The tall young man dropped his eye-glass and smiled.

"Had the pleasure of dining with you at the 'Ambassador's' one night, before the show, you know—last September I think it was. Charley Pevenill was our host. My name is Armytage—Lord Ernest Armytage."

Anna had suddenly stiffened. She regarded the young man coldly. Her tone was icy.

"I am afraid that you are making a mistake," she said. "I was never at any such dinner, and I am quite sure that I do not know you."

"Perhaps you remember me, Miss Pellissier," the second young man interposed. "I had the pleasure of—er—meeting you more than once, I believe."

A spot of colour flared in Anna's cheek as she glanced towards the speaker. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her.

"To the best of my belief," she said, with quiet dignity, "I have never seen either of you before in my life."

For a fraction of a second the two young men hesitated. Then the foremost bowed and passed on.

"I am exceedingly sorry," he said. "Pray accept my apologies."

"And mine," murmured his companion, with the smile still lingering upon his lips.

They took their places at a distant table. Anna sat quite still for a moment, and then the colour suddenly returned to her cheeks. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table.

"Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you," she begged. "Those young men startled me at first, because they knew my name. I am quite sure though that they did not mean to be rude."

"Impudent beggars," Sydney growled. "I never wanted to kick any one so much in my life as that second fellow."

"I think," Anna said, "that it was only his manner. Do look at this tragedy in mauve, who has just come in. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. What can she have done to deserve such a fate? Oh!"

They both turned round at Anna's exclamation. A familiar figure was making his way towards them. Sydney sprang up.

"Why, it's David!" he exclaimed. "Hullo!"

Courtlaw, haggard, his deep-set eyes more brilliant than ever, took Anna's hand into his, and breathed a little close drawn sigh of content. He was introduced to Brendon, and a chair was brought by an attentive waiter. He declined supper, but took wine.

"Have you dropped from the skies?" Sydney asked wonderingly. "It was only yesterday I had your letter, and you never mentioned coming over."

"I had some unexpected business," Courtlaw answered shortly.

"And how did you find us here?"

"I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left. Mrs. White told me where to find you."

He leaned back in his chair as though wearied. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. The lines about his mouth gradually softened. He talked very little and rather absently. In no way could he be said to contribute to the gaiety of the little party. But when they were on their way out he whispered in Anna's ear.

"Please let me drive you home. I want to talk to you, and I must return to-morrow."

Anna hesitated.

"We are Mr. Brendon's guests," she said, "and I scarcely think it would be nice of me to leave him alone with Sydney."

Courtlaw turned abruptly to Brendon.

"Mr. Brendon," he said, "may I rob you of your guest just for the drive home? I have only a few hours in England, and Miss Pellissier is an old friend."

"By all means," Brendon answered. "We will follow you in another cab."

They passed out on to the pavement, and the commissionaire called a hansom. The man looked closely at Anna as she crossed the footway, and as he held her skirt from the wheel he pressed something into her hand. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively. It was a letter. She slipped it calmly into her pocket. The commissionaire smiled. It was a sovereign easily earned.

The hansom drove off. Suddenly Anna felt her hand seized and imprisoned in Courtlaw's burning fingers. She glanced into his face. It was enough.

"I have stood it for a month, Anna," he exclaimed. "You will not even answer my letters. I could not keep away any longer."

"Do you think that it was wise of you, or kind to come?" she asked quietly.

"Wise! Kind! What mockery words are! I came because I had to. I cannot live without you, Anna. Come back—you must come back. We can be married to-morrow in Paris. There! You are trying to take your hand away."

"You disappoint me," she said wearily. "You are talking like a boy. What is the use of it? I do not wish to marry you. I do not wish to return to Paris. You are doing your best to break our friendship."

"It is you," he cried, "you, who are talking folly, when you speak of friendship between you and me. It is not the woman who speaks there. It is the vapouring school girl. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. You are necessary to me. I shall give you my life, every moment and thought of my life. You must come back. See what you have made of me. I cannot work, I cannot teach. You have grown into my life, and I cannot tear you out."

Anna was silent. She was trembling a little. The man's passion was infectious. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife.

"You are mistaken, David. I have counted you, and always hoped to count you, the best of my friends. But I do not love you. I do not love any one."

"I don't believe it," he answered hoarsely. "We have come too close together for me to believe it. You care for me a little, I know. I will teach you how to make that little sufficient."

"You came to tell me this?"

"I came for you," he declared fiercely.

The hansom sped through the crowded streets. Anna suddenly leaned forward and looked around her.

"We are not going the right way," she exclaimed.

"You are coming my way," Courtlaw answered. "Anna," he pleaded, "be merciful. You care for me just a little, I know. You are alone in the world, you have no one save yourself to consider. Come back with me to-night. Your old rooms are there, if you choose. I kept them on myself till the sight of your empty chair and the chill loneliness of it all nearly sent me mad."

Anna lifted her hand and pushed open the trap door.

"Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman," she ordered.

The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. Courtlaw sat with folded arms. He said nothing.

"My friend," she said, "no! Let me tell you this. Nothing would induce me to marry you, or any man at present. I am a pauper, and as yet I have not discovered how to earn money. I am determined to fight my own little battle with the world—there must be a place for me somewhere, and I mean to find it. Afterwards, it may be different. If I were to marry you now I should feel a dependent being all my life—a sort of parasitical creature without blood or muscle. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. However good you were to me, and however happy I was in other ways, I should find this intolerable."

"All these things," he muttered bitterly, "this desperate resolve to take your life into your own hands, your unnatural craving for independence, would never trouble you for a moment—if you really cared."

"Then perhaps," she answered, with a new coldness in her tone, "perhaps I really do not care. No, don't interrupt me. I think that I am a little disappointed in you. You appear to be amongst those strong enough in all ordinary matters, but who seem to think it quite natural and proper to give in at once and play the weakling directly—one cares. Do you think that it makes for happiness to force oneself into the extravagant belief that love is the only thing in the world worth having, and to sacrifice for it independence, self-respect, one's whole scheme of life. I cannot do it, David. Perhaps, as you say, I do not really care—but I cannot do it."

He was strangely silent. He did not even reply to her for several minutes.

"I cannot reason with you," he said at last wearily. "I speak from my heart, and you answer from your brain."

"Believe me that I have answered you wisely," she said, in a gentler tone, "wisely for you too, as well as myself. And now you must go back, take up your work and think all this over. Presently you will see that I am right, and then you shall take your vacation over here, and we will be good comrades again."

He smiled bitterly as he handed her from the cab. He declined to come in.

"Will you tell Sydney that I will see him in the morning," he said. "I am staying at the Savoy. He can come round there."

