“In Manchester! Was he at the Midland while I was there?”
“Yes. He was dressed in black, with a silk hat and wore on his finger a great amethyst ring—a rather vulgar-looking ornament.”
Pennington’s lips were instantly pressed together.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, almost with a start, “I think I know who you mean. His beard is pointed, and his eyes rather small and shining. He has the air of a bon-vivant, and speaks English extremely well. He wears the amethyst on the little finger of his left hand.”
“Exactly.”
“And, to you, he called himself Pierre Delanne, eh?”
“Yes. What is his real name, then?”
“Who knows? I’ve heard that he uses half-a-dozen different aliases,” replied my father-in-law.
“Then you know him?”
“Well—not very well,” was Pennington’s response in a rather strange voice, I thought. “Did he say anything regarding myself?”