He started perceptibly at my words.
“Ah! of course. The girl was with me at Gardone. You met her there, perhaps—eh?”
I replied in the affirmative. It, however, struck me as strange that he should refer to her as “the girl.” Surely that was the term used by one of his strange motoring friends when he kept that midnight appointment on the Brescia road.
“I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Sylvia,” I went on. “And more, we have become very firm friends.”
“Oh!” he exclaimed, opening his eyes widely. “I’m delighted to hear it.”
Though his manner was so open and breezy, I yet somehow detected a curious sinister expression in his glance. He did not seem exactly at his ease in my presence.
“The fact is, Mr. Pennington,” I said, after we had been chatting for some time, “I have been wanting to meet you for some weeks past. I have something to say to you.”
“Oh! What’s that?” he asked, regarding me with some surprise. “I suppose Sylvia told you that I was in Manchester, and you came here to see me—eh? This was not a chance meeting—was it?”
“Not exactly,” I admitted. “I came here from London expressly to have a chat with you—a confidential chat.”