"You will shake hands with me, please," she begged.

He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. Something he saw there made him feel for a moment ashamed. He pressed the long shapely hand warmly in his.

"Good-bye," he said earnestly. "Please forgive me. You are right. Quite right."

She was able to go straight to her room without delay, and she at once locked the door with a little sigh of relief. She found herself struggling with a storm of tears.

A sob was strangled in her throat. She struggled fiercely not to give way.

"Oh, I am lonely," she moaned. "I am lonely. If I could but——"

* * * * *

To escape from her thoughts she began to undress, humming a light tune to herself, though her eyes were hot with unshed tears, and the sobs kept rising in her throat. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. She tore open the envelope and read it.

"MY DEAR GIRL,—

"I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. The fact is I was so glad to see you again that it never occurred to me that a little discretion might be advisable. I'm afraid I'm a terribly clumsy fellow.

"I hope that you are going to allow me to see something of you during your stay in London, for the sake of old times. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. May we not repeat them once, at any rate, in London?

"Ever yours, "NIGEL ENNISON.

"P.S. My address is 94, Pall Mall."

Anna read, and her cheeks grew slowly scarlet. She crushed the letter in her hand.

"I wonder," she murmured to herself, "if this is the beginning."



Chapter X

THE TRAGEDY OF AN APPETITE

Anna, notwithstanding her quiet clothes, a figure marvellously out of accord with her surroundings, sat before a small marble-topped table at a crowded A.B.C., and munched a roll and butter with hearty appetite.

"If only I could afford another!" she thought regretfully. "I wonder why I am always hungry nowadays. It is so ridiculous."

She lingered over her tea, and glancing around, a sudden reflection on the change in her surroundings from the scene of her last night's supper brought a faint, humorous smile to her lips.

"In two days," she reflected, "Mrs. White will present her bill. I have one shilling and sevenpence halfpenny left. I have two days in which to earn nearly thirty shillings—that is with no dinners, and get a situation. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism."

"So far," she continued, eyeing hungrily the last morsel of roll which lay upon her plate, "my only chance of occupation has lain with a photographer who engaged me on the spot and insulted me in half an hour. What beasts men are! I cannot typewrite, my three stories are still wandering round, two milliners have refused me as a lay figure because business was so bad. I am no use for a clerk, because I do not understand shorthand. After all, I fancy that I shall have to apply for a situation as a nursery governess who understands French. Faugh!"

She took up the last morsel of roll, and held it delicately between her long slim fingers. Then her white teeth gleamed, and her excuse for remaining any longer before that little marble table was gone. She rose, paid her bill, and turned westwards.

She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Here she walked more slowly, looking constantly at the notices in the shop windows. One she entered and met with a sharp rebuff, which she appeared to receive unmoved. But when she reached the pavement outside her teeth were clenched, and she carried herself unconsciously an inch or so higher. It was just then that she came face to face with Nigel Ennison.

He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. Directly he saw Anna he accosted her. His manner was deferential, even eager. Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it.

"How fortunate I am, Miss Pellissier! All day I have been hoping that I might run across you. You got my note?"

"I certainly received a note," Anna admitted.

"You were going to answer it?"

"Certainly not!" she said deliberately.

He looked at her with an expression of comical despair.

"What have I done, Miss Pellissier?" he pleaded. "We were good friends in Paris, weren't we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me. You seem altogether altered, too. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren't you?"

"I certainly am," she admitted.

He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way.

"Of course!" he said. "You have changed somehow—and you certainly are less friendly."

She laughed. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly.

"Perhaps," she said, "it is the London climate. It depresses one, you know."

He nodded.

"You look more like your old self when you smile," he remarked. "But, forgive me, you are tired. Won't you come and have some tea with me? There is a new place in Bond Street," he hastened to say, "where everything is very well done, and they give us music, if that is any attraction to you."

She hesitated and looked for a moment straight into his eyes. He certainly bore inspection. He was tall and straight, and his expression was good.

"I will come—with pleasure," she said, "if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all."

"I promise," he answered heartily. "Allow me."

He took his place by her side, and they talked lightly of London, the shops and people. They found a cosy little table in the tea-rooms, and everything was delicious. Anna, with her marvellous capacity for enjoyment, ate cakes and laughed, and forgot that she had had tea an hour or so ago at an A.B.C., or that she had a care in the world.

"By-the-bye," he said, presently, "your sister was married to old Ferringhall the other day, wasn't she? I saw the notice in the papers."

Anna never flinched. But after the first shock came a warm glow of relief. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address.

"My sister and I," she said slowly, "have seen very little of each other lately. I fancy that Sir John does not approve of me."

Ennison shrugged his shoulders.

"Sort of man who can see no further than his nose," he remarked contemptuously. "Fearful old fogey! I can't imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. I thought perhaps you were staying with them, as you did not seem particularly anxious to recognize your old friends."

Anna shook her head.

"No, I am alone," she answered.

"Then we must try and make London endurable for you," he remarked cheerfully. "What night will you dine and go to the theatre with me?—and how about Hurlingham on Saturday?"

Anna shook her head.

"Thank you," she said coolly. "Those things are not for me just at present."

He was obviously puzzled. Anna sighed as she reflected that her sister had simply revelled in her indiscretions.

"Come," he said, "you can't be meaning to bury yourself. There must be something we can do. What do you say to Brighton——"

Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence.

"May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?" he inquired deferentially. "Perhaps your engagements are made for you."

"I am staying," she answered coolly, "at a small boarding-house near Russell Square."

He dropped his eye-glass with a clatter.

"At a boarding-house?" he gasped.

She nodded.

"Yes. I am an independent sort of person," she continued, "and I am engaged in an attempt to earn my own living. You don't happen to know of any one, I suppose, who wants a nursery governess, or a clerk—without shorthand—or a tryer-on, or a copyist, or——"

"For Heaven's sake stop, Miss Pellissier," he interrupted. "What a hideous repertoire! If you are in earnest about wanting to earn money, why on earth don't you accept an engagement here?"

"An engagement?" she queried.

"On the stage? Yes. You would not have the slightest difficulty."

She laughed softly to herself.

"Do you know," she confessed, "I never thought of that?"

He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest.

"I cannot conceive," he said, "how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you. You do not need me to remind you of your success at Paris. The papers are continually wondering what has become of 'Alcide.' Your name alone would fill any music hall in London."

Again that curious smile which puzzled him so much parted her lips for a moment.

"Dear me," she said, "I fancy you exaggerate my fame. I can't imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me."

He shrugged his shoulders. Even now he was not at all sure that she was not playing with him. There were so many things about her which he could not understand. She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully.

