CHAPTER TWENTY THE STRANGER IN THE RUE DE RIVOLI

From Scarborough we had gone up to the Highlands, spending a fortnight at Grantown, a week at Blair Atholl, returning south through Callander and the Trossachs—one of the most glorious autumns I had ever spent.

Ours was now a peaceful, uneventful life, careless of the morrow, and filled with perfect love and concord. I adored my young beautiful wife, and I envied no man.

I had crushed down all feelings of misgivings that had hitherto so often arisen within me, for I felt confident in Sylvia’s affection. She lived only for me, possessing me body and soul.

Not a pair in the whole of England loved each other with a truer or more fervent passion. Our ideas were identical, and certainly I could not have chosen a wife more fitted for me—even though she rested beneath such a dark cloud of suspicion.

I suppose some who read this plain statement of fact will declare me to have been a fool. But to such I would reply that in your hearts the flame of real love has never yet burned. You may have experienced what you have fondly believed to have been love—a faint flame that has perhaps flickered for a time and, dying out, has long been forgotten. Only if you have really loved a woman—loved her with that all-consuming passion that arises within a man once in his whole lifetime when he meets his affinity, can you understand why I made Sylvia my wife.

I had the car brought up to meet us in Perth, and with it Sylvia and I had explored all the remotest beauties of the Highlands. We ran up as far north as Inverness, and around to Oban, delighting in all the beauties of the heather-clad hills, the wild moors, the autumn-tinted glades, and the broad unruffled lochs. Afterwards we went round the Trossachs and motored back to London through Carlisle, the Lakes, North Wales and the Valley of the Wye, the most charming of all motor-runs in England.

Afterwards, Sylvia wanted to do some shopping, and we went over to Paris for ten days. There, while at the Meurice, her father, who chanced to be passing through Paris on his way from Brussels to Lyons, came unexpectedly one evening and dined with us in our private salon.

Pennington was just as elegant and epicurean as ever. He delighted in the dinner set before him, the hotel, of course, being noted for its cooking.

That evening we were a merry trio. I had not seen my father-in-law since the morning of our marriage, when I had called, and found him confined to his bed. Therefore we had both a lot to relate to him regarding our travels.

“I, too, have been moving about incessantly,” he remarked, as he poised his wine-glass in his hand, regarding the colour of its contents. “I was in Petersburg three weeks ago. I’m interested in some telegraph construction works there. We’ve just secured a big Government contract to lay a new line across Siberia.”

“I’ve written to you half-a-dozen times,” remarked his daughter, “but you never replied.”

“I’ve never had your letters, child,” he said. “Where did you address them?”

“Two I sent to the Travellers’ Club, here. Another I sent to the Hôtel de France, in Petersburg.”

“Ah! I was at the Europe,” he laughed. “I find their cooking better. Their sterlet is even better than the Hermitage at Moscow. Jules, the chef, was at Cubat’s, in the Nevski, for years.”

Pennington always gauged a hotel by the excellence of its chef. He told us of tiny obscure places in Italy which he knew, where the rooms were carpetless and comfortless, but where the cooking could vie with the Savoy or Carlton in London. He mentioned the Giaponne in Leghorn, the Tazza d’Oro in Lucca, and the Vapore in Venice, of all three of which I had had experience, and I fully corroborated what he said. He was a man who ate his strawberries with a quarter of a liqueur-glass of maraschino thrown over them, and a slight addition of pepper, and he always mixed his salads himself.

“Perhaps you think me very whimsical,” he laughed across the table, “but really, good cooking makes so much difference to life.”

I told him that, as an Englishman, I preferred plainly-cooked food.

“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.

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 passed.

“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!”