I rose from my chair, and as I did so saw that he regarded me strangely, as though half conscious of having met me somewhere before.
Walking straight up to him, I said—
“I believe, sir, that you are Mr. Pennington?”
He looked at me strangely, and I fancied that he started at mention of the name.
“Well, sir,” was his calm reply, “I have not the pleasure of knowing you.” I noted that he neither admitted that he was Pennington, nor did he deny it.
“We met some little time ago on the Lake of Garda,” I said. “I, unfortunately, did not get the chance of a chat with you then. You left suddenly. Don’t you recollect that I sat alone opposite you in the restaurant of the Grand at Gardone?”
“Oh yes!” he laughed. “How very foolish of me! Forgive me. I thought I recognized you, and yet couldn’t, for the life of me, recall where we had met. How are you?” and he put out his hand and shook mine warmly. “Let’s sit down. Have a drink, Mr.—er. I haven’t the pleasure of your name.”
“Biddulph,” I said. “Owen Biddulph.”
“Well, Mr. Biddulph,” he said in a cheery way, “I’m very glad you recognized me. I’m a very bad hand at recollecting people, I fear. Perhaps I meet so many.” And then he gave the waiter an order for some refreshment. “Since I was at Gardone I’ve been about a great deal—to Cairo, Bucharest, Odessa, and other places. I’m always travelling, you know.”
“And your daughter has remained at home—with Mr. Shuttleworth, near Andover,” I remarked.