"I am very much obliged for the tea," she said. "This is a charming place, and I have enjoyed the rest."

"It was a delightful piece of good fortune that I should have met you," he answered. "I hope that whatever your plans may be, you will give me the opportunity of seeing something of you now and then."

"I am afraid," she said, preceding him down the narrow stairs, "that I am going to be too busy to have much time for gadding about. However, I daresay that we shall come across one another before long."

"That is provokingly indefinite," he answered, a little ruefully. "Won't you give me your address?"

She shook her head.

"It is such a very respectable boarding-house," she said. "I feel quite sure that Mrs. White would not approve of callers."

"I have a clue, at any rate," he remarked, smiling. "I must try the Directory."

"I wish you good luck," she answered. "There are a good many Whites in London."

"May I put you in a hansom?" he asked, lifting his stick.

"For Heaven's sake, no," she answered quickly. "Do you want to ruin me? I shall walk back."

"I may come a little way, then?" he begged.

"If you think it worth while," she answered doubtfully.

Apparently he thought it very much worth while. Restraining with an effort his intense curiosity, he talked of general subjects only, trying his best to entertain her. He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short.

"Heavens!" she exclaimed. "I have brought you very nearly to my door. Go back at once, please."

He held out his hand obediently.

"I'll go," he said, "but I warn you that I shall find you out."

For a moment she was grave.

"Well," she said. "I may be leaving where I am in a few days, so very likely you will be no better off."

He looked at her intently.

"Miss Pellissier," he said, "I don't understand this change in you. Every word you utter puzzles me. I have an idea that you are in some sort of trouble. Won't you let me—can't I be of any assistance?"

He was obviously in earnest. His tone was kind and sympathetic.

"You are very good," she said. "Indeed I shall not forget your offer. But just now there is nothing which you or anybody can do. Good-bye."

He was dismissed, and he understood it. Anna crossed the street, and letting herself in at No. 13 with a latchkey went humming lightly up to her room. She was in excellent spirits, and it was not until she had taken off her hat, and was considering the question of dinner or no dinner, that she remembered that another day had passed, and she was not a whit nearer being able to pay her to-morrow's bill.



Chapter XI

THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON

Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. Besides, she had admitted her identity. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes' whispered love-making! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. He went over her features one by one in his mind. They were the same. He could not doubt it. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. He found himself thinking up all the psychology which he had ever read. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being.

He spent the remainder of the afternoon looking for a friend whom he found at last in the billiard room of one of the smaller clubs to which he belonged. After the usual laconic greetings, he drew him on one side.

"Fred," he said, "do you remember taking me to dinner at the 'Ambassador's,' one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us."

"Of course," his friend answered. "La belle 'Alcide,' wasn't it? Annabel Pellissier was her real name. Jolly nice girl, too."

Ennison nodded.

"I thought I saw her in town to-day," he said. "Do you happen to know whether she is supposed to be here?"

"Very likely indeed," Captain Fred Meddoes answered, lighting a cigarette. "I heard that she had chucked her show at the French places and gone in for a reform all round. Sister's got married to that bounder Ferringhall."

Ennison took an easy chair.

"What a little brick!" he murmured. "She must have character. It's no half reform either. What do you know about her, Fred? I am interested."

Meddoes turned round from the table on which he was practising shots and shrugged his shoulders.

"Not much," he answered, "and yet about all there is to be known, I fancy. There were two sisters, you know. Old Jersey and Hampshire family, the Pellissiers, and a capital stock, too, I believe."

"Any one could see that the girls were ladies," Ennison murmured.

"No doubt about that," Meddoes continued. "The father was in the army, and got a half-pay job at St. Heliers. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves. One went in for painting, kept straight and married old Ferringhall a week or so ago—the Lord help her. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. If she's over, he probably knows all about it."

Ennison looked steadily at the cigarette which he was tapping on his forefinger.

"So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?" he remarked.

"No doubt about that, I fancy," Meddoes answered lightly. "He ran some Austrian fellow off. She was quite the rage, in a small way, you know. Strange, demure-looking young woman, with wonderful complexion and eyes, and a style about her, too. Care for a hundred up?"

Ennison shook his head.

"Can't stop, thanks," he answered. "See you to-night, I suppose?"

He sauntered off.

"I'm damned if I'll believe it," he muttered to himself savagely.

But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague.

* * * * *

The same night he met Meddoes and Drummond together, the latter over from Paris on a week's leave from the Embassy.

"Odd thing," Meddoes remarked, "we were just talking about the Pellissier girl. Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club."

"Sounds interesting," Ennison remarked. "May I hear?"

"It really isn't much to tell," Drummond answered. "You know what a fearful old prig Ferringhall is, always goes about as though the whole world were watching him? We tried to show him around Paris, but he wouldn't have any of it. Talked about his years, his position and his constituents, and always sneaked off back to his hotel just when the fun was going to begin. Well one night, some of us saw him, or thought we saw him, at a cafe dining with 'Alcide,'—as a matter of fact, it seems that it was her sister. He came into the club next day, and of course we went for him thick. Jove, he didn't take to it kindly, I can tell you. Stood on his dignity and shut us up in great style. It seems that he was a sort of family friend of the Pellissiers, and it was the artist sister whom he was with. The joke of it is that he's married to her now, and cuts me dead."

"I suppose," Ennison said, "the likeness between the sisters must be rather exceptional?"

"I never saw the goody-goody one close to, so I can't say," Drummond answered. "Certainly I was a little way off at the cafe, and she had a hat and veil on, but I could have sworn that it was 'Alcide.'"

"Is 'Alcide' still in Paris?" Ennison asked.

"Don't think so," Drummond answered. "I heard the other day that she'd been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. Anyhow, she's disappeared for some reason or other. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. He's the sort of johnny who wouldn't care about having a sister-in-law on the loose."

"Ennison here thought he saw her in London," Meddoes remarked.

Drummond nodded.

"Very likely. The two sisters were very fond of one another, I believe. Perhaps Sir John is going to take the other one under his wing. Who's for a rubber of whist?"

Ennison made so many mistakes that he was glad to cut out early in the evening. He walked across the Park and called upon his sister.

"Is Lady Lescelles in?" he asked the butler.

"Her ladyship dined at home," the man answered. "I have just ordered a carriage for her. I believe that her ladyship is going to Carey House, and on to the Marquis of Waterford's ball," he added, hastily consulting a diary on the hall table.

A tall elegantly dressed woman, followed by a maid, came down the broad staircase.

"Is that you, Nigel?" she asked. "I hope you are going to Carey House."

