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.”

I brushed past him and entered the study.

Upon my writing-table there lay a note addressed to me.

I recognized the handwriting in an instant, and with trembling fingers tore open the envelope.

What I read there staggered me.