A week went by ­a week of keen anxiety and apprehension.

Jack had spoken the truth when he had declared that it was my duty to go to Scotland Yard and reveal what I had discovered regarding that dark house in Bayswater.

Yet somehow I felt that any such action on my part must necessarily reflect upon my fair-haired divinity, that sweet, soft-spoken girl who had warned me, and who, moreover, was my affinity.

Had you found yourself in such a position, how would you have acted?

Remember that, notwithstanding the veil of mystery which overspread Sylvia Pennington, I loved her, and tried to conceal the truth from myself a hundred times, but it was impossible.  She had warned me, and I, unfortunately, had not heeded.  I had fallen into a trap, and without a doubt it had been she who had entered and rescued me from a fate most horrible to contemplate.

I shuddered when I lived that hour of terror over again.  I longed once more to see that pale, sweet, wistful face which was now ever in my dreams.  Had not Shuttleworth told me that the grave lay between my love and myself?  And he had spoken the truth!

Jack met me at the club daily, but he only once referred to our midnight search and the gruesome discovery in the neglected garden.

Frequently it crossed my mind that Mad Harry might have watched there unseen, and witnessed strange things.  How many men reported to the police as missing had been interred in that private burying-ground of the assassins!  I dreaded to think of it.

In vain I waited for Mr. Shuttleworth to call again.  He had inquired if I were at home, and, finding me absent, had gone away.

I therefore, a week later, made it an excuse to run down to Andover and see him, hoping to obtain from him some further information regarding Sylvia.

The afternoon was bright and warm, and the country looked its best, with the scent of new-mown hay in the air, and flowers everywhere, as I descended from the station fly and walked up the rectory garden to the house.

The maid admitted me to the study, saying that Mr. Shuttleworth was only “down the paddock,” and would be back in a few minutes.  And as I seated myself in the big, comfortable arm-chair, I saw, straight before me, in its frame the smiling face of the mysterious woman I loved.

Through the open French windows came the warm sunlight, the song of the birds, and the drowsy hum of the insects.  The lawn was marked for tennis, and beyond lay the paddock and the dark forest-border.

I had remained there some few minutes, when suddenly I heard a quick footstep in the hall outside; then, next moment, the door was opened, and there, upon the threshold, stood Sylvia herself.

“You!” she gasped, starting back.  “I ­I didn’t know you were here!” she stammered in confusion.

She was evidently a guest there, and was about to pass through the study into the garden.  Charming in a soft white ninon gown and a big white hat, she held a tennis-racket in her hand, presenting a pretty picture framed by the dark doorway.

“Sylvia!” I cried, springing forward to her in joy, and catching her small white trembling hand in mine.  “Fancy you ­here!”

She held her breath, suffering me to lead her into the room and to close the door.

“I had no idea you were here,” I said.  “I ­lost you the other day in Regent Street ­I ­”

She made a quick gesture, as though she desired me to refrain from referring to that incident.  I saw that her cheeks were deadly pale, and that in her face was an expression of utter confusion.

“This meeting,” she said slowly in a low voice, “is certainly an unexpected one.  Mr. Shuttleworth doesn’t know you are here, does he?”

“No,” I replied.  “He’s down in the paddock, I believe.”

“He has been called out suddenly,” she said.  “He’s driven over to Clatford with Mrs. Shuttleworth.”

“And you are here alone?” I exclaimed quickly.

“No.  There’s another guest ­Elsie Durnford,” she answered.  “But,” she added, her self-possession at once returning, “but why are you here, Mr. Biddulph?”

“I wanted to see Mr. Shuttleworth.  Being a friend of yours, I believed that he would know where you were.  But, thank Heaven, I have found you at last.  Now,” I said, smiling as I looked straight into her fathomless eyes, “tell me the truth, Miss Pennington.  I did not lose you the other morning ­on the contrary, you lost me ­didn’t you?”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she gave vent to a nervous little laugh.

