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 assumed name of Arnold Du Cane! For business purposes names are often assumed, 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?" "Oh yes!" he laughed. "How very foolish of me! Forgive me. I thought I recognized you, and yet couldn't, for the life of me, recall where we had met. How are you?" and he put out his hand and shook mine warmly. "Let's sit down. Have a drink, Mr.--er. I haven't the pleasure of your name." "Biddulph," I said. "Owen Biddulph." "Well, Mr. Biddulph," he said in a cheery way, "I'm very glad you recognized me. I'm a very bad hand at recollecting people, I fear. Perhaps I meet so many." And then he gave the waiter an order for some refreshment. "Since I was at Gardone I've been about a great deal--to Cairo, Bucharest, Odessa, and other places. I'm always travelling, you know." "And your daughter has remained at home--with Mr. Shuttleworth, near Andover," I remarked. He started perceptibly at my words. "Ah! of course. The girl was with me at Gardone. You met her there, perhaps--eh?" I replied in the affirmative. It, however, struck me as strange that he should refer to her as "the girl." Surely that was the term used by one of his strange motoring friends when he kept that midnight appointment on the Brescia road.