“Quite,” was her reply. “My father is already out of France.”
That was all she would vouchsafe to me. Still I saw that she was greatly gratified at the knowledge of his escape from his mysterious enemies.
The whole situation was extraordinary. Why should this man Delanne, the friend of Reckitt and no doubt a member of a gang of blackmailers and assassins, openly pursue him to the death? It was an entire enigma. I could discern no light through the veil of mystery which had, all along, so completely enshrouded Pennington and his daughter.
Still I resolved to put aside all apprehensions. Why should I trouble?
I loved Sylvia with all my heart, and with all my soul. She was mine! What more could I desire?
Next evening we returned to Wilton Street. She had suddenly expressed a desire to leave Paris, perhaps because she did not wish to again meet her father’s enemy, that fat Frenchman Guertin.
For nearly a month we lived in perfect happiness, frequently visiting the Shuttleworths for the day, and going about a good deal in town. She urged me to go to Carrington to shoot, but, knowing that she did not like the old place, I made excuses and remained in London.
“Father is in Roumania,” she remarked to me one morning when she had been reading her letters at the breakfast-table. “He sends his remembrances to you from Bucharest. You have never been there, I suppose? I’m extremely fond of the place. There is lots of life, and the Roumanians are always so very hospitable.”
“No,” I said, “I’ve never been to Bucharest, unfortunately, though I’ve been in Constanza, which is also in Roumania. Remember me to your father when you write, won’t you?”
“Certainly. He wonders whether you and I would care to go out there for a month or two?”