CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE MAN IN GOLD PINCE-NEZ
For a whole month our engagement was kept a profound secret.
Only Shuttleworth and his wife knew. The first-named had beencompelled to bow to the inevitable, and for him, it must be said thathe behaved splendidly. Sylvia remained his guest, and on several dayseach week I travelled down from Waterloo to Andover and spent the warmsummer hours with her, wandering in the woods, or lounging upon thepretty lawn of the old rectory.
The rector had ceased to utter warnings, yet sometimes I noticed astrange, apprehensive look upon his grave countenance. Elsie Durnfordstill remained there, and she and Sylvia were close friends.
Through those four happy weeks I had tried to get into communicationwith Mr. Pennington. I telegraphed to an address in Scotland whichSylvia had given me, but received no reply. I then telegraphed to theCaledonian Hotel in Edinburgh, and then learned, with considerablesurprise, that nobody named Pennington was, or had been, stayingthere.
I told Sylvia this. But she merely remarked--
"Father is so erratic in his movements that he probably never went toEdinburgh, after all. I have not heard from him now for a full week."
I somehow felt, why, I cannot well explain, that she was ratherdisinclined to allow me to communicate with Pennington. Did she fearthat he might forbid our marriage?
Without seeing him or obtaining his consent, I confess I did not feelabsolute security. The mystery surrounding her was such a curious andcomplicated one that the deeper I probed into it, the more complex didit appear.
Some few days later, in reply to my question, she said that she hadheard from her father, who was at the Midland Grand Hotel inManchester. He would not, however, be in London for two or threeweeks, as he was about to leave in two days' time, by way of Hook ofHolland, for Berlin, where he had business.
Therefore, early the following morning, I took train to Manchester,and made inquiry at the big hotel.
"We have no gentleman of that name here, sir," replied the smartreception clerk, referring to his list. "He hasn't arrived yet, Iexpect. A lady was asking for a Mr. Pennington yesterday--a Frenchlady."
"You don't know the name, then?"
He replied in the negative.
"No doubt he is expected, if the lady called to see him?"
"No doubt, sir. Perhaps he'll be here to-day."
And with that, I was compelled to turn disappointed away. I wanderedinto the restaurant, and there ate my lunch alone. The place wascrowded, as it always is, mostly by people interested in cotton andits products, for it is, perhaps, one of the most cosmopolitan hotelsin the whole kingdom. Sick of the chatter and clatter of the place, Ipaid my bill and passed out into the big smoking-lounge to take mycoffee and liqueur and idle over the newspaper.
I was not quite certain whether to remain there the night and watchfor Pennington's arrival, or to return to London. As a matter of fact,so certain had I been of finding him that I had not brought asuit-case.
I suppose I had been in the lounge half-an-hour or so, when I lookedup, and then, to my surprise, saw Pennington, smartly dressed, andlooking very spruce for his years, crossing from the bureau with anumber of letters in his hand. It was apparent that he had justreceived 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 watchedhis movements.
He halted, opened a telegram, and read it eagerly. Then, crushing itin his hand with a gesture of annoyance, he thrust it into his jacketpocket.
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 ofa gentleman of wealth and leisure. He held a cigar between hisfingers, and, walking slowly as he opened one of the letters, hepresently threw himself into one of the big arm-chairs near me, andbecame absorbed in his correspondence.
There was a waste-paper basket near, and into this he tossed somethingas valueless. One of the letters evidently caused him considerableannoyance, for, removing his hat, he passed his hand slowly over hisbald head as he sat staring at it in mystification. Then he rang thebell, and ordered something from a waiter. A liqueur of brandy wasbrought, and, tossing it off at a gulp, he rose, wrote a telegram atthe 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 hehad vacated.
My eye was upon the waste-paper basket, and when no one was looking Ireached out and took therefrom a crumpled blue envelope--the paper hehad 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 beenre-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 ingrey 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 assumed name ofArnold Du Cane!
For business purposes names are often assumed, of course. ButPennington's business was such a mysterious one that, even against mywill, I became filled with suspicion.
I resolved to wait and catch him on his return. He had probably onlygone to the telegraph office. Had Sylvia wilfully concealed the factthat her father travelled under the name of Du Cane, in order that Ishould not meet him? Surely there could be no reason why she shouldhave done so.
Therefore I returned to a chair near the entrance to thesmoking-lounge, and waited in patience.
My vigil was not a long one, for after ten minutes or so here-entered, spruce and gay, and cast a quick glance around, as thoughin search of somebody.
I rose from my chair, and as I did so saw that he regarded mestrangely, 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 ofthe name.
"Well, sir," was his calm reply, "I have not the pleasure of knowingyou." I noted that he neither admitted that he was Pennington, nor didhe 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. Youleft suddenly. Don't you recollect that I sat alone opposite you inthe restaurant of the Grand at Gardone?"
"Oh yes!" he laughed. "How very foolish of me! Forgive me. I thought Irecognized you, and yet couldn't, for the life of me, recall where wehad 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 yourname."
"Biddulph," I said. "Owen Biddulph."
