"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'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.