“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?