Somehow I had become impressed with the idea that the stranger might
have been one of the daring and dangerous association, and that he had
related that strange story for the purpose of misleading me.
But the stranger, who had, in the course of our conversation, told me
that his name was Pierre Delanne, only said--
"You could have read it all in the _Matin_, my dear monsieur."
His attitude was that of a man who knew more than he intended to
reveal. Surely it was a curious circumstance, standing there in the
night, listening to the dramatic truth concerning the big-faced
American, Harriman, whom I had for so long regarded as an enigma.
"Tell me, Monsieur Delanne," I said, "for what reason have you
followed me to London?"
He laughed as he strode easily along at my side towards the Duke of
York's steps.
"Haven't I already told you that I did not purposely follow you?" he
exclaimed.
"Yes, but I don't believe it," was my very frank reply. He had
certainly explained that, but his manner was not earnest. I could see
that he was only trifling with me, trifling in an easy, good-natured
way.
"_Bien!_" he said; "and if I followed you, Monsieur Biddulph, I assert
that it is with no sinister intent."
"How do I know that?" I queried. "You are a stranger."
"I admit that. But you are not a stranger to me, my dear monsieur."
"Well, let us come to the point," I said. "What do you want with me?"
"Nothing," he laughed. "Was it not you yourself who addressed me?"
"But you followed me!" I cried. "You can't deny that."
"Monsieur may hold of me whatever opinion he pleases," was Delanne's
polite reply. "I repeat my regrets, and I ask pardon."
He spoke English remarkably well. But I recollected that the
international thief--the man who is a cosmopolitan, and who commits
theft in one country to-night, and is across the frontier in the
morning--is always a perfect linguist. Harriman was. Though American,
with all his nasal intonation and quaint Americanisms, he spoke
half-a-dozen Continental languages quite fluently.
My bitter experiences of the past caused considerable doubt to arise
within me. I had had warnings that my mysterious enemies would attack
me secretly, by some subtle means. Was this Frenchman one of them?
He saw that I treated him with some suspicion, but it evidently amused
him. His face beamed with good-nature.
At the bottom of the broad flight of stairs which lead up to the
United Service Club and Pall Mall, I halted.
"Now look here, Monsieur Delanne," I said, much puzzled and mystified
by the man's manner and the curious story he had related, "I have
neither desire nor inclination for your company further. You
understand?"
"Ah, monsieur, a thousand pardons," cried the man, raising his hat and
bowing with the elegance of the true Parisian. "I have simply spoken
the truth. Did you not put to me questions which I have answered? You
have said you are engaged to the daughter of my friend Penning-ton.
That has interested me."
"Why?"
"Because the daughter of my friend Penning-ton always interests me,"
was his curious reply.
"Is that an intended sarcasm?" I asked resentfully.
"Not in the least, m'sieur," he said quickly. "I have every admiration
for the young lady."
"Then you know her--eh?"
"By repute."
"Why?"
"Well, her father was connected with one of the strangest and most
extraordinary incidents in my life," he said. "Even to-day, the
mystery of it all has not been cleared up. I have tried, times without
number, to elucidate it, but have always failed."
"What part did Sylvia play in the affair, may I ask?"
"Really," he replied, "I scarcely know. It was so utterly
extraordinary--beyond human credence."
"Tell me--explain to me," I said, instantly interested. What could
this man know of my well-beloved?
He was silent for some minutes. We were still standing by the steps.
Surely it was scarcely the place for an exchange of confidences.
"I fear that monsieur must really excuse me. The matter is
purely a personal one--purely confidential, and concerns myself
alone--just--just as your close acquaintanceship with Mademoiselle
Sylvia concerns you."
"It seems that it concerns other persons as well, if one may judge by
what has recently occurred."
"Ah! Then your enemies have arisen because of your engagement to the
girl--eh?"
"The girl!" How strange! Pennington's mysterious friends of the
Brescia road had referred to her as "the girl." So had those two
assassins in Porchester Terrace! Was it a mere coincidence, or had he,
too, betrayed a collusion with those mean blackguards who had put me
to that horrible torture?
Had you met this strange man at night in St. James's Park, would you
have placed any faith in him? I think not. I maintain that I was
perfectly justified in treating him as an enemy. He was rather too
intimately acquainted with the doings of Harriman and his gang to suit
my liking. Even as he stood there beneath the light of the
street-lamp, I saw that his bright eyes twinkled behind those gold
pince-nez, while the big old-fashioned amethyst he wore on his finger
was a conspicuous object. He gave one the appearance of a prosperous
merchant or shopkeeper.