“Well,” she answered, after a moment’s hesitation, “to tell the truth, I did.  I had reasons ­important ones.”

“I was de trop ­eh?”

She shrugged her well-formed shoulders, and smiled reproachfully.

“But why?” I asked.  “When I found you, it was under very curious circumstances.  A man ­a thief ­had just cashed a cheque of mine for a thousand pounds, and made off with the proceeds ­and ­”

“Ah! please do not refer to it, Mr. Biddulph!” she exclaimed quickly, laying her slim fingers upon my arm.  “Let us speak of something else ­anything but that.”

“I have no wish to reproach you, Miss Pennington,” I hastened to assure her.  “The past is to me of the past.  That man has a thousand pounds of mine, and he’s welcome to it, so long as ­” and I hesitated.

“So long as what?” she asked in a voice of trepidation.

“So long as you are alive and well,” I replied in slow, meaning tones, my gaze fixed immovably on hers.  “In Gardone you expressed fear for your own safety, but so long as you are still safe I have no care as to what has happened to myself.”

“But ­”

“I know,” I went on, “the ingenious attempt upon my life of which you warned me has been made by those two scoundrels, and I have narrowly escaped.  To you, Miss Pennington, I owe my life.”

She started, and lowered her eyes.  Apparently she could not face me.  The hand I held trembled within my grasp, and I saw that her white lips quivered.

For a few seconds a silence fell between us.  Then slowly she raised her eyes to mine again, and said ­

“Mr. Biddulph, this is an exceedingly painful subject to me.  May we not drop it?  Will you not forget it ­if you really are my friend?”

“To secure your further friendship, I will do anything you wish!” I declared.  “You have already proved yourself my friend by rescuing me from death,” I added.

“How do you know that?” she asked quickly.

“Because you were alone with me in that house of death in Bayswater.  It was you who killed the hideous reptile and who severed the bonds which held me.  They intended that I should die.  My grave had already been prepared.  Cannot you tell me the motive of that dastardly attack?” I begged of her.

“Alas!  I cannot,” she said.  “I warned you when at Gardone that I knew what was intended, but of the true motive I was, and am still, entirely ignorant.  Their motives are always hidden ones.”

“They endeavoured to get from me another thousand pounds,” I exclaimed.

“It is well that you did not give it to them.  The result would have been just the same.  They intended that you should die, fearing lest you should inform the police.”

“And you were outside the bank with Forbes when he cashed my cheque!” I remarked in slow tones.

“I know,” she answered hoarsely.  “I know that you must believe me to be their associate, perhaps their accomplice.  Ah! well.  Judge me, Mr. Biddulph, as you will.  I have no defence.  Only recollect that I warned you to go into hiding ­to efface yourself ­and you would not heed.  You believed that I only spoke wildly ­perhaps that I was merely an hysterical girl, making all sorts of unfounded assertions.”

“I believed, nay, I knew, Miss Pennington, that you were my friend.  You admitted in Gardone that you were friendless, and I offered you the friendship of one who, I hope, is an honest man.”

“Ah! thank you!” she cried, taking my hand warmly in hers.  “You have been so very generous, Mr. Biddulph, that I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart.  It is true an attempt was made upon you, but you fortunately escaped, even though they secured a thousand pounds of your money.  Yet, had you taken my advice and disappeared, they would soon have given up the chase.”

“Tell me,” I urged in deep earnestness, “others have been entrapped in that dark house ­have they not?  That mechanical chair ­that devilish invention ­was not constructed for me alone.”

She did not answer, but I regarded her silence as an affirmative response.

“Your friends at least seem highly dangerous persons,” I said, smiling.  “I’ve been undecided, since discovering that my grave was already prepared, whether to go to Scotland Yard and reveal the whole game.”

“No!” she cried in quick apprehension.  “No, don’t do that.  It could serve no end, and would only implicate certain innocent persons ­myself included.”

“But how could you be implicated?”