"Well, Mr. Biddulph," he said in a cheery way, "I'm very glad yourecognized 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 somerefreshment. "Since I was at Gardone I've been about a great deal--toCairo, Bucharest, Odessa, and other places. I'm always travelling, youknow."
"And your daughter has remained at home--with Mr. Shuttleworth, nearAndover," 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 thathe should refer to her as "the girl." Surely that was the term used byone of his strange motoring friends when he kept that midnightappointment on the Brescia road.
"I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Sylvia," I went on. "And more, wehave become very firm friends."
"Oh!" he exclaimed, opening his eyes widely. "I'm delighted to h
earit."
Though his manner was so open and breezy, I yet somehow detected acurious sinister expression in his glance. He did not seem exactly athis ease in my presence.
"The fact is, Mr. Pennington," I said, after we had been chatting forsome time, "I have been wanting to meet you for some weeks past. Ihave something to say to you."
"Oh! What's that?" he asked, regarding me with some surprise. "Isuppose Sylvia told you that I was in Manchester, and you came here tosee me--eh? This was not a chance meeting--was it?"
"Not exactly," I admitted. "I came here from London expressly to havea 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 tobecome 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 toyou, Mr. Pennington, I hope it may not be for long. I am not withoutmeans, and I am in a position to maintain your daughter properly, asthe wife of a country gentleman."
He was silent for a few moments, his brows knit thoughtfully, his eyesupon the fine ring upon his well-manicured hand.
"What is your income?" he asked quite bluntly, raising his keen eyesto mine.
I told him, giving him a few details concerning my parentage and mypossessions.
"And what would you be prepared to settle on my daughter, providing Igave my consent? Have you thought of that matter?"
I confessed that I had not, but that I would be ready, if she sodesired, to settle upon her twenty thousand pounds.
"And that wouldn't cripple you--eh?"
"No, I'm pleased to say it would not. I have kept my inheritancepractically intact," I added.
"Well, I must first hear what Sylvia has to say," he said; then headded airily, "I suppose you would make over the greater part of yourestate to her, in case of your death? And there are life assurances,of course? One never knows what may happen, you know. Pardon me forspeaking thus frankly. As a father, however, it is my duty to see thatmy daughter's future is safeguarded."
"I quite understand all that," I replied, with a smile. "Of course,Sylvia would inherit all I could legally bequeath to her, and as forlife assurances, I would insure myself for what sum you suggest."
"You are young," he said. "Insure for ten thousand. The premiums wouldbe not so very heavy."
"As you wish," I replied. "If I carry out your desires, I understandthat I have your consent to pay my attentions to Sylvia?"
"If what you tell me proves, on inquiry, to be the truth, Mr.Biddulph, I shall have the greatest pleasure in welcoming you as myson-in-law. I can't say more," he replied. "Here's my hand," and as Itook his, he gripped me heartily. "I confess I like you now," headded, "and I feel sure I shall like you more when I know moreconcerning you."
Then he added, with a laugh--
"Oh, by the way, I'm not known here as Pennington, but as Du Cane. Thefact is, I had some unfortunate litigation some time ago, which led tobankruptcy, and so, for business reasons, I'm Arnold Du Cane. You'llunderstand, won't you?" he laughed.
"Entirely," I replied, overjoyed at receiving Pennington's consent."When shall we meet in London?"
"I'll be back on the 10th--that's sixteen days from now," he replied."I have to go to Brussels, and on to Riga. Tell Sylvia and dear oldShuttleworth you've seen me. Give them both my love. We shall meetdown at Middleton, most certainly."
And so for a long time we chatted on, finishing our cigars, Ireplying to many questions he put to me relative to my financial andsocial position--questions which were most natural in thecircumstances of our proposed relationship.
But while we were talking a rather curious incident arrested myattention. Pennington was sitting with his back to the door of thelounge, when, among those who came and went, was a rather stoutforeigner of middle age, dressed quietly in black, wearing a goldpince-nez, and having the appearance of a French business man.
He had entered the lounge leisurely, when, suddenly catching sight ofSylvia's father, he drew back and made a hurried exit, apparentlyanxious to escape the observation of us both.
So occupied was my mind with my own affairs that the occurrencecompletely passed from me until that same night, when, at ten o'clock,on descending the steps of White's and proceeding to walk down St.James's Street in the direction of home, I suddenly heard footstepsbehind me, and, turning, found, to my dismay, the Frenchman fromManchester quietly walking in the same direction.
This greatly mystified me. The broad-faced foreigner in goldpince-nez, evidently in ignorance that I had seen him in Manchester,must have travelled up to London by the same train as myself, and musthave remained watching outside White's for an hour or more!
Why had the stranger so suddenly become interested in me?
Was yet another attempt to be made upon me, as Shuttleworth had somysteriously predicted?
I was determined to show a bold front and defy my enemies; therefore,when I had crossed Pall Mall against St. James's Palace, I suddenlyfaced about, and, meeting the stranger full tilt, addressed him beforehe could escape.
Next moment, alas! I knew that I had acted injudiciously.