I remained in that cosy, book-lined den for perhaps an hour—one whole hour of sweet, delightful ecstasy.

With her fair head buried upon my shoulder she shed tears of joy, while, time after time, I smothered her white brow with my kisses. Ah! yes, I loved her. I closed my eyes to all. I put away all my dark suspicions, and lived only for the present in the knowledge that Sylvia was mine—mine!

My hot, fevered declarations of affection caused her to cling to me more closely, yet she uttered but few words, and those half-incoherent ones, overcome as she was by a flood of emotion. She seemed to have utterly broken down beneath the great strain, and now welcomed the peace and all-absorbing happiness of affection. Alone and friendless, as she had admitted herself to be, she had, perhaps, longed for the love of an honest man. At least, that is what I was egotistical enough to believe. Possibly I might have been wrong, for until that moment I had ever been a confirmed bachelor, and had but little experience of the fantastic workings of a woman’s mind.

Like so many other men of my age, I had vainly believed myself to be a philosopher. Yet are not philosophers merely soured cynics, after all? And I certainly was neither cynical nor soured. Therefore my philosophy was but a mere ridiculous affectation to which so many men and women are prone.

But in those moments of ecstasy I abandoned myself entirely to love, imprinting lingering, passionate kisses upon her lips, her closed eyes, her wide white brow, while she returned my caresses, smiling through her hot tears.

Presently, when she grew calmer, she said in a low, sweet voice—

“I—hardly know whether this is wise. I somehow fear——”

“Fear what?” I asked, interrupting her.

“I fear what the future may hold for us,” she answered. “Remember I—I am poor, while you are wealthy, and——”

“What does that matter, pray? Thank Heaven! I have sufficient for us both—sufficient to provide for you the ordinary comforts of life, Sylvia. I only now long for the day, dearest, when I may call you wife.”

“Ah!” she said, with a wistful smile, “and I, too, shall be content when I can call you husband.”

And so we sat together upon the couch, holding each other’s hand, and speaking for the first time not as friends—but as lovers.

You who love, or who have loved, know well the joyful, careless feeling of such moments; the great peace which overspreads the mind when the passion of affection burns within.

Need I say more, except to tell you that our great overwhelming love was mutual, and that our true hearts beat in unison?

Thus the afternoon slipped by until, of a sudden, we heard a girl’s voice call: “Sylvia! Sylvia!”

We sprang apart. And not a moment too soon, for next second there appeared at the French windows the tall figure of a rather pretty dark-haired girl in cream.

“I—I beg your pardon!” she stammered, on recognizing that Sylvia was not alone.

“This is Mr. Biddulph,” exclaimed my well-beloved. “Miss Elsie Durnford.”

I bowed, and then we all three went forth upon the lawn.

I found Sylvia’s fellow-guest a very quiet young girl, and understood that she lived somewhere in the Midlands. Her father, she told me, was very fond of hunting, and she rode to hounds a good deal.

We wandered about the garden awaiting Shuttleworth’s return, for both girls would not hear of me leaving before tea.

“Mr. and Mrs. Shuttleworth are certain to be back in time,” Sylvia declared, “and I’m sure they’d be horribly annoyed if you went away without seeing them.”

“Do you really wish me to stay?” I asked, with a laugh, as we halted beneath the shadow of the great spreading cedar upon the lawn.

“Of course we do,” declared Elsie, laughing. “You really must remain and keep us company, Mr. Biddulph. Sylvia, you know, is quite a stranger. She’s always travelling now-a-days. I get letters from her from the four corners of the earth. I never know where to write so as to catch her.”

“Yes,” replied my well-beloved, with a slight sigh. “When we were at school at Eastbourne I thought it would be so jolly to travel and see the world, but now-a-days, alas! I confess I’m already tired of it. I would give anything to settle down quietly in the beautiful country in England—the country which is incomparable.”

“You will—one day,” I remarked meaningly.

And as she lifted her eyes to mine she replied—

“Perhaps—who knows?”

The village rector returned at last, greeting me with some surprise, and introducing his wife, a rather stout, homely woman, who bore traces of good looks, and who wore a visiting gown of neat black, for she had been paying a call.

“I looked in to see you the other day in town, Mr. Biddulph,” he said. “But I was unfortunate. Your man told me you were out. He was not rude to me this time,” he added humorously, with a laugh.

“No,” I said, smiling. “He was profuse in his apologies. Old servants are sometimes a little trying.”

“Yes, you’re right. But he seems a good sort. I blame myself, you know. He’s not to blame in the least.”

Then we strolled together to a tent set beneath the cedar, whither the maid had already taken the tea and strawberries, and there we sat around gossiping.

Afterwards, when Shuttleworth rose, he said—

“Come across to my study and have a smoke. You’re not in a great hurry to get back to town. Perhaps you’ll play a game of tennis presently?”

I followed him through the pretty pergola of roses, back into the house, and when I had seated myself in the big old arm-chair, he gave me an excellent cigar.

“Do you know, Mr. Biddulph,” he said after we had been smoking some minutes, “I’m extremely glad to have this opportunity of a chat with you. I called at Wilton Street, because I wished to see you.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, for several reasons,” was his slow, earnest reply. His face looked thinner, more serious. Somehow I had taken a great fancy to him, for though a clergyman, he struck me as a broad-minded man of the world. He was keen-eyed, thoughtful and earnest, yet at the same time full of that genuine, hearty bonhomie so seldom, alas! found in religious men. The good fellowship of a leader appeals to men more than anything else, and yet somehow it seems always more apparent in the Roman Catholic priest than in the Protestant clergyman.

