Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

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 been compelled to bow to the inevitable, and for him, it must be said that he behaved splendidly. Sylvia remained his guest, and on several days each week I travelled down from Waterloo to Andover and spent the warm summer hours with her, wandering in the woods, or lounging upon the pretty lawn of the old rectory.

The rector had ceased to utter warnings, yet sometimes I noticed a strange, apprehensive look upon his grave countenance. Elsie Durnford still remained there, and she and Sylvia were close friends.

Through those four happy weeks I had tried to get into communication with Mr. Pennington. I telegraphed to an address in Scotland which Sylvia had given me, but received no reply. I then telegraphed to the Caledonian Hotel in Edinburgh, and then learned, with considerable surprise, that nobody named Pennington was, or had been, staying there.

I told Sylvia this. But she merely remarked —

“Father is so erratic in his movements that he probably never went to Edinburgh, after all. I have not heard from him now for a full week.”

I somehow felt, why, I cannot well explain, that she was rather disinclined to allow me to communicate with Pennington. Did she fear that he might forbid our marriage?

Without seeing him or obtaining his consent, I confess I did not feel absolute security. The mystery surrounding her was such a curious and complicated one that the deeper I probed into it, the more complex did it appear.

Some few days later, in reply to my question, she said that she had heard from her father, who was at the Midland Grand Hotel in Manchester. He would not, however, be in London for two or three weeks, as he was about to leave in two days’ time, by way of Hook of Holland, 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 smart reception clerk, referring to his list. “He hasn’t arrived yet, I expect. A lady was asking for a Mr. Pennington yesterday – a French lady.”

“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 wandered into the restaurant, and there ate my lunch alone. The place was crowded, as it always is, mostly by people interested in cotton and its products, for it is, perhaps, one of the most cosmopolitan hotels in the whole kingdom. Sick of the chatter and clatter of the place, I paid my bill and passed out into the big smoking-lounge to take my coffee and liqueur and idle over the newspaper.

I was not quite certain whether to remain there the night and watch for 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 a suit-case.

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 passed 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 assumed name of Arnold Du Cane!

For business purposes names are often assumed, 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.

I told him, giving him a few details concerning my parentage and my possessions.

“And what would you be prepared to settle on my daughter, providing I gave my consent? Have you thought of that matter?”

I confessed that I had not, but that I would be ready, if she so desired, 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 inheritance practically intact,” I added.

“Well, I must first hear what Sylvia has to say,” he said; then he added airily, “I suppose you would make over the greater part of your estate to her, in case of your death? And there are life assurances, of course? One never knows what may happen, you know. Pardon me for speaking thus frankly. As a father, however, it is my duty to see that my 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 for life assurances, I would insure myself for what sum you suggest.”

“You are young,” he said. “Insure for ten thousand. The premiums would be not so very heavy.”

“As you wish,” I replied. “If I carry out your desires, I understand that 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 my son-in-law. I can’t say more,” he replied. “Here’s my hand,” and as I took his, he gripped me heartily. “I confess I like you now,” he added, “and I feel sure I shall like you more when I know more concerning you.”

Then he added, with a laugh —

“Oh, by the way, I’m not known here as Pennington, but as Du Cane. The fact is, I had some unfortunate litigation some time ago, which led to bankruptcy, and so, for business reasons, I’m Arnold Du Cane. You’ll understand, 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 old Shuttleworth you’ve seen me. Give them both my love. We shall meet down at Middleton, most certainly.”

And so for a long time we chatted on, finishing our cigars, I replying to many questions he put to me relative to my financial and social position – questions which were most natural in the circumstances of our proposed relationship.

But while we were talking a rather curious incident arrested my attention. Pennington was sitting with his back to the door of the lounge, when, among those who came and went, was a rather stout foreigner of middle age, dressed quietly in black, wearing a gold pince-nez, and having the appearance of a French business man.

He had entered the lounge leisurely, when, suddenly catching sight of Sylvia’s father, he drew back and made a hurried exit, apparently anxious to escape the observation of us both.

So occupied was my mind with my own affairs that the occurrence completely 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 footsteps behind me, and, turning, found, to my dismay, the Frenchman from Manchester quietly walking in the same direction.

This greatly mystified me. The broad-faced foreigner in gold pince-nez, evidently in ignorance that I had seen him in Manchester, must have travelled up to London by the same train as myself, and must have 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 so mysteriously 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 suddenly faced about, and, meeting the stranger full tilt, addressed him before he could escape.

