Nothing definite, however, could I gather from the hotel people.
They knew nothing, and seemed highly annoyed that such an incident should occur in their quiet and highly aristocratic house.
Next day Sylvia waited for news of her father, but none came.
Delanne called about eleven o’clock in the morning, and had a brief interview with her in private. What passed between them I know not, save that the man, whose real name was Guertin, met me rather coldly and afterwards bade me adieu.
I hated the fellow. He was always extremely polite, always just a little sarcastic, and yet, was he not the associate of the man Reckitt?
I wished to leave Paris and return to London, but Sylvia appeared a little anxious to remain. She seemed to expect some secret communication from her father.
“Thank Heaven!” she said, on the day following Delanne’s call, “father has escaped them. That was surely a daring dash he made. He knew that they intended to kill him.”
“But I don’t understand,” I said. “Do you mean they would kill him openly?”
“Of course. They have no fear. Their only fear is while he remains alive.”