon the card-table. “The amount altogether is one thousand one hundred and ten pounds,” he remarked, consulting an envelope he took from his pocket.
“I shall give you a cheque for it when my friend comes,” I said.
“Yes, but we don’t want to be here all night, you know,” laughed the pimply-faced man. “You may as well draw it now, and hand it over to us when he comes in.”
“How long is he likely to be?”
“How can we tell? He’s a bit gone on her.”
“Who is she?”
“Oh! a little girl my friend Reckitt here knows,” interrupted the younger man. “Rather pretty. Reckitt is a fair judge of good looks. Have a cigarette?” and the man offered me a cigarette, which, out of common courtesy, I was bound to take from his gold case.
I sat back in my chair and lit up, and as I did so my ears caught the faint sound of a receding motor-car.
“Aren’t you going to draw the cheque?” asked the man with the pimply face. “Marlowe said you would settle at once; Charles Reckitt is my name. Make it out to me.”
“And so I will, as soon as he arrives,” I replied.
“Why not now? We’ll give you a receipt.”
“I don’t know at what amount he acknowledges the debt,” I pointed out.
“But we’ve told you, haven’t we? One thousand one hundred and ten pounds.”
“That’s according to your reckoning. He may add up differently, you know,” I said, with a doubtful smile.
“You mean that you doubt us, eh?” asked Reckitt a trifle angrily.
“Not in the least,” I assured him, with a smile. “If the game is fair, then the loss is fair also. A good sportsman like my friend never objects to pay what he has lost.”
“But you evidently object to pay for him, eh?” he sneered.
“I do not,” I protested. “If it were double the amount I would pay it. Only I first want to know what he actually owes.”
“That he’ll tell you when he returns. Yet I can’t see why you should object to make out the cheque now, and hand it to us on his arrival. I’ll prepare the receipt, at any rate. I, for one, want to get off to bed.”
And the speaker sat down in one of the chairs at the card-table, and wrote out a receipt for the amount, signing it “Charles Reckitt” across the stamp he stuck upon it.
Then presently he rose impatiently, and, crossing the room, exclaimed —
“How long are we to be humbugged like this? I’ve got to get out to Croydon – and it’s late. Come on, Forbes. Let’s go over and dig Marlowe out, eh?”
So the pair left the room, promising to return with Jack in a few minutes, and closed the door after them.
When they had gone, I sat for a moment reflecting. I did not like the look of either of them. Their faces were distinctly sinister and their manner overbearing. I felt that the sooner I left that silent house the better.
So, crossing to the table, I drew out my cheque-book, and hastily wrote an open cheque, payable to “Charles Reckitt,” for one thousand one hundred and ten pounds. I did so in order that I should have it in readiness on Jack’s return – in order that we might get away quickly.
Whatever possessed my friend to mix with such people as those I could not imagine.
A few moments later, I had already put the cheque back into my breast-pocket, and was re-seated in the arm-chair, when of a sudden, and apparently of its own accord, the chair gave way, the two arms closing over my knees in such a manner that I was tightly held there.
It happened in a flash. So quickly did it collapse that, for a moment, I was startled, for the chair having tipped back, I had lost my balance, my head being lower than my legs.
And at that instant, struggling in such an undignified position and unable to extricate myself, the chair having closed upon me, the door suddenly opened, and the man Reckitt, with his companion Forbes, re-entered the room.