Sylvia had stood by in silence. I saw by her face that the Frenchman’s sudden appearance had caused her the greatest alarm and dismay. If Delanne was her father’s friend, why did the latter flee in such fear? Why had he implored me to save him? From what?
The Frenchman seemed highly disappointed, for finding the waiter in the corridor he asked him in French which way the Englishman had fled.
The waiter, however, declared that he had seen nobody in the corridor, a reply which sorely puzzled Delanne.
“Where is he?” he demanded of Sylvia.
“I have no idea,” was her faltering reply. “He simply went into the next room a few moments ago.”
“And slipped out in an endeavour to make his exit, eh?” asked the man, with a short, harsh laugh. “I quite expected as much. That is why I intended to have a straight business talk with him.”
“He is in no mood to talk business just now,” said my wife, and then—and only then—did I recollect that this man was the associate of the assassin Reckitt.
This fact alone aroused my antagonism towards him. Surely I was glad that Pennington had got away if, as it seemed, he did not wish to meet his unwelcome visitor.
“He shall talk business!” cried the Frenchman, “and very serious business!”