"Which is usually heavy and indigestible, I fear," he declared. "What,
now, could be more indigestible than our English roast beef and plum
pudding--eh?"
My own thoughts were, however, running in an entirely different
channel, and when presently Sylvia, who looked a delightful picture in
ivory chiffon, and wearing the diamond necklet I had given her as one
of her wedding presents, rose and left us to our cigars, I said
suddenly--
"I say, Pennington, do you happen to know a stout, grey-bearded
Frenchman who wears gold-rimmed glasses--a man named Pierre Delanne?"
"Delanne?" he repeated. "No, I don't recollect the name."
"I saw him in Manchester," I exclaimed. "He was at the Midland, and
said he knew you--and also Sylvia."
"In Manchester! Was he at the Midland while I was there?"
"Yes. He was dressed in black, with a silk hat and wore on his finger
a great amethyst ring--a rather vulgar-looking ornament."
Pennington's lips were instantly pressed together.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, almost with a start, "I think I know who you
mean. His beard is pointed, and his eyes rather small and shining. He
has the air of a bon-vivant, and speaks English extremely well. He
wears the amethyst on the little finger of his left hand."
"Exactly."
"And, to you, he called himself Pierre Delanne, eh?"
"Yes. What is his real name, then?"
"Who knows? I've heard that he uses half-a-dozen different aliases,"
replied my father-in-law.
"Then you know him?"
"Well--not very well," was Pennington's response in a rather strange
voice, I thought. "Did he say anything regarding myself?"
"Only that he had seen you in Manchester."
"When did you see him last?"
"Well," I said, "as a matter of fact he met me in London the same
night, and I fancy I have caught sight of him twice since. The first
occasion was a fortnight ago in Princes Street, Edinburgh, when I saw
him coming forth from the North British Hotel with another man, also a
foreigner. They turned up Princes Street, and then descended the steps
to the station before I could approach sufficiently close. I was
walking with Sylvia, so could not well hasten after them. The second
occasion was yesterday, when I believe I saw him in a taxi passing us
as we drove out to tea at Armenonville."
"Did he see you?" asked Pennington quickly.
"I think so. I fancy he recognized me."
"Did Sylvia see him?" he asked almost breathlessly.
"No."
"Ah!" and he seemed to breathe again more freely.
"Apparently he is not a very great friend of yours," I ventured to
remark.
"No--he isn't; and if I were you, Biddulph, I would avoid him like the
plague. He is not the kind of person desirable as a friend. You
understand."
"I gathered from his conversation that he was something of an
adventurer," I said.
"That's just it. Myself, I always avoid him," he replied. Then he
turned the conversation into a different channel. He congratulated me
upon our marriage and told me how Sylvia, when they had been alone
together for a few moments before dinner, had declared herself
supremely happy.
"I only hope that nothing may occur to mar your pleasant lives, my
dear fellow," he said, slowly knocking the ash from his cigar. "In the
marriage state one never knows whether adversity or prosperity lies
before one."
"I hope I shall meet with no adversity," I said.
"I hope not--for Sylvia's sake," he declared.
"What is for Sylvia's sake?" asked a cheery voice, and, as we both
looked up in surprise, we found that she had re-entered noiselessly,
and was standing laughing mischievously by the open door. "It is so
dull being alone that I've ventured to come back. I don't mind the
smoke in the least."
"Why, of course, darling!" I cried, jumping from my chair and pulling
forward an arm-chair for her.
I saw that it was a bright night outside, and that the autos with
their sparkling lights like shooting stars were passing and repassing
with honking horns up and down the Rue de Rivoli. For a moment she
stood at my side by the window, looking down into the broad
thoroughfare below.