"But I can't," she declared. "That's just it. I only wish I could rid myself of this horrible feeling of insecurity." "We are perfectly secure," I assured her. "My enemies are now aware that I'm quite wide awake." And in a few brief sentences I explained my curious meeting with the Frenchman Delanne. The instant I described him--his stout body, his grey pointed beard, his gold pince-nez, his amethyst ring--she sat staring at me, white to the lips. "Why," she gasped, "I know! The description is exact. And--and you say he saw my father in Manchester! He actually rode away in the same cab as Reckitt! Impossible! You must have dreamt it all, Owen." "No, dearest," I said quite calmly. "It all occurred just as I have repeated it to you." "And he really entered the taxi with Reckitt? He said, too, that he knew my father--eh?" "He did." She held her breath. Her eyes were staring straight before her, her breath came and went quickly, and she gripped the wooden post to steady herself, for she swayed forward suddenly, and I stretched out my hand, fearing lest she should fall. What I had told her seemed to stagger her. It revealed something of intense importance to her--something which, to me, remained hidden. It was still a complete enigma. CHAPTER TWENTY THE STRANGER IN THE RUE DE RIVOLI From Scarborough we had gone up to the Highlands, spending a fortnight at Grantown, a week at Blair Atholl, returning south through Callander and the Trossachs--one of the most glorious autumns I had ever spent. Ours was now a peaceful, uneventful life, careless of the morrow, and filled with perfect love and concord. I adored my young beautiful wife, and I envied no man. I had crushed down all feelings of misgivings that had hitherto so often arisen within me, for I felt confident in Sylvia's affection. She lived only for me, possessing me body and soul. Not a pair in the whole of England loved each other with a truer or more fervent passion. Our ideas were identical, and certainly I could not have chosen a wife more fitted for me--even though she rested beneath such a dark cloud of suspicion. I suppose some who read this plain statement of fact will declare me to have been a fool. But to such I would reply that in your hearts the flame of real love has never yet burned. You may have experienced what you have fondly believed to have been love--a faint flame that has perhaps flickered for a time and, dying out, has long been forgotten. Only if you have really loved a woman--loved her with that all-consuming passion that arises within a man once in his whole lifetime when he meets his affinity, can you understand why I made Sylvia my wife.