Part 29 (1/2)

I suppose I had been in the lounge half-an-hour or so, when I looked up, and then, to my surprise, saw Pennington, smartly dressed, and looking very spruce for his years, crossing from the bureau with a number of letters in his hand. It was apparent that he had just received them from the mail-clerk.

And yet I had been told that he was not staying there!

I held my paper in such position as to conceal my face while I watched his movements.

He halted, opened a telegram, and read it eagerly. Then, crus.h.i.+ng it in his hand with a gesture of annoyance, he thrust it into his jacket pocket.

He was dressed in a smart dark grey suit, which fitted him perfectly, a grey soft felt hat, while his easy manner and bearing were those of a gentleman of wealth and leisure. He held a cigar between his fingers, and, walking slowly as he opened one of the letters, he presently threw himself into one of the big arm-chairs near me, and became absorbed in his correspondence.

There was a waste-paper basket near, and into this he tossed something as valueless. One of the letters evidently caused him considerable annoyance, for, removing his hat, he pa.s.sed his hand slowly over his bald head as he sat staring at it in mystification. Then he rang the bell, and ordered something from a waiter. A liqueur of brandy was brought, and, tossing it off at a gulp, he rose, wrote a telegram at the table near him, and went quickly out.

After he had gone I also rose, and, without attracting attention, crossed, took up another paper, and then seated myself in the chair he had vacated.

My eye was upon the waste-paper basket, and when no one was looking I reached out and took therefrom a crumpled blue envelope--the paper he had flung away.

Smoothing it out, I found that it was not addressed to him, but to ”Arnold Du Cane, Esq., Travellers' Club, Paris,” and had been re-directed to this hotel.

This surprised me.

I rose, and, crossing to the mail-clerk, asked--

”You gave some letters and a telegram to a rather short gentleman in grey a few minutes ago. Was that Mr. Du Cane?”

”Yes, sir,” was the reply. ”He went across yonder into the lounge.”

”You know him--eh?”

”Oh yes, sir. He's often been here. Not lately. At one time, however, he was a frequent visitor.”

And so Sylvia's father was living there under the a.s.sumed name of Arnold Du Cane!

For business purposes names are often a.s.sumed, of course. But Pennington's business was such a mysterious one that, even against my will, I became filled with suspicion.

I resolved to wait and catch him on his return. He had probably only gone to the telegraph office. Had Sylvia wilfully concealed the fact that her father travelled under the name of Du Cane, in order that I should not meet him? Surely there could be no reason why she should have done so.

Therefore I returned to a chair near the entrance to the smoking-lounge, and waited in patience.

My vigil was not a long one, for after ten minutes or so he re-entered, spruce and gay, and cast a quick glance around, as though in search of somebody.

I rose from my chair, and as I did so saw that he regarded me strangely, as though half conscious of having met me somewhere before.

Walking straight up to him, I said--

”I believe, sir, that you are Mr. Pennington?”

He looked at me strangely, and I fancied that he started at mention of the name.

”Well, sir,” was his calm reply, ”I have not the pleasure of knowing you.” I noted that he neither admitted that he was Pennington, nor did he deny it.

”We met some little time ago on the Lake of Garda,” I said. ”I, unfortunately, did not get the chance of a chat with you then. You left suddenly. Don't you recollect that I sat alone opposite you in the restaurant of the Grand at Gardone?”