"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----" "You love her, eh?" he asked, looking at me quickly as he interrupted me. "Ah, yes," he sighed, as a dark shadow overspread his thin, pale face, "I guessed as much--a fatal love. You are young and enthusiastic, and her pretty face, her sweet voice and her soft eyes have fascinated you. How I wish, Mr. Biddulph, that I could reveal to you the ghastly, horrible truth. Though I am your friend--and hers, yet I must, alas! remain silent! The inviolable seal of The Confessional is upon my lips!" CHAPTER FIVE THE DARK HOUSE IN BAYSWATER Edmund Shuttleworth, the thin-faced, clean-shaven Hampshire rector, had spoken the truth. His manner and speech were that of an honest man. Within myself I could but admit it. Yet I loved Sylvia. Why, I cannot tell. How can a man tell why he loves? First love is more than the mere awakening of a passion: it is transition to another state of being. When it is born the man is new-made. Yet, as the spring days passed, I lived in suspicion and wonder, ever mystified, ever apprehensive. Each morning I looked eagerly for a letter from her, yet each morning I was disappointed. It seemed true, as Shuttleworth had said, that an open gulf lay between us. Where was she, I wondered? I dared not write to Gardone, as she had begged me not to do so. She had left there, no doubt, for was she not a constant wanderer? Was not her stout, bald-headed father the modern incarnation of the Wandering Jew? May lengthened into June, with its usual society functions and all the wild gaiety of the London season. The Derby passed and Ascot came, the Park was full every day, theatres and clubs were crowded, and the hotels overflowed with Americans and country cousins. I had many invitations, but accepted few. Somehow, my careless cosmopolitanism had left me. I had become a changed man. And if I were to believe the woman who had come so strangely and so suddenly into my life, I was a marked man also. Disturbing thoughts often arose within me in the silence of the night, but, laughing at them, I crushed them down. What had I possibly to fear? I had no enemy that I was aware of. The whole suggestion seemed so utterly absurd and far-fetched.