"How's the girl?" Had that man referred to Sylvia? There was mystery somewhere. I felt certain of it.
Down the hill I retraced my steps, on through the little town, now wrapped in slumber, and back to the Grand Hotel, where nearly every one had already retired to bed. In a corner of the big lounge, however, Pennington's daughter was seated alone, reading a Tauchnitz novel.
I felt in no humour to turn in just then, for I was rather used to late hours; therefore I passed through the lounge and out upon the terrace, in order to smoke and think. The clouds were lifting, and the moon was struggling through, casting an uncertain light across the broad dark waters.
I had thrown myself into a wicker chair near the end of the terrace, and, with a cigarette, was pondering deeply, when, of a sudden, I saw a female figure, wrapped in a pale blue shawl, coming in my direction.
I recognized the cream skirt and the shawl. It was Sylvia! Ah! how inexpressibly charming and dainty she looked!
When she had passed, I rose and, meeting her face to face, raised my hat and spoke to her.
She started slightly and halted. What words I uttered I hardly knew, but a few moments later I found myself strolling at her side, chatting merrily in English. Her chiffons exuded the delicate scent of Rose d'Orsay, that sweet perfume which is the hall-mark of the modern well-dressed woman.
And she was undoubtedly English, after all!
"Oh no," she declared in a low, musical voice, in response to a fear I had expressed, "I am not at all cold. This place is so charming, and so warm, to where my father and I have recently been--at Uleaborg, in Finland."
"At Uleaborg!" I echoed. "Why, that is away--out of the world--at the northern end of the Gulf of Bothnia!"
"Yes," she declared, with a light laugh. "It is so windy and cold, and oh! so wretchedly dull."
"I should rather think so!" I cried. "Why, it is almost within the Arctic Circle. Why did you go up there--so far north--in winter?"
"Ah!" she sighed, "we are always travelling. My father is the modern Wandering Jew, I think. Our movements are always sudden, and our journeys always long ones--from one end of Europe to the other very often."
"Tired!" she gasped, her voice changing. "Ah! if you only knew how I long for peace, for rest--for home!" and she sighed.