It was a cryptic sign in lead pencil, and apparently she had drawn her hand over it to remove it, but had not been altogether successful. Examining it closely, I saw that the sign, as originally scrawled upon the smooth stone, was like two crescents placed back to back, while both above and below rough circles had been drawn. The marks had evidently some prearranged meaning--one which she understood. It was a secret message from her father, without a doubt! At risk of detection by some agent of police, I made a further close examination of the wall, and came upon two other signs which had also been hurriedly obliterated--one of three double triangles, and another of two oblongs and a circle placed in conjunction. But there was no writing; nothing, indeed, to convey any meaning to the uninitiated. The wall of that dark entry, however, was no doubt the means of an exchange of secret messages between certain unknown persons. The house was a large one, and had been let out in flats, as were its neighbours; but for some unaccountable reason--perhaps owing to a law dispute--it now remained closed. I was puzzled as to which of the three half-obliterated signs Sylvia had sought. But I took notice of each, and then walked back in the direction whence I had come. I returned at once to the hotel, but my wife had not yet come back. This surprised me. And I was still further surprised when she did not arrive until nearly one o'clock in the morning. Yet she seemed very happy--unusually so. Where had she been after receiving that secret message, I wondered? Yet I could not question her, lest I should betray my watchfulness. "I'm so sorry to have left you alone all this long time, Owen," she said, as she entered the room and came across to kiss me. "But it was quite unavoidable." "Is all well?" I inquired. "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.