“You gave some letters and a telegram to a rather short gentleman in grey a few minutes ago. Was that Mr. Du Cane?”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “He went across yonder into the lounge.”
“You know him—eh?”
“Oh yes, sir. He’s often been here. Not lately. At one time, however, he was a frequent visitor.”
And so Sylvia’s father was living there under the assumed name of Arnold Du Cane!
For business purposes names are often assumed, of course. But Pennington’s business was such a mysterious one that, even against my will, I became filled with suspicion.
I resolved to wait and catch him on his return. He had probably only gone to the telegraph office. Had Sylvia wilfully concealed the fact that her father travelled under the name of Du Cane, in order that I should not meet him? Surely there could be no reason why she should have done so.
Therefore I returned to a chair near the entrance to the smoking-lounge, and waited in patience.
My vigil was not a long one, for after ten minutes or so he re-entered, spruce and gay, and cast a quick glance around, as though in search of somebody.