I was greatly interested, even though I was now filled with suspicion.

Somehow I had become impressed with the idea that the stranger might have been one of the daring and dangerous association, and that he had related that strange story for the purpose of misleading me.

But the stranger, who had, in the course of our conversation, told me that his name was Pierre Delanne, only said—

“You could have read it all in the Matin, my dear monsieur.”

His attitude was that of a man who knew more than he intended to reveal. Surely it was a curious circumstance, standing there in the night, listening to the dramatic truth concerning the big-faced American, Harriman, whom I had for so long regarded as an enigma.

“Tell me, Monsieur Delanne,” I said, “for what reason have you followed me to London?”

He laughed as he strode easily along at my side towards the Duke of York’s steps.

“Haven’t I already told you that I did not purposely follow you?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, but I don’t believe it,” was my very frank reply. He had certainly explained that, but his manner was not earnest. I could see that he was only trifling with me, trifling in an easy, good-natured way.

“Bien!” he said; “and if I followed you, Monsieur Biddulph, I assert that it is with no sinister intent.”

“How do I know that?” I queried. “You are a stranger.”

“I admit that. But you are not a stranger to me, my dear monsieur.”

“Well, let us come to the point,” I said. “What do you want with me?”

“Nothing,” he laughed. “Was it not you yourself who addressed me?”

“But you followed me!” I cried. “You can’t deny that.”

“Monsieur may hold of me whatever opinion he pleases,” was Delanne’s polite reply. “I repeat my regrets, and I ask pardon.”

He spoke English remarkably well. But I recollected that the international thief—the man who is a cosmopolitan, and who commits theft in one country to-night, and is across the frontier in the morning—is always a perfect linguist. Harriman was. Though American, with all his nasal intonation and quaint Americanisms, he spoke half-a-dozen Continental languages quite fluently.

My bitter experiences of the past caused considerable doubt to arise within me. I had had warnings that my mysterious enemies would attack me secretly, by some subtle means. Was this Frenchman one of them?

He saw that I treated him with some suspicion, but it evidently amused him. His face beamed with good-nature.

At the bottom of the broad flight of stairs which lead up to the United Service Club and Pall Mall, I halted.

“Now look here, Monsieur Delanne,” I said, much puzzled and mystified by the man’s manner and the curious story he had related, “I have neither desire nor inclination for your company further. You understand?”

“Ah, monsieur, a thousand pardons,” cried the man, raising his hat and bowing with the elegance of the true Parisian. “I have simply spoken the truth. Did you not put to me questions which I have answered? You have said you are engaged to the daughter of my friend Penning-ton. That has interested me.”

“Why?”

“Because the daughter of my friend Penning-ton always interests me,” was his curious reply.

“Is that an intended sarcasm?” I asked resentfully.

“Not in the least, m’sieur,” he said quickly. “I have every admiration for the young lady.”

“Then you know her—eh?”

“By repute.”

“Why?”

“Well, her father was connected with one of the strangest and most extraordinary incidents in my life,” he said. “Even to-day, the mystery of it all has not been cleared up. I have tried, times without number, to elucidate it, but have always failed.”

“What part did Sylvia play in the affair, may I ask?”

“Really,” he replied, “I scarcely know. It was so utterly extraordinary—beyond human credence.”

“Tell me—explain to me,” I said, instantly interested. What could this man know of my well-beloved?

He was silent for some minutes. We were still standing by the steps. Surely it was scarcely the place for an exchange of confidences.

“I fear that monsieur must really excuse me. The matter is purely a personal one—purely confidential, and concerns myself alone—just—just as your close acquaintanceship with Mademoiselle Sylvia concerns you.”

“It seems that it concerns other persons as well, if one may judge by what has recently occurred.”

“Ah! Then your enemies have arisen because of your engagement to the girl—eh?”

“The girl!” How strange! Pennington’s mysterious friends of the Brescia road had referred to her as “the girl.” So had those two assassins in Porchester Terrace! Was it a mere coincidence, or had he, too, betrayed a collusion with those mean blackguards who had put me to that horrible torture?

Had you met this strange man at night in St. James’s Park, would you have placed any faith in him? I think not. I maintain that I was perfectly justified in treating him as an enemy. He was rather too intimately acquainted with the doings of Harriman and his gang to suit my liking. Even as he stood there beneath the light of the street-lamp, I saw that his bright eyes twinkled behind those gold pince-nez, while the big old-fashioned amethyst he wore on his finger was a conspicuous object. He gave one the appearance of a prosperous merchant or shopkeeper.

“What makes you suggest that the attempt was due to my affection for Sylvia?” I asked him.

“Well, it furnishes a motive, does it not?”

“No, it doesn’t. I have no enemies—as far as I am aware.”

“But there exists some person who is highly jealous of mademoiselle, and who is therefore working against you in secret.”