Next moment, alas! I knew that I had acted injudiciously.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE MAN IN THE STREET

I had asked the Frenchman, rather angrily I fear, why he was following me, whereat he merely bowed with the exquisite politeness of his race, and replied in good English —

“I was not aware of following m’sieur. I regret extremely if I have caused annoyance. I ask a thousand pardons.”

“Well, your surveillance upon me annoys me,” I declared abruptly. “I saw you spying upon me in Manchester this afternoon, and you have followed me to London!”

“Ah, yes,” he replied, with a slight gesticulation; “it is true that I was in Manchester. But our meeting here must be by mere chance. I was unaware that monsieur was in Manchester,” he assured me in a suave manner.

“Well,” I said in French, “yours is a very lame story, monsieur. I saw you, and you also saw me talking to Mr. Pennington in the Midland Hotel. Perhaps you’ll deny that you know Mr. Pennington – eh?”

“I certainly do not deny that,” he said, with a smile. “I have known Monsieur Penning-ton for some years. It is true that I saw him at the Midland.”

“And you withdrew in order to escape his observation – eh?”

“Monsieur has quick eyes,” he said. “Yes, that is quite true.”

“Why?”

“For reasons of my own.”

“And you deny having followed me here?”

He hesitated for a second, looking straight into my face in the darkness.

“Come,” I said, “you may as well admit that you followed me from Manchester.”

“Why should I admit what is not the truth?” he asked. “What motive could I have to follow you – a perfect stranger?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m a bit suspicious,” I declared, still speaking in French. “Of late there was a desperate attempt upon my life.”

“By whom?” he inquired quickly. “Please tell me, Monsieur Biddulph; I am greatly interested in this.”

“Then you know my name?” I exclaimed, surprised.

“Certainly.”

“Why are you interested in me?”

“I may now have a motive,” was his calm yet mysterious reply. “Tell me in what manner an attempt has been made upon you?”

At first I hesitated, then, after a second’s reflection, I explained the situation in a few words.

“Ah! Of course, I quite see that monsieur’s mind must be filled by suspicion,” he responded; “yet I regret if I have been the cause of any annoyance. By the way, how long have you known Monsieur Penning-ton?”

“Oh, some months,” I replied. “The fact is, I’m engaged to his daughter.”

“His daughter!” echoed the Frenchman, looking at me quickly with a searching glance. Then he gave vent to a low grunt, and stroked his grey pointed beard.

“And it was after this engagement that the attempt was made upon you – eh?” he inquired.

“No, before.”

The foreigner remained silent for a few moments. He seemed considerably puzzled. I could not make him out. The fact that he was acquainted with my name showed that he was unduly interested in me, even though he had partially denied it.

“Why do you ask this?” I demanded, as we still stood together at the bottom of St. James’s Street.

“Ah, nothing,” he laughed. “But – well, I really fear I’ve aroused your suspicions unduly. Perhaps it is not so very extraordinary, after all, that in these days of rapid communication two men should catch sight of each other in a Manchester hotel, and, later on, meet in a street in London – eh?”

“I regard the coincidence as a strange one, monsieur,” I replied stiffly, “if it is really an actual coincidence.”

For aught I knew, the fellow might be a friend of Pennington, or an accomplice of those rascally assassins. Had I not been warned by Shuttleworth, and also by Sylvia herself, of another secret attempt upon my life?

I was wary now, and full of suspicion.

Instinctively I did not like this mysterious foreigner. The way in which he had first caught sight of my face as I descended the steps of White’s, and how he had glided after me down St. James’s Street, was not calculated to inspire confidence.

He asked permission to walk at my side along the Mall, which I rather reluctantly granted. It seemed that, now I had addressed him, I could not shake him off. Without doubt his intention was to watch, and see where I lived. Therefore, instead of going in the direction of Buckingham Palace, I turned back eastward towards the steps at the foot of the Duke of York’s Column.

As we strolled in the darkness along the front of Carlton House Terrace he chatted affably with me, then said suddenly —

“Do you know, Monsieur Biddulph, we met once before – in rather strange circumstances. You did not, however, see me. It was in Paris, some little time ago. You were staying at the Grand Hotel, and became acquainted with a certain American named Harriman.”

“Harriman!” I echoed, with a start, for that man’s name brought back to me an episode I would fain forget. The fact is, I had trusted him, and I had believed him to be an honest man engaged in big financial transactions, until I discovered the truth. My friendship with him cost me nearly one thousand eight hundred pounds.

“Harriman was very smart, was he not?” laughed my friend, with a touch of sarcasm.

Could it be, I wondered, that this Frenchman was a friend of the shrewd and unscrupulous New Yorker?

“Yes,” I replied rather faintly.

“Sharp – until found out,” went on the stranger, speaking in French. “His real name is Bell, and he – ”