Nothing definite, however, could I gather from the hotel people.
They knew nothing, and seemed highly annoyed that such an incident
should occur in their quiet and highly aristocratic house.
Next day Sylvia waited for news of her father, but none came.
Delanne called about eleven o'clock in the morning, and had a brief
interview with her in private. What passed between them I know not,
save that the man, whose real name was Guertin, met me rather coldly
and afterwards bade me adieu.
I hated the fellow. He was always extremely polite, always just a
little sarcastic, and yet, was he not the associate of the man
Reckitt?
I wished to leave Paris and return to London, but Sylvia appeared a
little anxious to remain. She seemed to expect some secret
communication from her father.
"Thank Heaven!" she said, on the day following Delanne's call, "father
has escaped them. That was surely a daring dash he made. He knew that
they intended to kill him."
"But I don't understand," I said. "Do you mean they would kill him
openly?"
"Of course. They have no fear. Their only fear is while he remains
alive."
"But the law would punish them."
"No, it would not," she responded, shaking her head gravely. "They
would contrive an 'accident.'"
"Well," I said, "he has evaded them, and we must be thankful for that.
Do you expect to hear from him?"
"Yes," she replied, "I shall probably receive a message to-night. That
is why I wish to remain, Owen. I wonder," she added rather
hesitatingly, "I wonder whether you would consider it very strange of
me if I asked you to let me go out to-night at ten o'clock alone?"
"Well, I rather fear your going out alone and unprotected at that
hour, darling," I responded.
"Ah! have no fear whatever for me. I shall be safe enough. They will
not attempt anything just now. I am quite confident of that. I--I want
to go forth alone, for an hour or so."
"Oh, well, if it is your distinct wish, how can I refuse, dear?"
"Ah!" she cried, putting her arm fondly about my neck, "I knew you
would not refuse me. I shall go out just before ten, and I will be
back long before midnight. You will excuse my absence, won't you?"
"Certainly," I said. And thus it was arranged.
Her request, I admit, puzzled me greatly, and also caused me
considerable fear. My past experience had aroused within me a constant
phantom of suspicion.
We lunched at the Ritz, and in the afternoon took a taxi into the
Bois, where we spent an hour upon a seat in one of the by-paths of
that beautiful wood of the Parisians. On our return to the hotel,
Sylvia was all eagerness for a message, but there was none.
"Ah! he is discreet!" she exclaimed to me, when the _concierge_ had
given her a negative reply. "He fears to send me word openly."
At ten o'clock that night, however, she had exchanged her dinner gown
for a dark stuff dress, and, with a small black hat, and a boa about
her neck, she came to kiss me.
"I won't be very long, dearest," she said cheerily. "I'll get back the
instant I can. Don't worry after me. I shall be perfectly safe, I
assure you."
But recollections of Reckitt and his dastardly accomplice arose within
me, and I hardly accepted her assurance, even though I made pretence
of so doing.
For a few moments I held her in my arms tenderly, then releasing her,
she bade me _au revoir_ merrily, and we descended into the hall
together.
A taxi was called, and I heard her direct the driver to go to the
Boulevard Pereire. Then, waving her hand from the cab window, she
drove away.
Should I follow? To spy upon her would be a mean action. It would show
a lack of confidence, and would certainly irritate and annoy her. Yet
was she not in peril? Had she not long ago admitted herself to be in
some grave and mysterious danger?
I had only a single moment in which to decide. Somehow I felt impelled
to follow and watch that she came to no harm; yet, at the same time, I
knew that it was not right. She was my wife, and I dearly loved her
and trusted her. If discovered, my action would show her that I was
suspicious.
Still I felt distinctly apprehensive, and it was that apprehension
which caused me, a second later, to seize my hat, and, walking out of
the hotel, hail a passing taxi, and drive quickly to the quiet, highly
respectable boulevard to which she had directed her driver.
I suppose it was, perhaps, a quarter of an hour later when we turned
into the thoroughfare down the centre of which runs the railway in a
deep cutting. The houses were large ones, let out in fine flats, the
residences mostly of the professional and wealthier tradesman classes.
We went along, until presently I caught sight of another taxi standing
at the kerb. Therefore I dismissed mine, and, keeping well in the
shadow, sauntered along the boulevard, now quiet and deserted.
With great precaution I approached the standing taxi on the opposite
side of the way. There was nobody within. It was evidently awaiting
some one, and as it was the only one in sight I concluded that it must
be the same which Sylvia had taken from the hotel.
Some distance further on I walked, when, before me, I recognized her
neat figure, and almost a moment afterwards saw her disappear into a
large doorway which was in complete darkness--the doorway of what
seemed to be an untenanted house.
I halted quickly and waited--yet almost ashamed of myself for spying
thus.
A moment later I saw that, having believed herself unobserved, she
struck a match, but for what reason did not seem apparent. She
appeared to be examining the wall. She certainly was not endeavouring
to open the door. From the distance, however, I was unable to
distinguish very plainly.
The vesta burned out, and she threw it upon the ground. Then she
hurriedly retraced her steps to where she had left her cab, and I was
compelled to bolt into a doorway in order to evade her.
She passed quite close to me, and when she had driven away I emerged,
and, walking to the doorway, also struck a light and examined the same
stone wall. At first I could discover nothing, but after considerable
searching my eyes at last detected a dark smudge, as though something
had been obliterated.
It was a cryptic sign in lead pencil, and apparently she had drawn her
hand over it to remove it, but had not been altogether successful.
Examining it closely, I saw that the sign, as originally scrawled upon
the smooth stone, was like two crescents placed back to back, while
both above and below rough circles had been drawn.