He shook his head, and threw open the door of a great dimly-lit apartment on the ground floor.

"Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche," he said. "I want to speak to you."

She assented, smiling. He was her only brother, and she his favourite sister. He closed the door.

"I want to ask you a question," he said. "A serious question."

She stopped buttoning her glove, and looked at him.

"Well?"

"You and all the rest of them are always lamenting that I do not marry. Supposing I made up my mind to marry some one of good enough family, but who was in a somewhat doubtful position, concerning whose antecedents, in fact there was a certain amount of scandal. Would you stand by me—and her?"

"My dear Nigel!" she exclaimed. "Are you serious?"

"You know very well that I should never joke on such a subject. Mind, I am anticipating events. Nothing is settled upon. It may be, it probably will all come to, nothing. But I want to know whether in such an event you would stand by me?"

She held out her hand.

"You can count upon me, Nigel," she said. "But for you Dad would never have let me marry Lescelles. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. I am with you through thick and thin, Nigel."

He kissed her, and handed her into the carriage. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar.

"There are two things to be done," he said softly to himself. "The first is to discover what she is here for, and where she is staying. The second is to somehow meet Lady Ferringhall. These fellows must be right," he added thoughtfully, "and yet—there's a mystery somewhere."



Chapter XII

THE POSTER OF "ALCIDE"

On Saturday mornings there was deposited on the plate of each guest at breakfast time, a long folded paper with Mrs. White's compliments. Anna thrust hers into her pocket unopened, and for the first time left the house without a smile upon her face. She was practically destitute of jewellery. The few pence left in her purse would only provide a very scanty lunch. Another day of non-success would mean many disagreeable things.

And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent's office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. There was already a score or more of people there, some standing up and talking together, others seated in chairs ranged along the wall. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters:

MR. EARLES, Strictly Private

Every one stared at Anna. Anna stared back at every one with undaunted composure. A young man with shiny frock coat and very high collar, advanced towards her languidly.

"Want to see Mr. Earles?" he inquired.

"I do," Anna answered. "Here is my card. Will you take it in to him?"

The young man smiled in a superior manner.

"Have to take your turn," he remarked laconically. "There's twenty before you, and Mr. Earles is going out at twelve sharp—important engagement. Better come another morning."

"Thank you," Anna answered. "I will take my chance."

She removed some posters from a chair, and seated herself coolly. The young man looked at her.

"Unless you have an appointment, which you haven't," he said, "you'll only waste your time here."

"I can spare it," Anna answered suavely.

The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door. Anna picked up an ancient magazine, and began to turn over the pages in a leisurely way. The conversation which her entrance had interrupted began to buzz again all around her. A quarter of an hour passed. Then the inner door opened abruptly. A tall, clean-shaven man came out and walked rapidly through the room, exchanging greetings right and left, but evidently anxious to avoid being detained. Mr. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly.

"I'm next, Mr. Earles," she exclaimed. "Been sitting on the doorstep almost for two hours."

"In a minute, in a minute," he answered, his eyes fixed upon Anna. "Reuben, come here."

The young man obeyed the summons. His employer retreated into the further apartment, leaving the door ajar.

"What's that young lady's name—girl in dark brown, stranger here?" Mr. Earles asked sharply.

The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. A sense of impending disaster was upon him. Mr. Earles glanced at it, and his eyes flashed with anger.

"You blithering idiot!" he exclaimed.

Mr. Earles strode into the waiting-room. His face was wreathed in smiles, his be-ringed hand was cordially outstretched.

"My dear Miss Pellissier," he said impressively, "this is an unexpected pleasure. Come in! Come in, do. I must apologize for my young puppy of a clerk. If I had known that you were here you should not have been kept waiting for a second."

It took a good deal to surprise Anna, but it was all she could do to follow Mr. Earles with composure into the inner room. There was a little murmur of consternation from the waiting crowd, and the florid young woman showed signs of temper, to which Mr. Earles was absolutely indifferent. He installed Anna in a comfortable easy chair, and placed his own between her and the door.

"Come," he said, "this is capital, capital. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. Yet here you are, and at precisely the right moment, too. By-the-bye," he added, in a suddenly altered tone, "I hope, I trust—that you have not entered into any arrangements with any one here?"

"I—oh no!" Anna said, a little faintly. "I have made no arrangements as yet—none at all."

Mr. Earles recovered his spirits.

"Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Your arrival is really most opportune. The halls are on the lookout for something new. By-the-bye, do you recognize that?"

Anna looked and gasped. An enormous poster almost covered one side of the wall—the poster. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. Mr. Earles regarded it approvingly.

"A wonderful piece of work," he declared. "A most wonderful likeness, too. I hope in a few days, Miss Pellissier, that these posters will be livening up our London hoardings."

Anna leaned back in the chair and laughed softly. Even this man had accepted her for "Alcide" without a moment's question. Then all the embarrassments of the matter flashed in upon her. She was suddenly grave.

"I suppose, Mr. Earles," she said, "that if I were to tell you that although that poster was designed from a rough study of me, and although my name is Pellissier, that nevertheless, I am not 'Alcide' would you believe me?"

"You can try it on, if you like," Mr. Earles remarked genially. "My only answer would be to ask you to look at that mirror and then at the poster. The poster is of 'Alcide.' It's a duplicate of the French one."

Anna got up and looked at the mirror and then at the poster. The likeness was ridiculous.

"Well?" she said, sitting down again. "I want an engagement."

"Capital!" Mr. Earles declared. "Any choice as to which of the Halls? You can pick and choose, you know. I recommend the 'Unusual.'"

"I have no choice," Anna declared.

"I can get you," Mr. Earles said, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed upon her, "forty at the 'Unusual,' two turns, encores voluntary, six for matinees. We should not bar any engagements at private houses, but in other respects the arrangement must be exclusive."

"Forty what?" Anna asked bewildered.

"Guineas, of course," Mr. Earles answered, glibly. "Forty guineas a week. I mentioned sixty, I believe, when I was in Paris, but there are expenses, and just now business is bad."

Anna was speechless, but she had presence of mind enough to sit still until she had recovered herself. Mr. Earles watched her anxiously. She appeared to be considering.

"Of course," he ventured, "I could try for more at the 'Alhambra.' Very likely they would give——"

"I should be satisfied with the sum you mention," Anna said quietly, "but there are difficulties."

"Don't use such a word, my dear young lady," Mr. Earles said persuasively. "Difficulties indeed. We'll make short work of them."

