"No, madame, we think not. They are strangers--and entirely unknown."

Sylvia also heard the man's reply, and exclaimed--

"I hope my father has successfully escaped his enemies. It was, however, a very narrow shave. If they had seen him, they would have shot him dead, and afterwards declared it to have been an accident!"

"Surely not!" I cried. "That would have been murder."

"Of course. But they are desperate, and they would have wriggled out of it somehow. That was why I feared for him. But, thank Heaven, he is evidently safe."

And she turned from the window that looked forth into the Rue de Rivoli, and then made an excuse to go to her room.

I saw that she was greatly perturbed. Her heart beat quickly, and her face, once pale as death, was now flushed crimson.

"How your father got away so rapidly was simply marvellous!" I declared. "Why, scarcely ten seconds elapsed from the time he closed that door to Delanne's appearance on the threshold."

"Yes. But he instantly realized his peril, and did not hesitate."

"I am sorry, dearest, that this exciting incident should have so upset our evening," I said, kissing her upon the brow, for she now declared herself much fatigued. "When you have gone to your room, I shall go downstairs and learn what I can about the curious affair.

Your father's enemies evidently knew of his arrival from Brussels, for Delanne admitted that word of it was telephoned to Orleans, and he came to Paris at once."

"Yes, he admitted that," she said hurriedly. "But do not let us speak of it. My father has got away in safety. For me that is all-sufficient. Good-night, Owen, dear." And she kissed me fondly.

"Good-night, darling," I said, returning her sweet caress; and then, when she had pa.s.sed from the room, I seized my hat and descended the big flight of red-carpeted stairs, bent on obtaining some solution of the mystery of that most exciting and curious episode.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

MORE MYSTERY

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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sociate 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 a.s.sure you."

But recollections of Reckitt and his dastardly accomplice arose within me, and I hardly accepted her a.s.surance, 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 pa.s.sing 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 cla.s.ses.

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 n.o.body 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.