"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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing 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.

Then, a second later, she suddenly cried--

"Why, look, Owen! Do you see that man with the short dark overcoat standing under the lamp over there? I've seen him several times to-day. Do you know, he seems to be watching us!"

"Watching you!" cried her father, starting to his feet and joining us.

The long wooden sun-shutters were closed, so, on opening the windows which led to the balcony we could see between the slats without being observed from outside.

I looked at the spot indicated by my wife, and then saw on the other side of the way a youngish-looking man idly smoking a cigarette and gazing in the direction of the Place de la Concorde, as though expecting some one.

I could not distinguish his features, yet I saw that he wore brown boots, and that the cut of his clothes and the shape of his hat were English.

"Where have you seen him before?" I asked of her.

"I first met him when I came out of Lentheric's this morning. Then, again, when we lunched at the Volnay he was standing at the corner of the Rue de la Paix and the Rue Daunou. He followed us in the Rue Royale later on."

"And now he seems to have mounted guard outside, eh?" I remarked, somewhat puzzled. "Why did you not tell me this before?"

"I did not wish to cause you any anxiety, Owen," was her simple reply, while her father asked--

"Do you know the fellow? Ever seen him before, Sylvia?"

"Never in my life," she declared. "It's rather curious, isn't it?"

"Very," I said.

And as we all three watched we saw him move away a short distance and join a taller man who came from the direction he had been looking. For a few moments they conversed. Then the new-comer crossed the road towards us and was lost to sight.

In a few seconds a ragged old man, a cripple, approached the mysterious watcher with difficulty, and said something to him as he pa.s.sed.

"That cripple is in the business!" cried Pennington, who had been narrowly watching. "He's keeping observation, and has told him something. Some deep game is being played here, Biddulph."

"I wonder why they are watching?" I asked, somewhat apprehensive of the coming evil that had been so long predicted.

Father and daughter exchanged curious glances. It seemed to me as though a startling truth had dawned upon them both. I stood by in silence.

"It is certainly distinctly unpleasant to be watched like this--providing, of course, that Sylvia has not made a mistake,"

Pennington said.

"I have made no mistake," she declared quickly. "I've been much worried about it all day, but did not like to arouse Owen's suspicions;" and I saw by her face that she was in dead earnest.

At the same moment, however, a light tap was heard upon the door and a waiter opened it, bowing as he announced--

"Monsieur Pierre Delanne to see Monsieur Biddulph."

"Great Heavens, Sylvia!" cried Pennington, standing pale-faced and open-mouthed. "It's Guertin! He must not discover that I am in Paris!"

Then, turning to me in fear, he implored: "Save me from this meeting, Biddulph! Save me--if you value your wife's honour, I beg of you. I'll explain all afterwards. _Only save me!_"

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

DESCRIBES AN UNWELCOME VISIT

Pennington's sudden fear held me in blank surprise.

Ere I could reply to him he had slipped through the door which led into my bedroom, closing it after him, just as Delanne's stout figure and broad, good-humoured face appeared in the doorway.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "Meester Biddulph!" and he bowed politely over my hand.

Then, turning to Sylvia, who stood pale and rigid, he put forth his hand, and also bowed low over hers, saying in English: "My respects--and heartiest congratulations to madame."

His quick eyes wandered around the room, then he added--

"Meester Pennington is here; where is he? I am here to speak with him."

"Pennington was here," I replied, "but he has gone."