Part 38 (2/2)

”No, it would not,” she responded, shaking her head gravely. ”They would contrive an 'accident.'”

”Well,” I said, ”he has evaded them, and we must be thankful for that.

Do you expect to hear from him?”

”Yes,” she replied, ”I shall probably receive a message to-night. That is why I wish to remain, Owen. I wonder,” she added rather hesitatingly, ”I wonder whether you would consider it very strange of me if I asked you to let me go out to-night at ten o'clock alone?”

”Well, I rather fear your going out alone and unprotected at that hour, darling,” I responded.

”Ah! have no fear whatever for me. I shall be safe enough. They will not attempt anything just now. I am quite confident of that. I--I want to go forth alone, for an hour or so.”

”Oh, well, if it is your distinct wish, how can I refuse, dear?”

”Ah!” she cried, putting her arm fondly about my neck, ”I knew you would not refuse me. I shall go out just before ten, and I will be back long before midnight. You will excuse my absence, won't you?”

”Certainly,” I said. And thus it was arranged.

Her request, I admit, puzzled me greatly, and also caused me considerable fear. My past experience had aroused within me a constant phantom of suspicion.

We lunched at the Ritz, and in the afternoon took a taxi into the Bois, where we spent an hour upon a seat in one of the by-paths of that beautiful wood of the Parisians. On our return to the hotel, Sylvia was all eagerness for a message, but there was none.

”Ah! he is discreet!” she exclaimed to me, when the _concierge_ had given her a negative reply. ”He fears to send me word openly.”

At ten o'clock that night, however, she had exchanged her dinner gown for a dark stuff dress, and, with a small black hat, and a boa about her neck, she came to kiss me.

”I won't be very long, dearest,” she said cheerily. ”I'll get back the instant I can. Don't worry after me. I shall be perfectly safe, I a.s.sure you.”

But recollections of Reckitt and his dastardly accomplice arose within me, and I hardly accepted her a.s.surance, even though I made pretence of so doing.

For a few moments I held her in my arms tenderly, then releasing her, she bade me _au revoir_ merrily, and we descended into the hall together.

A taxi was called, and I heard her direct the driver to go to the Boulevard Pereire. Then, waving her hand from the cab window, she drove away.

Should I follow? To spy upon her would be a mean action. It would show a lack of confidence, and would certainly irritate and annoy her. Yet was she not in peril? Had she not long ago admitted herself to be in some grave and mysterious danger?

I had only a single moment in which to decide. Somehow I felt impelled to follow and watch that she came to no harm; yet, at the same time, I knew that it was not right. She was my wife, and I dearly loved her and trusted her. If discovered, my action would show her that I was suspicious.

Still I felt distinctly apprehensive, and it was that apprehension which caused me, a second later, to seize my hat, and, walking out of the hotel, hail a pa.s.sing taxi, and drive quickly to the quiet, highly respectable boulevard to which she had directed her driver.

I suppose it was, perhaps, a quarter of an hour later when we turned into the thoroughfare down the centre of which runs the railway in a deep cutting. The houses were large ones, let out in fine flats, the residences mostly of the professional and wealthier tradesman cla.s.ses.

We went along, until presently I caught sight of another taxi standing at the kerb. Therefore I dismissed mine, and, keeping well in the shadow, sauntered along the boulevard, now quiet and deserted.

With great precaution I approached the standing taxi on the opposite side of the way. There was n.o.body within. It was evidently awaiting some one, and as it was the only one in sight I concluded that it must be the same which Sylvia had taken from the hotel.

Some distance further on I walked, when, before me, I recognized her neat figure, and almost a moment afterwards saw her disappear into a large doorway which was in complete darkness--the doorway of what seemed to be an untenanted house.

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