was on the tip of my tongue to tell him how cleverly the two
scoundrels had used his name wherewith to entrap me on the previous
night. But I refrained. Instead, I asked--

"Have you ever met two men named Reckitt and Forbes, Jack?"

"Not to my knowledge," was his prompt reply. "Who are they? What are
they like?"

I gave him a minute description of both, but he apparently did not
recognize them.

"I suppose you've never met a fellow called Pennington--eh? A
stoutish, dark-haired man with a baldish head and a reddish face?"

"Well," he replied thoughtfully, "I've met a good many men who might
answer to that description. What is he?"

"I don't exactly know. I've met him on the Continent."

"And I suppose some people one meets at Continental hotels are
undesirables, aren't they?" he said.

I nodded in the affirmative.

Then I asked--

"You've never known a person named Shuttleworth--Edmund Shuttleworth?
Lives at a little village close to Andover."

"Shuttleworth!" he echoed, looking straight into my face. "What do you
know of Edmund Shuttleworth?" he asked quickly.

"Very little. Do you know him?"

"Er--well--no, not exactly," was his faltering reply, and I saw in his
slight hesitation an intention to conceal the actual knowledge which
he possessed. "I've heard of him--through a friend of mine--a lady
friend."

"A lady! Who's she?" I inquired quickly.

"Well," he laughed a trifle uneasily, "the fact is, old chap, perhaps
it wouldn't be fair to tell the story. You understand?"

I was silent. What did he mean? In a second the allegation made by
that pair of scoundrels recurred to me. They had declared that Sylvia
had been in a house opposite, and that my friend had fallen in love
with her.

Yet he had denied acquaintanceship with Pennington!

No doubt the assassins had lied to me, yet my suspicions had been
aroused. Jack had admitted his acquaintance with the thin-faced
village rector--he knew of him through a woman. Was that woman Sylvia
herself?

From his manner and the great curiosity he evinced, I felt assured
that he had never known of Althorp House before. Reckitt and Forbes
had uttered lies when they had shown me that photograph, and told me
that she was beloved by my best friend. It had been done to increase
my anger and chagrin. Yet might there not, after all, have been some
foundation in truth in what they had said? The suggestion gripped my
senses.

Again I asked him to tell me the lady