commands the respect of
those who serve him. And surely this stranger was an epicure, for
after his dessert I heard him order with his coffee a _petit verre_ of
gold-water of Dantzig, a rare liqueur only known and appreciated by
the very select few who really know what is what--a bottle of which,
if you search Europe from end to end, you will not find in perhaps
twenty restaurants, and those only of the very first order.

The eyes of the fair-haired girl haunted me. Instinctively I knew that
she was no ordinary person. Her apathy and listlessness, her strangely
vacant look, combined with the wonderful beauty of her countenance,
held me fascinated.

Who was she? What mystery surrounded her? I felt, by some strange
intuition, that there was a mystery, and that that curious wistfulness
in her glance betrayed itself because, though accompanied by her
father, she was nevertheless in sore need of a friend.

When her father had drained his coffee they rose and passed into the
great lounge, with its many little tables set beneath the palms, where
a fine orchestra was playing Maillart's tuneful "Les Dragons de
Villars."

As they seated themselves many among that well-dressed, gay crowd of
winter idlers turned to look at them. I, however, seldom went into the
nightly concert; therefore I strolled along the wide corridor to the
hall-porter, and inquired the names of the fresh arrivals.

"Yes, monsieur," replied the big, dark-bearded German; "you mean, of
course, numbers one hundred and seventeen and one hundred and
forty-six--English, father and daughter, arrived by the five o'clock
boat from Riva with a great deal of baggage--here are the names," and
he showed me the slips signed by them on arrival. "They are the only
new-comers to-day."

There I saw, written on one in a man's bold hand, "Richard Pennington,
rentier, Salisbury, England," and on the other, "Sylvia Pennington."

"I thought they were French," I remarked.

"So did I, monsieur; they speak French so well. I was surprised when
they registered themselves as English."

CHAPTER TWO

TOLD IN THE NIGHT

Sylvia Pennington! The face, the name, those wistful, appealing eyes
haunted me in my dreams that night.

Why? Even now I am at a loss to tell, unless--well, unless I had
become fascinated by that strange, mysterious, indescribable
expression; fascinated, perhaps, by her marvellous beauty, unequalled
in all my experience.

Next morning, while my man