“Probably not,” was his response; “I had no intention to obtrude myself upon you. I merely called at Wilton Street in order to learn what I could, and I came away quite satisfied, even though your butler spoke so sharply.”
“But with what motive did you make your inquiries?” I demanded.
“Well, as a matter of fact, my motive was in your own interests, Mr. Biddulph,” he replied, as he thoughtfully contemplated the end of his cigarette. “This may sound strange to you, but the truth, could I but reveal it to you, would be found much stranger—a truth utterly incredible.”
“The truth of what?”
“The truth concerning a certain young lady in whom, I understand, you have evinced an unusual interest,” was his reply.
I could see that he was slightly embarrassed. I recollected how he had silently watched us on that memorable night by the moonlit lake, and a feeling of resentment arose within me.
“Yes,” I said anxiously next moment, “I am here to learn the truth concerning Miss Pennington. Tell me about her. She has explained to me that you are her friend—and I see, yonder, you have her photograph.”
“It is true,” he said very slowly, in a low, earnest voice, “quite true, Son—er, Sylvia—is my friend,” and he coughed quickly to conceal the slip in the name.
“Then tell me something about her, and her father. Who is he?” I urged. “At her request I left Gardone suddenly, and came home to England.”