“The reason I called to-day was because I thought you might wish to speak to me,” I said.

He rose and closed the French windows. Then, re-seating himself, he removed his old briar pipe from his lips, and, bending towards me in his chair, said very earnestly—

“I wonder whether I might presume to say something to you strictly in private, Mr. Biddulph? I know that I ought not to interfere in your private affairs—yet, as a minister of religion, I perhaps am a slightly privileged person in that respect. At least you will, I trust, believe in my impartiality.”

“Most certainly I do, Mr. Shuttleworth,” I replied, somewhat surprised at his manner.

“Well, you recollect our conversation on the last occasion you were here?” he said. “You remember what I told you?”

“I remember that we spoke of Miss Sylvia,” I exclaimed, “and that you refused to satisfy my curiosity.”

“I refused, because I am not permitted,” was his calm rejoinder.

“Since I saw you,” I said, “a dastardly attempt has been made upon my life. I was enticed to an untenanted house in Bayswater, and after a cheque for a thousand pounds had been obtained from me by a trick, I narrowly escaped death by a devilish device. My grave, I afterwards found, was already prepared.”

“Is this a fact!” he gasped.

“It is. I was rescued—by Sylvia herself.”

He was silent, drawing hard at his pipe, deep in thought.

“The names of the two men who made the dastardly attempt upon me were Reckitt and Forbes—friends of Sylvia Pennington,” I went on.

He nodded. Then, removing his pipe, exclaimed—

“Yes. I understand. But did I not warn you?”

“You did. But, to be frank, Mr. Shuttleworth, I really did not follow you then. Neither do I now.”

“Have I not told you, my dear sir, that I possess certain knowledge under vow of absolute secrecy—knowledge which it is not permitted to me, as a servant of God, to divulge.”

“But surely if you knew that assassination was contemplated, it was your duty to warn me.”

“I did—but you took no heed,” he declared. “Sylvia warned you also, when you met in Gardone, and yet you refused to take her advice and go into hiding!”

“But why should an innocent, law-abiding, inoffensive man be compelled to hide himself like a fugitive from justice?” I protested.

“Who can fathom human enmity, or the ingenious cunning of the evil-doer?” asked the grey-faced rector quite calmly. “Have you never stopped to wonder at the marvellous subtlety of human wickedness?”

“Those men are veritable fiends,” I cried. “Yet why have I aroused their animosity? If you know so much concerning them, Mr. Shuttleworth, don’t you think that it is your duty to protect your fellow-creatures?—to make it your business to inform the police?” I added.

“Probably it is,” he said reflectively. “But there are times when even the performance of one’s duty may be injudicious.”

“Surely it is not injudicious to expose the methods of such blackguards!” I cried.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I am compelled to differ with that opinion. Were you in possession of the same knowledge as myself, you too, would, I feel sure, deem it injudicious.”

“But what is this secret knowledge?” I demanded. “I have narrowly escaped being foully done to death. I have been robbed, and I feel that it is but right that I should now know the truth.”

“Not from me, Mr. Biddulph,” he answered. “Have I not already told you the reason why no word of the actual facts may pass my lips?”

“I cannot see why you should persist in thus mystifying me as to the sinister motive of that pair of assassins. If they wished to rob me, they could have done so without seeking to take my life by those horrible means.”

“What means did they employ?” he asked.

Briefly and vividly I explained their methods, as he sat silent, listening to me to the end. He evinced neither horror nor surprise. Perhaps he knew their mode of procedure only too well.

“I warned you,” was all he vouchsafed. “Sylvia warned you also.”

“It is over—of the past, Mr. Shuttleworth,” I said, rising from my chair. “I feel confident that Sylvia, though she possessed knowledge of what was intended, had no hand whatever in it. Indeed, so confident am I of her loyalty to me, that to-day—yes, let me confess it to you—for I know you are my friend as well as hers, to-day, here—only an hour ago, I asked Sylvia to become my wife.”

“Your wife!” he gasped, starting to his feet, his countenance pale and drawn.

“Yes, my wife.”

“And what was her answer?” he asked dryly, in a changed tone.

“She has consented.”

“Mr. Biddulph,” he said very gravely, looking straight into my face, “this must never be! Have I not already told you the ghastly truth?—that there is a secret—an unmentionable secret——”

“A secret concerning her!” I cried. “What is it? Come, Mr. Shuttleworth, you shall tell me, I demand to know!”

“I can only repeat that between you and Sylvia Pennington there still lies the open gulf—and that gulf is, indeed, the grave. In your ignorance of the strange but actual facts you do not realize your own dread peril, or you would never ask her to become your wife. Abandon all thought of her, I beg of you,” he urged earnestly. “Take this advice of mine, for one day you will assuredly thank me for my counsel.”

“I love her with all the strength of my being, and for me that is sufficient,” I declared.

“Ah!” he cried in despair as he paced the room. “To think of the irony of it all! That you should actually woo her—of all women!” Then, halting before me, his eye grew suddenly aflame, he clenched his hands and cried: “But you shall not! Understand me, you shall hate her; you shall curse her very name. You shall never love her—never—I, Edmund Shuttleworth, forbid it! It must not be!”

At that instant the frou-frou of a woman’s skirts fell upon my ears, and, turning quickly, I saw Sylvia herself standing at the open French windows.

Entering unobserved she had heard those wild words of the rector’s, and stood pale, breathless, rigid as a statue.

“There!” he cried, pointing at her with his thin, bony finger. “There she is! Ask her yourself, now—before me—the reason why she can never be your wife—the reason that her love is forbidden! If she really loves you, as she pretends, she will tell you the truth with her own lips!”