"I hope that you may," Anna answered enigmatically. "In the first place, I have no objection to the posters, as they have no name on them, but I do not wish to appear at all upon the stage as 'Alcide.' If you engage me it must be upon my own merits. You are taking it for granted that I am 'Alcide.' As a matter of fact, I am not."

"Excuse me," Mr. Earles said, "but this is rubbish."

"Call it what you like," Anna answered. "I can sing the songs 'Alcide' sang, and in the same style. But I will not be engaged as 'Alcide' or advertised under that name."

Mr. Earles scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully. Then a light seemed to break in upon him. He slapped his knee.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Of course, I remember now. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn't it?"

Anna nodded.

"It was," she admitted.

"You needn't say a word more," Mr. Earles declared. "I see the difficulty. The old fool's been working on you through your sister to keep off the stage. He's a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn't know what an artist is. It's awkward, but we'll get round it somehow. Now I'll tell you what I propose. Let me run you for six months. I'll give you, say, thirty-five guineas a week clear of expenses, and half of anything you earn above the two turns a night. What do you say?"

"I agree," Anna said coldly, "if you will make it three months."

"Better say six," Mr. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink.

"Four," Anna decided firmly. "I shall not agree to six."

"It scarcely gives me a chance," Mr. Earles said, with a resigned sigh, "but I shall rely upon you to stick to me so long as I do the right thing by you. You can't do without an agent, and there's no one can run you better than I can."

"You must also put in the agreement," Anna said, "that I do not represent myself to be 'Alcide,' and that I am not advertised to the public by that name."

Mr. Earles threw down his pen with a little exclamation.

"Come this way," he said.

He opened the door of still another room, in one corner of which was a grand piano. He seated himself before it.

"Go to the far corner," he said, "and sing the last verse of Les Petites."

He struck a note, and Anna responded. Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. Mr. Earles closed the piano with a little bang.

"You are a funny, a very funny young lady," he said, "but we waste time here. You do not need my compliments. We will get on with the agreement and you shall have in it whatever rubbish you like."

Anna laughed, and went back to her easy chair. She knew that her voice was superior to Annabel's, and she had no further qualms. Whilst she was wondering how to frame her request for an advance, Mr. Earles drew out his cheque book.

"You will not object," he said, glancing towards her, "to accepting a deposit. It is customary even where an agreement is drawn."

"I shall have no objection at all," Anna assured him.

He handed her a cheque for thirty-one pounds, ten shillings, and read the agreement through to her. Anna took up the pen, and signed, after a moment's hesitation,

A. PELLISSIER.

"I will send you a copy," Mr. Earles said, rubbing his hands together, "by post. Now, will you do me the honour of lunching with me, Miss Pellissier?"

Anna hesitated.

"Perhaps," he queried, "you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er—connected with the profession, under present circumstances. If so, do not hesitate to tell me. Be frank, I beg you, Miss Pellissier. I am already too much flattered that you should have given me your confidence."

"You are very good, Mr. Earles," Anna said. "I think, perhaps if you will excuse me, that we will defer the luncheon."

"Just as you wish," Mr. Earles declared good-humouredly, "but I shall not let you go without drinking a glass of wine to our success."

He plunged into one of his drawers, and brought up a small gold-foiled bottle. The cork came out with a loud pop, and Anna could not help wondering how it must sound to the patient little crowd outside. She drank her glass of wine, however, and clanked glasses good-naturedly with Mr. Earles.

"You must leave me your address if you please," he said, as she rose to go.

She wrote it down. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark.

"I shall probably want you to come down to the 'Unusual' to-morrow morning," he said. "Bring any new songs you may have."

Anna nodded, and Mr. Earles attended her obsequiously to the door. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. It was a brief solitude, however. A young man, who had been spending the last hour walking up and down on the opposite side of the way, came quickly over to her. She looked up, and recognized Mr. Brendon.



Chapter XIII

"HE WILL NOT FORGET!"

The external changes in Brendon following on his alteration of fortune were sufficiently noticeable. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. Not only that, but he carried himself erect—the slight slouch which had bent his shoulders had altogether disappeared. He came to her at once, and turning, walked by her side.

"Now I should like to know," she said, looking at him with a quiet smile, "what you are doing here? It is not a particularly inspiring neighbourhood for walking about by yourself."

"I plead guilty, Miss Pellissier," he answered at once. "I saw you go into that place, and I have been waiting for you ever since."

"I am not sure whether I feel inclined to scold or thank you," she declared. "I think as I feel in a good humour it must be the latter."

He faced her doggedly.

"Miss Pellissier," he said, "I am going to take a liberty."

"You alarm me," she murmured, smiling.

"Don't think that I have been playing the spy upon you," he continued. "Neither Sydney nor I would think of such a thing. But we can't help noticing. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. Forgive me, but you have been looking, have you not, for some employment?"

"Quite true!" she answered. "I have found out at last what a useless person I am—from a utilitarian point of view. It has been very humiliating."

"And that, I suppose," he said, waving his stick towards Mr. Earles' office, "was your last resource."

"It certainly was," she admitted. "I changed my last shilling yesterday."

He was silent for a moment or two. His lips were tight drawn. His eyes flashed as he turned towards her.

"Do you think that it is kind of you, Miss Pellissier," he said, almost roughly, "to ignore your friends so? In your heart you know quite well that you could pay Sydney or me no greater compliment than to give us just a little of your confidence. We know London, and you are a stranger here. Surely our advice would have been worth having, at any rate. You might have spared yourself many useless journeys and disappointments, and us a good deal of anxiety. Instead, you are willing to go to a place like that where you ought not to be allowed to think of showing yourself."

"Why not?" she asked quietly.

"The very question shows your ignorance," he declared. "You know nothing about the stage. You haven't an idea what the sort of employment you could get there would be like, the sort of people you would be mixed up with. It is positively hateful to think of it."

She laid her fingers for a moment upon his arm.

"Mr. Brendon," she said, "if I could ask for advice, or borrow money from any one, I would from you—there! But I cannot. I never could. I suppose I ought to have been a man. You see, I have had to look after myself so long that I have developed a terrible bump of independence."

"Such independence," he answered quickly, "is a vice. You see to what it has brought you. You are going to accept a post as chorus girl, or super, or something of that sort."

"You do not flatter me," she laughed.

"I am too much in earnest," he answered, "to be able to take this matter lightly."

"I am rebuked," she declared. "I suppose my levity is incorrigible. But seriously, things are not so bad as you think."

He groaned.

"They never seem so at first!" he said.

"You do not quite understand," she said gently. "I will tell you the truth. It is true that I have accepted an engagement from Mr. Earles, but it is a good one. I am not going to be a chorus girl, or even a super. I have never told you so, or Sydney, but I can sing—rather well. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains."

