's name.

But, quite contrary to his usual habit of confiding in me all his most
private affairs, he steadfastly refused.

"No, my dear old chap," he replied, "I really can't tell you that.
Please excuse me, but it is a matter I would rather not discuss."

So at the corner of Piccadilly we parted, for it was now broad
daylight, and while he returned to his rooms, I walked down Grosvenor
Place to Wilton Street, more than ever puzzled and confounded.

Was I a fool, that I loved Sylvia Pennington with such an
all-absorbing passion?

It was strangely true, as Shuttleworth had declared, the grave lay as
a gulf between us.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE WORD OF A WOMAN

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