sonally, I, too, should soon grow
tired of a country life; and yet how could I grow tired of life with
you, my own darling, at my side?"

"And how could I either, Owen?" she asked, kissing me fondly. "With
you, no place can ever be dull. It is not the dulness I dread, but
other things."

"What things?"

"Catastrophe--of what kind, I know not. But I have been seized with a
kind of instinctive dread."

For a few moments I was silent, my arm still about her neat waist.
This sudden depression of hers was not reassuring.

"Try and rid yourself of the idea, dearest," I urged presently. "You
have nothing to fear. We may both have enemies, but they will not now
dare to attack us. Remember, I am now your husband."

"And I your wife, Owen," she said, with a sweet love-look. Then, with
a heavy sigh, she gazed thoughtfully away with her eyes fixed upon the
darkening sea, and added: "I only fear, dearest--for your sake."

I was silent again.

"Sylvia," I said slowly at last, "have you learnt anything--anything
fresh which has awakened these strange apprehensions of yours?"

"No," she faltered, "nothing exactly fresh. It is only a strange and
unaccountable dread which has seized me--a dread of impending
disaster."

"Forget it," I urged, endeavouring to laugh. "All your fears are now
without foundation, dearest. Now we are wedded, we will fearlessly
face the world together."

"I have no fear when I am at your side, Owen," she replied, looking at
me pale and troubled. "But when we are parted I--I always fear. The
day before yesterday I was full of apprehension all the time you had
gone to York. I felt that something was to happen to you."

"Really, dear," I said, smiling, "you make me feel quite creepy. Don't
allow your mind to run on the subject. Try and think of something
else."

"But I can't," she declared. "That's just it. I only wish I could rid
myself of this horrible feeling of insecurity."

"We are perfectly secure," I assured her. "My enemies are now aware
that I'm quite wide awake." And in a few brief sentences I explained
my curious meeting with the Frenchman Delanne.

The instant I described him--his stout body, his grey pointed beard,
his gold pince-nez, his amethyst ring--she sat staring at me, white to
the lips.

"Why," she gasped, "I know! The description is exact. And--and you say
he saw my father in Manchester! He actually rode away in the same cab
as Reckitt! Impossible! You must have dreamt it