"You are really going on the stage, then?" he said slowly.

"In a sense—yes."

Brendon went very pale.

"Miss Pellissier," he said, "don't!"

"Why not?" she asked, smiling. "I must live, you know."

"I haven't told any one the amount," he went on. "It sounds too ridiculous. But I have two hundred thousand pounds. Will you marry me?"

Anna looked at him in blank amazement. Then she burst into a peal of laughter.

"My dear boy," she exclaimed. "How ridiculous! Fancy you with all that money! For heaven's sake, though, do not go about playing the Don Quixote like this. It doesn't matter with me, but there are at least a dozen young women in Mr. Earles' waiting-room who would march you straight off to a registrar's office."

"You have not answered my question," he reminded her.

"Nor am I going to," she answered, smiling. "I am going to ignore it. It was really very nice of you, but to-morrow you will laugh at it as I do now."

"Is it necessary," he said, "for me to tell you——"

"Stop, please," she said firmly.

Brendon was silent.

"Do not force me to take you seriously," she continued. "I like to think of your offer. It was impulsive and natural. Now let us forget it."

"I understand," he said, doggedly.

"And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner," she declared lightly. "I will tell you something if you like. One of the reasons why I left Paris and came to London was because there was a man there who wanted me to marry him. I really cared for him a little, but I am absolutely determined not to marry for some time at any rate. I do not want to get only a second-hand flavour of life. One can learn and understand only by personal experience, by actual contact with the realities of life. I did not want anything made smooth and easy for me. That is why I would not marry this man whom I did and whom I do care for a little. Later on—well then the time may come. Then perhaps I shall send for him if he has not forgotten."

"I do not know who he is," Brendon said quietly, "but he will not forget."

Anna shrugged her shoulders lightly.

"Who can tell?" she said. "Your sex is a terrible fraud. It is generally deficient in the qualities it prides itself upon most. Men do not understand constancy as women do."

Brendon was not inclined to be led away from the point.

"We will take it then," he said, "that you have refused or ignored one request I have made you this morning. I have yet another. Let me lend you some money. Between comrades it is the most usual thing in the world, and I do not see how your sex intervenes. Let me keep you from that man's clutches. Then we can look out together for such employment—as would be more suitable for you. I know London better than you, and I have had to earn my own living. You cannot refuse me this."

He looked at her anxiously, and she met his glance with a dazzling smile of gratitude.

"Indeed," she said, "I would not. But it is no longer necessary. I cannot tell you much about it, but my bad times are over for the present. I will tell you what you shall give me, if you like."

"Well?"

"Lunch! I am hungry—tragically hungry."

He called for a hansom.

"After all," he said, "I am not sure that you are not a very material person."

"I am convinced of it," she answered. "Let us go to that little place at the back of the Palace. I'm not half smart enough for the West End."

"Wherever you like!" he answered, a little absently.

They alighted at the restaurant, and stood for a moment in the passage looking into the crowded room. Suddenly a half stifled exclamation broke from Anna's lips. Brendon felt his arm seized. In a moment they were in the street outside. Anna jumped into a waiting hansom.

"Tell him to drive—anywhere," she exclaimed.

Brendon told him the name of a distant restaurant and sprang in by her side. She was looking anxiously at the entrance to the restaurant. The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. There was no one else in the doorway. She leaned back in the corner of the cab with a little sigh of relief. A smile flickered upon her lips as she glanced towards Brendon, who was very serious indeed. Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity.

"I am so sorry to have startled you," she said, "but I was startled myself. I saw someone in there whom I have always hoped that I should never meet again. I hope—I am sure that he did not see me."

"He certainly did not follow you out," Brendon answered.

"His back was towards me," Anna said. "I saw his face in a mirror. I wonder——"

"London is a huge place," Brendon said. "Even if he lives here you may go all your life and never come face to face with him again."



Chapter XIV

"THIS IS MY WIFE"

Anna, notwithstanding her momentary fright in the middle of the day, was in high spirits. She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end. She had paid her bill, and she had enough left in her purse to pay many such. Beyond that everything was nebulous. She knew that in her new role she was as likely as not to be a rank failure. But the relief from the strain of her immediate necessities was immense. She had been in the drawing-room for a few minutes before the gong had sounded, and had chattered gaily to every one. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner.

"Your brother has gone?" she asked Sydney, between the courses.

He nodded.

"Yes. David left this afternoon. I do not think that he has quite got over his surprise at finding you established here."

She laughed.

"After all, why should he be surprised?" she remarked. "Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. I think that a boarding-house is the very best place for a woman who wants to develop her sense of humour. Only I wish that it did not remind one so much of a second-hand clothes shop."

Sydney looked at her doubtfully.

"Now I suppose Brendon understands exactly what you mean," he remarked. "He looks as though he did, at any rate. I don't! Please enlighten me."

She laughed gaily—and she had a way when she laughed of throwing back her head and showing her beautiful white teeth, so that mirth from her was a thing very much to be desired.

"Look round the table," she said. "Aren't we all just odds and ends of humanity—the left-overs, you know. There is something inconglomerate about us. We are amiable to one another, but we don't mix. We can't."

"You and I and Brendon get on all right, don't we?" Sydney objected.

"But that's quite different," replied Anna. "You are neither of you in the least like the ordinary boarding-house young man. You don't wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night's shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. Besides——"

She stopped short. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. He wore a black tail coat buttoned tightly over his chest, and a large diamond pin sparkled in a white satin tie which had seen better days. He bowed awkwardly to Mrs. White, who held out her hand and beamed a welcome upon him.

"Now isn't this nice!" that lady exclaimed. "I'm sure we're all delighted to see you again, Mr. Hill. I do like to see old friends back here. If there's any one here whom you have not met I will make you acquainted with them after dinner. Will you take your old place by Miss Ellicot."

Miss Ellicot swept aside her skirts from the vacant chair and welcomed the newcomer with one of her most engaging smiles.

"We were afraid that you had deserted us for good, Mr. Hill," she said graciously. "I suppose Paris is very, very distracting. You must come and tell me all about it, although I am not sure whether we shall forgive you for not having written to any of us."

Mr. Hill was exchanging greetings with his hostess, and salutations around the table.

"Thank you, ma'am. Glad to get back, I'm sure," he said briskly. "Looks like old times here, I see. Sorry I'm a bit late the first evening. Got detained in the City, and——"

Then he met the fixed, breathless gaze of those wonderful eyes from the other side of the table, and he, too, broke off in the middle of his sentence. He breathed heavily, as though he had been running. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. Slowly a mirthless and very unpleasant smile dawned upon his face.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed huskily. "Why—it's—it's you!"

Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. The girl regarded him with the face of a Sphinx. Only in her eyes there seemed to be some apprehension of the fact that the young man's clothes and manners were alike undesirable things.

"Are you speaking to me?" she asked calmly. "I am afraid that you are making a mistake. I am quite sure that I do not know you."

A dull flush burned upon his cheeks. He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. A note of belligerency had crept into his tone.

"Don't know me, eh? I like that. You are—or rather you were——" he corrected himself with an unpleasant little laugh, "Miss Pellissier, eh?"

A little sensation followed upon his words. Miss Ellicot pursed her lips and sat a little more upright. The lady whose husband had been Mayor of Hartlepool looked at Anna and sniffed. Mrs. White became conscious of a distinct sense of uneasiness, and showed it in her face. She was obliged, as she explained continually to every one who cared to listen, to be so very particular. On the other hand the two young men who sat on either side of Anna were already throwing murderous glances at the newcomer.

"My name," Anna replied calmly, "is certainly Pellissier, but I repeat that I do not know you. I never have known you."

He unfolded his serviette with fingers which shook all the time. His eyes never left her face. An ugly flush stained his cheeks.

"I've plenty of pals," he said, "who, when they've been doing Paris on the Q.T., like to forget all about it—even their names. But you——"

Something seemed to catch his breath. He never finished his sentence. There was a moment's breathless and disappointed silence. If only he had known it, sympathy was almost entirely with him. Anna was no favourite at No. 13 Montague Street.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"You appear," she said, without any sign of anger in her tone, and with unruffled composure, "to be a very impertinent person. Do you mind talking to some one else."

Mrs. White leaned forward in her chair with an anxious smile designed to throw oil upon the troubled waters.

"Come," she said. "We mustn't have any unpleasantness, and Mr. Hill's first night back amongst us, too. No doubt there's some little mistake. We all get deceived sometimes. Mr. Hill, I hope you won't find everything cold. You're a little late, you must remember, and we are punctual people here."

"I shall do very well, thank you, ma'am," he answered shortly.

Sydney and Brendon vied with one another in their efforts to engage Anna in conversation, and Miss Ellicot, during the momentary lull, deemed it a favourable opportunity to recommence siege operations. The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. Yet every now and then, during the progress of the meal, his attention apparently wandered, and leaning forward he glanced covertly at Anna with a curious mixture of expressions on his face.

Anna rose a few minutes before the general company. At the same time Sydney and Brendon also vacated their places. To reach the door they had to pass the end of the table, and behind the chair where Mr. Hill was seated. He rose deliberately to his feet and confronted them.

"I should like to speak to you for a few minutes," he said to Anna, dropping his voice a little. "It is no good playing a game. We had better have it over."

She eyed him scornfully. In any place her beauty would have been an uncommon thing. Here, where every element of her surroundings was tawdry and commonplace, and before this young man of vulgar origin and appearance, it was striking.

"I do not know you," she said coldly. "I have nothing to say to you."

He stood before the door. Brendon made a quick movement forward. She laid her hand upon his arm.

"Please don't," she said. "It really is not necessary. Be so good as to let me pass, sir," she added, looking her obstructor steadily in the face.

He hesitated.

"This is all rot!" he declared angrily. "You can't think that I'm fool enough to be put off like this."

She glanced at Brendon, who stood by her side, tall and threatening. Her eyebrows were lifted in expostulation. A faint, delightfully humorous smile parted her lips.

"After all," she said, "if this person will not be reasonable, I am afraid——"

It was enough. A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man's shoulder.

"Be so good as to stand away from that door at once, sir," Brendon ordered.

Hill lost a little of his truculency. He knew very well that his muscles were flabby, and his nerve by no means what it should be. He was no match for Brendon. He yielded his place and struck instead with his tongue. He turned to Mrs. White.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this," he pointed to Anna, "is my wife."

The sensation produced was gratifying enough. The man's statement was explicit, and spoken with confidence. Every one looked at Anna. For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. She caught her breath, and her eyes were lit with a sudden terror. She recovered herself, however, with amazing facility. Scarcely any one noticed the full measure of her consternation. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face.

"What you have said is a ridiculous falsehood," she declared scornfully. "I do not even know who you are."

She swept out of the room. Hill would have followed her, but Mrs. White and Miss Ellicot laid each a hand upon his arm, one on either side. The echoes of his hard, unpleasant laugh reached Anna on her way upstairs.

* * * * *

It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. As usual Brendon lit the candles, and Sydney dragged out the spirit-lamp and set it going. Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee.

"Only four spoonsful left," she declared briskly, "and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney."

"Right!" he answered. "I'll bring it to-morrow. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. But—Miss Pellissier!"

"Well?"

"Are you quite sure that you want us this evening? Wouldn't you rather be alone? Just say the word, and we'll clear out like a shot."

She laughed softly.

"You are afraid," she said, "that the young man who thinks that he is my husband has upset me."

"Madman!"

"Blithering ass!"

The girl looked into the two indignant faces and held out both her hands.

"You're very nice, both of you," she said gently. "But I'm afraid you are going to be in a hopeless minority here as regards me."

They eyed her incredulously.

"You can't imagine," Sydney exclaimed, "that the people downstairs will be such drivelling asses as to believe piffle like that."

Anna measured out the coffee. Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour. After all, it was really rather funny.

"Well, I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "I always notice that people find it very easy to believe what they want to believe, and you see I'm not in the least popular. Miss Ellicot, for instance, considers me a most improper person."

"Miss Ellicot! That old cat!" Sydney exclaimed indignantly.

"Miss Ellicot!" Brendon echoed. "As if it could possibly matter what such a person thinks of you."

Anna laughed outright.

"You are positively eloquent to-night—both of you," she declared. "But, you see, appearances are very much against me. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn't risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. He was painfully in earnest, too. I think you will find that his story will be believed, whatever I say; and in any case, if he is going to stay on here, I shall have to go away."

"Don't say that," Sydney begged. "We will see that he never annoys you."

Anna shook her head.

"He is evidently a friend of Mrs. White's," she said, "and if he is going to persist in this delusion, we cannot both remain here. I'd rather not go," she added. "This is much the cheapest place I know of where things are moderately clean, and I should hate rooms all by myself. Dear me, what a nuisance it is to have a pseudo husband shot down upon one from the skies."

"And such a beast of a one," Sydney remarked vigorously.

Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully.

"I wonder," he said, "is there anything we could do to help you to get rid of him?"

"Can you think of anything?" Anna answered. "I can't! He appears to be a most immovable person."