“Is that your opinion?”

“I regret to admit that it is. Indeed, Monsieur Biddulph, you have every need to exercise the greatest care. Otherwise misfortune will occur to you. Mark what I—a stranger—tell you.”

I started. Here again was a warning uttered! The situation was growing quite uncanny.

“What makes you expect this?”

“It is more than mere surmise,” he said slowly and in deep earnestness. “I happen to know.”

From that last sentence of his I jumped to the conclusion that he was, after all, one of the malefactors. He was warning me with the distinct object of putting me off my guard. His next move, no doubt, would be to try and pose as my friend and adviser! I laughed within myself, for I was too wary for him.

“Well,” I said, after a few moments’ silence, as together we ascended the broad flight of steps, with the high column looming in the darkness, “the fact is, I’ve become tired of all these warnings. Everybody I meet seems to predict disaster for me. Why, I can’t make out.”

“No one has revealed to you the reason—eh?” he asked in a low, meaning voice.

“No.”

“Ah! Then, of course, you cannot discern the peril. It is but natural that you should treat all well-meant advice lightly. Probably I should, mon cher ami, if I were in your place.”

“Well,” I exclaimed impatiently, halting again, “now, what is it that you really know? Don’t beat about the bush any longer. Tell me, frankly and openly.”

The man merely raised his shoulders significantly, but made no response. In the ray of light which fell upon him, his gold-rimmed spectacles glinted, while his shrewd dark eyes twinkled behind them, as though he delighted in mystifying me.

“Surely you can reply,” I cried in anger. “What is the reason of all this? What have I done?”

“Ah! it is what monsieur has not done.”

“Pray explain.”

“Pardon. I cannot explain. Why not ask mademoiselle? She knows everything.”

“Everything!” I echoed. “Then why does she not tell me?”

“She fears—most probably.”

Could it be that this strange foreigner was purposely misleading me? I gazed upon his stout, well-dressed figure, and the well-brushed silk hat which he wore with such jaunty air.

In Pall Mall a string of taxi-cabs was passing westward, conveying homeward-bound theatre folk, while across at the brightly-lit entrance of the Carlton, cabs and taxis were drawing up and depositing well-dressed people about to sup.

At the corner of the AthenÆum Club we halted again, for I wanted to rid myself of him. I had acted foolishly in addressing him in the first instance. For aught I knew, he might be an accomplice of those absconding assassins of Porchester Terrace.

As we stood there, he had the audacity to produce his cigarette-case and offer me one. But I resentfully declined it.

“Ah!” he laughed, stroking his greyish beard again, “I fear, Monsieur Biddulph, that you are displeased with me. I have annoyed you by not satisfying your natural curiosity. But were I to do so, it would be against my own interests. Hence my silence. Am I not perfectly honest with you?”

That speech of his corroborated all my suspicions. His motive in following me, whatever it could be, was a sinister one. He had admitted knowledge of Harriman, the man found guilty and sentenced for the murder of the young English member of Parliament, Ronald Burke. His intimate acquaintance with Harriman’s past and with his undesirable friends showed that he must have been an associate of that daring and dangerous gang.

I was a diligent reader of the English papers, but had never seen any mention of the great association of expert criminals. His assertion that the Paris Matin had published all the details was, in all probability, untrue. I instinctively mistrusted him, because he had kept such a watchful eye upon me ever since I had sat with Sylvia’s father in the lounge of that big hotel in Manchester.

“I don’t think you are honest with me, Monsieur Delanne,” I said stiffly. “Therefore I refuse to believe you further.”

“As you wish,” laughed my companion. “You will believe me, however, ere long—when you have proof. Depend upon it.”

And he glanced at his watch, closing it quickly with a snap.

“You see——” he began, but as he uttered the words a taxi, coming from the direction of Charing Cross, suddenly pulled up at the kerb where we were standing—so suddenly that, for a moment, I did not notice that it had come to a standstill.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, when he saw the cab, “I quite forgot! I have an appointment. I will wish you bon soir, Monsieur Biddulph. We may meet again—perhaps.” And he raised his hat in farewell.

As he turned towards the taxi to enter it, I realized that some one was inside—that the person in the cab had met the strange foreigner by appointment at that corner!

A man’s face peered out for a second, and a voice exclaimed cheerily—

“Hulloa! Sorry I’m late, old chap!”

Then, next instant, on seeing me, the face was withdrawn into the shadow.

Delanne had entered quickly, and, slamming the door, told the man to drive with all speed to Paddington Station.

The taxi was well on its way down Pall Mall ere I could recover from my surprise.

The face of the man in the cab was a countenance the remembrance of which will ever haunt me if I live to be a hundred years—the evil, pimply, dissipated face of Charles Reckitt!

My surmise had been correct, after all. Delanne was his friend!

Another conspiracy was afoot against me!