k 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 ple