"What makes you suggest that the attempt was due to my affection for
Sylvia?" I asked him.
"Well, it furnishes a motive, does it not?"
"No, it doesn't. I have no enemies--as far as I am aware."
"But there exists some person who is highly jealous of mademoiselle,
and who is therefore working against you in secret."
"Is that your opinion?"
"I regret to admit that it is. Indeed, Monsieur Biddulph, you have
every need to exercise the greatest care. Otherwise misfortune will
occur to you. Mark what I--a stranger--tell you."
I started. Here again was a warning uttered! The situation was growing
quite uncanny.
"What makes you expect this?"
"It is more than mere surmise," he said slowly and in deep
earnestness. "I happen to know."
From that last sentence of his I jumped to the conclusion that he was,
after all, one of the malefactors. He was warning me with the
distinct object of putting me off my guard. His next move, no doubt,
would be to try and pose as my friend and adviser! I laughed within
myself, for I was too wary for him.
"Well," I said, after a few moments' silence, as together we ascended
the broad flight of steps, with the high column looming in the
darkness, "the fact is, I've become tired of all these warnings.
Everybody I meet seems to predict disaster for me. Why, I can't make
out."
"No one has revealed to you the reason--eh?" he asked in a low,
meaning voice.
"No."
"Ah! Then, of course, you cannot discern the peril. It is but natural
that you should treat all well-meant advice lightly. Probably I
should, _mon cher ami_, if I were in your place."
"Well," I exclaimed impatiently, halting again, "now, what is it that
you really know? Don't beat about the bush any longer. Tell me,
frankly and openly."
The man merely raised his shoulders significantly, but made no
response. In the ray of light which fell upon him, his gold-rimmed
spectacles glinted, while his shrewd dark eyes twinkled behind them,
as though he delighted in mystifying me.
"Surely you can reply," I cried in anger. "What is the reason of all
this? What have I done?"
"Ah! it is what monsieur has not done."
"Pray explain."
"Pardon. I cannot explain. Why not ask mademoiselle? She knows
everything."
"Everything!" I echoed. "Then why does she not tell me?"
"She fears--most probably."
Could it be that this strange foreigner was purposely misleading me? I
gazed upon his stout, well-dressed figure, and the well-brushed silk
hat which he wore with such jaunty air.
In Pall Mall a string of taxi-cabs was passing westward, conveying
homeward-bound theatre folk, while across at the brightly-lit entrance
of the Carlton, cabs and taxis were drawing up and depositing
well-dressed people about to sup.
At the corner of the Athenæum Club we halted again, for I wanted to
rid myself of him. I had acted foolishly in addressing him in the
first instance. For aught I knew, he might be an accomplice of those
absconding assassins of Porchester Terrace.
As we stood there, he had the audacity to produce his cigarette-case
and offer me one. But I resentfully declined it.
"Ah!" he laughed, stroking his greyish beard again, "I fear, Monsieur
Biddulph, that you are displeased with me. I have annoyed you by not
satisfying your natural curiosity. But were I to do so, it would be
against my own interests. Hence my silence. Am I not perfectly honest
with you?"
That speech of his corroborated all my suspicions. His motive in
following me, whatever it could be, was a sinister one. He had
admitted knowledge of Harriman, the man found guilty and sentenced
for the murder of the young English member of Parliament, Ronald
Burke. His intimate acquaintance with Harriman's past and with his
undesirable friends showed that he must have been an associate of that
daring and dangerous gang.
I was a diligent reader of the English papers, but had never seen any
mention of the great association of expert criminals. His assertion
that the Paris _Matin_ had published all the details was, in all
probability, untrue. I instinctively mistrusted him, because he had
kept such a watchful eye upon me ever since I had sat with Sylvia's
father in the lounge of that big hotel in Manchester.
"I don't think you are honest with me, Monsieur Delanne," I said
stiffly. "Therefore I refuse to believe you further."
"As you wish," laughed my companion. "You will believe me, however,
ere long--when you have proof. Depend upon it."
And he glanced at his watch, closing it quickly with a snap.
"You see----" he began, but as he uttered the words a taxi, coming
from the direction of Charing Cross, suddenly pulled up at the kerb
where we were standing--so suddenly that, for a moment, I did not
notice that it had come to a standstill.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, when he saw the cab, "I quite forgot! I have an
appointment. I will wish you _bon soir_, Monsieur Biddulph. We may
meet again--perhaps." And he raised his hat in farewell.
As he turned towards the taxi to enter it, I realized that some one
was inside--that the person in the cab had met the strange foreigner
by appointment at that corner!