“No apology is needed,” was his grave reply, his keen eyes fixed upon me. “But I hope you will forgive me if I presume to give you, in your own interests, a piece of advice.”
“And what is that?”
“To keep yourself as far as possible from both Pennington and his daughter,” he responded slowly and distinctly, a strange expression upon his clean-shaven face.
“But why do you tell me this?” I cried, still much mystified. “Have you not told me that you are Sylvia’s friend?”
“I have told you this because it is my duty to warn those in whose path a pitfall is spread.”
“And is a pitfall spread in mine?”
“Yes,” replied the grave-faced, ascetic-looking rector, as he leaned forward to emphasize his words. “Before you, my dear sir, there lies an open grave. Behind it stands that girl yonder”—and he pointed with his lean finger to the framed photograph—“and if you attempt to reach her you must inevitably fall into the pit—that death-trap so cunningly prepared. Do not, I beg of you, attempt to approach the unattainable.”
I saw that he was in dead earnest.
“But why?” I demanded in my despair, for assuredly the enigma was increasing hourly. “Why are you not open and frank with me? I—I confess I——”