My own thoughts were, however, running in an entirely different channel, and when presently Sylvia, who looked a delightful picture in ivory chiffon, and wearing the diamond necklet I had given her as one of her wedding presents, rose and left us to our cigars, I said suddenly-- "I say, Pennington, do you happen to know a stout, grey-bearded Frenchman who wears gold-rimmed glasses--a man named Pierre Delanne?" "Delanne?" he repeated. "No, I don't recollect the name." "I saw him in Manchester," I exclaimed. "He was at the Midland, and said he knew you--and also Sylvia." "In Manchester! Was he at the Midland while I was there?" "Yes. He was dressed in black, with a silk hat and wore on his finger a great amethyst ring--a rather vulgar-looking ornament." Pennington's lips were instantly pressed together. "Ah!" he exclaimed, almost with a start, "I think I know who you mean. His beard is pointed, and his eyes rather small and shining. He has the air of a bon-vivant, and speaks English extremely well. He wears the amethyst on the little finger of his left hand." "Exactly." "And, to you, he called himself Pierre Delanne, eh?" "Yes. What is his real name, then?" "Who knows? I've heard that he uses half-a-dozen different aliases," replied my father-in-law. "Then you know him?" "Well--not very well," was Pennington's response in a rather strange voice, I thought. "Did he say anything regarding myself?" "Only that he had seen you in Manchester." "When did you see him last?" "Well," I said, "as a matter of fact he met me in London the same night, and I fancy I have caught sight of him twice since. The first occasion was a fortnight ago in Princes Street, Edinburgh, when I saw him coming forth from the North British Hotel with another man, also a foreigner. They turned up Princes Street, and then descended the steps to the station before I could approach sufficiently close. I was walking with Sylvia, so could not well hasten after them. The second occasion was yesterday, when I believe I saw him in a taxi passing us as we drove out to tea at Armenonville." "Did he see you?" asked Pennington quickly. "I think so. I fancy he recognized me." "Did Sylvia see him?" he asked almost breathlessly. "No." "Ah!" and he seemed to breathe again more freely. "Apparently he is not a very great friend of yours," I ventured to remark. "No--he isn't; and if I were you, Biddulph, I would avoid him like the plague. He is not the kind of person desirable as a friend. You understand." "I gathered from his conversation that he was something of an adventurer," I said. "That's just it. Myself, I always avoid him," he replied. Then he turned the conversation into a different channel. He congratulated me upon our marriage and told me how Sylvia, when they had been alone together for a few moments before dinner, had declared herself supremely happy.