The marks had evidently some prearranged meaning--one which she
understood. It was a secret message from her father, without a doubt!
At risk of detection by some agent of police, I made a further close
examination of the wall, and came upon two other signs which had also
been hurriedly obliterated--one of three double triangles, and another
of two oblongs and a circle placed in conjunction. But there was no
writing; nothing, indeed, to convey any meaning to the uninitiated.
The wall of that dark entry, however, was no doubt the means of an
exchange of secret messages between certain unknown persons.
The house was a large one, and had been let out in flats, as were its
neighbours; but for some unaccountable reason--perhaps owing to a law
dispute--it now remained closed.
I was puzzled as to which of the three half-obliterated signs Sylvia
had sought. But I took notice of each, and then walked back in the
direction whence I had come.
I returned at once to the hotel, but my wife had not yet come back.
This surprised me. And I was still further surprised when she did not
arrive until nearly one o'clock in the morning. Yet she seemed very
happy--unusually so.
Where had she been after receiving that secret message, I wondered?
Yet I could not question her, lest I should betray my watchfulness.
"I'm so sorry to have left you alone all this long time, Owen," she
said, as she entered the room and came across to kiss me. "But it was
quite unavoidable."
"Is all well?" I inquired.
"Quite," was her reply. "My father is already out of France."
That was all she would vouchsafe to me. Still I saw that she was
greatly gratified at the knowledge of his escape from his mysterious
enemies.
The whole situation was extraordinary. Why should this man Delanne,
the friend of Reckitt and no doubt a member of a gang of blackmailers
and assassins, openly pursue him to the death? It was an entire
enigma. I could discern no light through the veil of mystery which
had, all along, so completely enshrouded Pennington and his daughter.
Still I resolved to put aside all apprehensions. Why should I trouble?
I loved Sylvia with all my heart, and with all my soul. She was mine!
What more could I desire?
Next evening we returned to Wilton Street. She had suddenly expressed
a desire to leave Paris, perhaps because she did not wish to again
meet her father's enemy, that fat Frenchman Guertin.
For nearly a month we lived in perfect happiness, frequently visiting
the Shuttleworths for the day, and going about a good deal in town.
She urged me to go to Carrington to shoot, but, knowing that she did
not like the old place, I made excuses and remained in London.
"Father is in Roumania," she remarked to me one morning when she had
been reading her letters at the breakfast-table. "He sends his
remembrances to you from Bucharest. You have never been there, I
suppose? I'm extremely fond of the place. There is lots of life, and
the Roumanians are always so very hospitable."
"No," I said, "I've never been to Bucharest, unfortunately, though
I've been in Constanza, which is also in Roumania. Remember me to your
father when you write, won't you?"
"Certainly. He wonders whether you and I would care to go out there
for a month or two?"
"In winter?"
"Winter is the most pleasant time. It is the season in Bucharest."
"As you please, dearest," I replied. "I am entirely in your hands, as
you know," I laughed.
"That's awfully sweet of you, Owen," she declared. "You are always
indulging me--just like the spoilt child I am."
"Because I love you," I replied softly, placing my hand upon hers and
looking into her wonderful eyes.
She smiled contentedly, and I saw in those eyes the genuine love-look:
the expression which a woman can never feign.
Thus the autumn days went past, happy days of peace and joy.
Sylvia delighted in the theatre, and we went very often, while on days
when it was dry and the sun shone, I took her motoring to Brighton, to
Guildford, to Tunbridge Wells, or other places on the well-known
roads out of London.
The clouds which had first marred our happiness had now happily been
dispelled, and the sun of life and love shone upon us perpetually.
Sometimes I wondered whether that ideal happiness was not too complete
to last. In the years I had lived I had become a pessimist. I feared a
too-complete ideal. The realization of our hopes is always followed by
a poignant despair. In this world there is no cup of sweetness without
dregs of bitterness. The man who troubles after the to-morrow creates
trouble for himself, while he who is regardless of the future is like
an ostrich burying its head in the sand at sign of disaster.
Still, each of us who marry fondly believe ourselves to be the one
exception to the rule. And perhaps it is only human that it should be
so. I, like you my reader, believed that my troubles were over, and
that all the lowering clouds had drifted away. They were, however,
only low over the horizon, and were soon to reappear. Ah! how
differently would I have acted had I but known what the future--the
future of which I was now so careless--held in store for me!
One night we had gone in the car to the Coliseum Theatre, for Sylvia
was fond of variety performances as a change from the legitimate
theatre. As we sat in the box, I thought--though I could not be
certain--that she made some secret signal with her fan to somebody
seated below amid the crowded audience.
My back had been turned for a moment, and on looking round I felt
convinced that she had signalled. It was on the tip of my tongue to
refer to it, yet I hesitated, fearing lest she might be annoyed. I
trusted her implicitly, and, after all, I might easily have mistaken a
perfectly natural movement for a sign of recognition. Therefore I
laughed at my own foolish fancy, and turned my attention again to the
performance.
At last the curtain fell, and as we stood together amid the crush in
the vestibule, the night having turned out wet, I left her, to go in
search of our carriage.
I suppose I was absent about two or three minutes, but on my return I
could not find her.
She had vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed her
up.
I waited until the theatre was entirely empty. I described her to the
attendants, and I had a chat with the smart and highly popular
manager, but no one had seen her. She had simply disappeared.
I was frantic, full of the wildest dread as to what had occurred. How
madly I acted I scarcely knew. At last, seeing to remain longer was
useless, now that the theatre had closed, I jumped into the brougham
and drove with all haste to Wilton Street.
"No, Mr. Owen," replied Browning to my breathless inquiry, "madam has
not yet returned."