“Was I not at the bank when the cheque was cashed?”

“Yes.  Why were you there?” I asked.

But she only excused herself from replying to my question.

“Ah!” she cried wildly a moment later, clutching my arm convulsively, “you do not know my horrible position ­you cannot dream what I have suffered, or how much I have sacrificed.”

I saw that she was now terribly in earnest, and, by the quick rising and falling of the lace upon her bodice, I knew that she was stirred by a great emotion.  She had refused to allow me to stand her friend because she feared what the result might be.  And yet, had she not rescued me from the serpent’s fang?

“Sylvia,” I cried, “Sylvia ­for I feel that I must call you by your Christian name ­let us forget it all.  The trap set by those blackguards was most ingenious, and in innocence I fell into it.  I should have lost my life ­except for you.  You were present in that house of death.  They told me you were there ­they showed me your picture, and, to add to my horror, said that you, their betrayer, were to share the same fate as myself.”

“Yes, yes, I know!” she cried, starting.  “Oh, it was all too terrible ­too terrible!  How can I face you, Mr. Biddulph, after that!”

“My only desire is to forget it all, Sylvia,” was my low and quiet response.  “It was all my fault ­my fault, for not heeding your warning.  I never realized the evil machinations of those unknown enemies.  How should I?  As far as I know, I had never set eyes upon them before.”

“You would have done wiser to have gone into hiding, as I suggested,” she remarked quietly.

“Never mind,” I said cheerily.  “It is all past.  Let us dismiss it.  There is surely no more danger ­now that I am forearmed.”

“May they not fear your reprisals?” she exclaimed.  “They did not intend that you should escape, remember.”

“No, they had already prepared my grave.  I have seen it.”

“That grave was prepared for both of us,” she said in a calm, reflective voice.

“Then how did you escape?” I inquired, with curiosity.

“I do not know.  I can only guess.”

“May I not know?” I asked eagerly.

“When I have confirmed my belief, I will tell you,” she replied.

“Then let us dismiss the subject.  It is horrible, gruesome.  Look how lovely and bright the world is outside.  Let us live in peace and in happiness.  Let us turn aside these grim shadows which have lately fallen upon us.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, with a sigh, “you are indeed generous to me, Mr. Biddulph.  But could you be so generous, I wonder, if you knew the actual truth?  Alas!  I fear you would not.  Instead of remaining my friend, you would hate me ­just ­just as I hate myself!”

“Sylvia,” I said, placing my hand again tenderly upon her shoulder and trying to calm her, and looking earnestly into her blue, wide-open eyes, “I shall never hate you.  On the contrary, let me confess, now and openly,” I whispered, “let me tell you that I ­I love you!”

She started, her lips parted at the suddenness of my impetuous declaration, and stood for a moment, motionless as a statue, pale and rigid.

Then I felt a convulsive tremor run through her, and her breast heaved and fell rapidly.  She placed her hand to her heart, as though to calm the rising tempest of emotion within her.  Her breath came and went rapidly.

“Love me!” she echoed in a strange, hoarse tone.  “Ah! no, Mr. Biddulph, no, a thousand times no!  You do not know what you are saying.  Recall those words ­I beg of you!”

And I saw by her hard, set countenance and the strange look in her eyes that she was deadly in earnest.

“Why should I recall them?” I cried, my hand still upon her shoulder.  “You are not my enemy, Sylvia, even though you may be the friend of my enemies.  I love you, and I fear nothing ­nothing!”

“Hush!  Do not say that,” she protested very quietly.

“Why?”

“Because ­well, because even though you have escaped, they ­” and she hesitated, her lips set as though unable to articulate the truth.

“They what?” I demanded.

“Because, Mr. Biddulph ­because, alas!  I know these men only too well.  You have triumphed; but yours is, I fear, but a short-lived victory.  They still intend that you shall die!”

“How do you know that?” I asked quickly.

“Listen,” she said hoarsely.  “I will tell you.”