"I believe, sir, that you are Mr. Pennington?"
He looked at me strangely, and I fancied that he started at mention of
the name.
"Well, sir," was his calm reply, "I have not the pleasure of knowing
you." I noted that he neither admitted that he was Pennington, nor did
he deny it.
"We met some little time ago on the Lake of Garda," I said. "I,
unfortunately, did not get the chance of a chat with you then. You
left suddenly. Don't you recollect that I sat alone opposite you in
the restaurant of the Grand at Gardone?"
"Oh yes!" he laughed. "How very foolish of me! Forgive me. I thought I
recognized you, and yet couldn't, for the life of me, recall where we
had met. How are you?" and he put out his hand and shook mine warmly.
"Let's sit down. Have a drink, Mr.--er. I haven't the pleasure of your
name."
"Biddulph," I said. "Owen Biddulph."
"Well, Mr. Biddulph," he said in a cheery way, "I'm very glad you
recognized me. I'm a very bad hand at recollecting people, I fear.
Perhaps I meet so many." And then he gave the waiter an order for some
refreshment. "Since I was at Gardone I've been about a great deal--to
Cairo, Bucharest, Odessa, and other places. I'm always travelling, you
know."
"And your daughter has remained at home--with Mr. Shuttleworth, near
Andover," I remarked.
He started perceptibly at my words.
"Ah! of course. The girl was with me at Gardone. You met her there,
perhaps--eh?"
I replied in the affirmative. It, however, struck me as strange that
he should refer to her as "the girl." Surely that was the term used by
one of his strange motoring friends when he kept that midnight
appointment on the Brescia road.
"I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Sylvia," I went on. "And more, we
have become very firm friends."
"Oh!" he exclaimed, opening his eyes widely. "I'm delighted to hear
it."
Though his manner was so open and breezy, I yet somehow detected a
curious sinister expression in his glance. He did not seem exactly at
his ease in my presence.
"The fact is, Mr. Pennington," I said, after we had been chatting for
some time, "I have been wanting to meet you for some weeks past. I
have something to say to you."
"Oh! What's that?" he asked, regarding me with some surprise. "I
suppose Sylvia told you that I was in Manchester, and you came here to
see me--eh? This was not a chance meeting--was it?"
"Not exactly," I admitted. "I came here from London expressly to have
a chat with you--a confidential chat."
His expression altered slightly, I thought.
"Well?" he asked, twisting his cigar thoughtfully in his fingers.
"Speak; I'm listening."