les 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 assisted 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.

I had resolved, on the morning of my marriage, to put behind