“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 passes.”
“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 assured 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.”