"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 pa.s.sing 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 Athenaeum 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 a.s.sa.s.sins 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 a.s.sociate of that daring and dangerous gang.

I was a diligent reader of the English papers, but had never seen any mention of the great a.s.sociation of expert criminals. His a.s.sertion 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!

A man's face peered out for a second, and a voice exclaimed cheerily--

"Hulloa! Sorry I'm late, old chap!"

Then, next instant, on seeing me, the face was withdrawn into the shadow.

Delanne had entered quickly, and, slamming the door, told the man to drive with all speed to Paddington Station.

The taxi was well on its way down Pall Mall ere I could recover from my surprise.

The face of the man in the cab was a countenance the remembrance of which will ever haunt me if I live to be a hundred years--the evil, pimply, dissipated face of Charles Reckitt!

My surmise had been correct, after all. Delanne was his friend!

Another conspiracy was afoot against me!

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THROUGH THE MISTS

It was now the end of September.

All my fears had proved groundless, and I had, at last, learned to laugh at them. For me, a new vista of life had been opened out, for Sylvia had now been my wife for a whole week--seven long dreamy days of perfect love and bliss.

Scarce could we realize the truth that we were actually man and wife.

Pennington had, after all, proved quite kind and affable, his sole thought being of his daughter's future happiness. I had invited them both down to Carrington, and he had expressed delight at the provision I had made for Sylvia. Old Browning, in his brand-new suit, was at the head of a new staff of servants. There were new horses and carriages and a landaulette motor, while I had also done all I could to refurnish and renovate some of the rooms for Sylvia's use.

The old place had been very dark and dreary, but it now wore an air of brightness and freshness, thanks to the London upholsterers and decorators into whose hands I had given the work.

Pennington appeared highly pleased with all he saw, while Sylvia, her arms entwined about my neck, kissed me in silent thanks for my efforts on her behalf.

Then came the wedding--a very quiet one at St. Mary Abbot's, Kensington. Besides Jack Marlowe and a couple of other men who were intimate friends, not more than a dozen persons were present.

Shuttleworth a.s.sisted the vicar, but Pennington was unfortunately ill in bed at the Hotel Metropole, suffering from a bad cold. Still, we held the wedding luncheon at the Savoy, and afterwards went up to Scarborough, where we were now living in a pretty suite at the Grand Hotel overlooking the harbour, the blue bay, and the castle-crowned cliffs.

It was disappointing to Sylvia that her father had not been present at the wedding, but Elsie Durnford and her mother were there, as well as two or three other of her girl friends. The ceremony was very plain.

At her own request, she had been married in her travelling-dress, while I, man-like, had secretly been glad that there was no fuss.

Just a visit to the church, the brief ceremony, the signature in the register, and a four-line announcement in the _Times_ and _Morning Post_, and Sylvia and I had become man and wife.