“Well,” he laughed a trifle uneasily, “the fact is, old chap, perhaps it wouldn’t be fair to tell the story. You understand?”
I was silent. What did he mean? In a second the allegation made by that pair of scoundrels recurred to me. They had declared that Sylvia had been in a house opposite, and that my friend had fallen in love with her.
Yet he had denied acquaintanceship with Pennington!
No doubt the assassins had lied to me, yet my suspicions had been aroused. Jack had admitted his acquaintance with the thin-faced village rector—he knew of him through a woman. Was that woman Sylvia herself?
From his manner and the great curiosity he evinced, I felt assured that he had never known of Althorp House before. Reckitt and Forbes had uttered lies when they had shown me that photograph, and told me that she was beloved by my best friend. It had been done to increase my anger and chagrin. Yet might there not, after all, have been some foundation in truth in what they had said? The suggestion gripped my senses.
Again I asked him to tell me the lady’s name.
But, quite contrary to his usual habit of confiding in me all his most private affairs, he steadfastly refused.
“No, my dear old chap,” he replied, “I really can’t tell you that. Please excuse me, but it is a matter I would rather not discuss.”
So at the corner of Piccadilly we parted, for it was now broad daylight, and while he returned to his rooms, I walked down Grosvenor Place to Wilton Street, more than ever puzzled and confounded.