“No—he isn’t; and if I were you, Biddulph, I would avoid him like the plague. He is not the kind of person desirable as a friend. You understand.”
“I gathered from his conversation that he was something of an adventurer,” I said.
“That’s just it. Myself, I always avoid him,” he replied. Then he turned the conversation into a different channel. He congratulated me upon our marriage and told me how Sylvia, when they had been alone together for a few moments before dinner, had declared herself supremely happy.
“I only hope that nothing may occur to mar your pleasant lives, my dear fellow,” he said, slowly knocking the ash from his cigar. “In the marriage state one never knows whether adversity or prosperity lies before one.”
“I hope I shall meet with no adversity,” I said.
“I hope not—for Sylvia’s sake,” he declared.
“What is for Sylvia’s sake?” asked a cheery voice, and, as we both looked up in surprise, we found that she had re-entered noiselessly, and was standing laughing mischievously by the open door. “It is so dull being alone that I’ve ventured to come back. I don’t mind the smoke in the least.”
“Why, of course, darling!” I cried, jumping from my chair and pulling forward an arm-chair for her.
I saw that it was a bright night outside, and that the autos with their sparkling lights like shooting stars were passing and repassing with honking horns up and down the Rue de Rivoli. For a moment she stood at my side by the window, looking down into the broad thoroughfare below.
Then, a second later, she suddenly cried—