Brendon hesitated for a moment. He was a little embarrassed.

"There ought to be some means of getting at him," he said. "The fellow seems to know your name, Miss Pellissier, and that you have lived in Paris. Might we ask you if you have ever seen him, if you knew him at all before this evening?"

She stood up suddenly, and turning her back to them, looked steadily out of the window. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. A young man was playing the banjo. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Anna raised her eyes. Above the housetops it was different. She drew a long breath. After all, why need one look down. Always the other things remained.

"I think," she said, "that I would rather not have anything to say about that man."

"It isn't necessary," they both declared breathlessly.

Brendon dismissed the subject with a wave of the hand. He glanced at his watch.

"Let us walk round to Covent Garden," he suggested. "I daresay the gallery will be full, but there is always the chance, and I know you two are keen on Melba."

The girl shook her head.

"Not to-night," she said. "I have to go out."

They hesitated. As a rule their comings and goings were discussed with perfect confidence, but on this occasion they both felt that there was intent in her silence as to her destination. Nevertheless Sydney, clumsily, but earnestly, had something to say about it.

"I am afraid—I really think that one of us ought to go with you," he said. "That beast of a fellow is certain to be hanging about."

She shook her head.

"It is a secret mission," she declared. "There are policemen—and buses."

"You shall not need either," Brendon said grimly. "We will see that he doesn't follow you."

She thanked him with a look and rose to her feet.

"Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation," she said, smiling. "I expect it is pretty well in shreds by now. To-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind what to do."



Chapter XV

A MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE

Anna looked about her admiringly. It was just such a bedroom as she would have chosen for herself. The colouring was green and white, with softly shaded electric lights, an alcove bedstead, which was a miracle of daintiness, white furniture, and a long low dressing-table littered all over with a multitude of daintily fashioned toilet appliances. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared.

"Too bad to keep you waiting," Annabel exclaimed. "I'm really very sorry. Collins, you can go now. I will ring if I want you."

The maid discreetly withdrew, and Anna stood transfixed, gazing with puzzled frown at her sister.

"Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?" she exclaimed.

Annabel laughed a little uneasily.

"The very question, my dear sister," she said, "tells me that I have succeeded. Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were sisters. Don't you think that the shade of my hair is lovely?"

"There is nothing particular the matter with the shade," Anna answered, "but it is not nearly so becoming as before you touched it. And what on earth do you want to darken your eyebrows and use so much make-up for at your age? You're exactly twenty-three, and you're got up as much as a woman of forty-five."

Annabel shrugged her shoulders.

"I only use the weeniest little dab of rouge," she declared, "and it is really necessary, because I want to get rid of the 'pallor effect.'"

Anna made no remark. Her disapproval was obvious enough. Annabel saw it, and suddenly changed her tone.

"You are very stupid, Anna," she said. "Can you not understand? It is of no use your taking my identity and all the burden of my iniquities upon your dear shoulders if I am to be recognized the moment I show my face in London. That is why I have dyed my hair, that is why I have abandoned my role of ingenuee and altered my whole style of dress. Upon my word, Anna," she declared, with a strange little laugh, "you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself."

A sudden sense of the gravity of this thing came home to Anna. Her sister's words were true. They had changed identities absolutely. It was not for a week or a month. It was for ever. A cold shiver came over her. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. Anna never knew whither it had led her—sometimes she had fears. It was her past now, not Annabel's.

"It is very good of you to come and see me, my dear sister," Annabel remarked, throwing herself into a low chair, and clasping her hands over her head. "To tell you the truth, I am a little dull."

"Where is your husband?" Anna asked.

"He is addressing a meeting of his constituents somewhere," Annabel answered. "I do not suppose he will be home till late. Tell me how are you amusing yourself?"

Anna laughed.

"I have been amusing myself up to now by trying to earn my living," she replied.

"I hope," Annabel answered lazily, "that you have succeeded. By-the-bye, do you want any money? Sir John's ideas of pin money are not exactly princely, but I can manage what you want, I dare say."

"Thank you," Anna answered coldly. "I am not in need of any. I might add that in any case I should not touch Sir John's."

"That's rather a pity," Annabel said. "He wants to settle something on you, I believe. It is really amusing. He lives in constant dread of a reappearance of 'La Belle Alcide,' and hearing it said that she is his wife's sister. Bit priggish, isn't it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady's companion?"

"I think," Anna said, "that the less you know about me the better. Is all your house on the same scale of magnificence as this, Annabel?" she asked, looking round.

Annabel shook her head.

"Most of it is ugly and frowsy," she declared, "but it isn't worth talking about. I have made up my mind to insist upon moving from here into Park Lane, or one of the Squares. It is absolutely a frightful neighbourhood, this. If only you could see the people who have been to call on me! Sir John has the most absurd ideas, too. He won't have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. I can assure you, Anna, it will take me years to get decently established. The man's as obstinate as a mule."

Anna looked at her steadily.

"He will find it difficult no doubt to alter his style of living," she said. "I do not blame him. I hope you will always remember——"

Annabel held out her hands with a little cry of protest.

"No lecturing, Anna!" she exclaimed. "I hope you have not come for that."

"I came," Anna answered, looking her sister steadily in the face, "to hear all that you can tell me about a man named Hill."

Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. At Anna's words she seemed suddenly to stiffen. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. The little spot of rouge was vivid enough now by reason of this new pallor, which seemed to draw the colour even from her lips. But she did not speak. She made no attempt to answer her sister's question. Anna looked at her curiously, and with sinking heart.

"You must answer me, Annabel," she continued. "You must tell me the truth, please. It is necessary."

Annabel rose slowly to her feet, walked to the door as though to see that it was shut, and came back with slow lagging footsteps.

"There was a man called Montague Hill," she said hoarsely, "but he is dead."

"Then there is also," Anna remarked, "a Montague Hill who is very much alive. Not only that, but he is here in London. I have just come from him."

Annabel no longer attempted to conceal her emotion. She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister's side and took her hand.

"Do not be frightened, dear," she said. "You must tell me the truth, and I will see that no harm comes to you."

"The only Montague Hill I ever knew," Annabel said slowly, "is dead. I know he is dead. I saw him lying on the footway. I felt his heart. It had ceased to beat. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead."

Anna nodded.

"Yes, I remember," she said. "It was the night you left Paris. They thought that he was dead at first, and they took him to the hospital. I believe that his recovery was considered almost miraculous."

"Alive," Annabel moaned, her eyes large with terror. "You say that he is alive."

"He is certainly alive," Anna declared. "More than that, he arrived to-day at the boarding-house where I am staying, greeted me with a theatrical start, and claimed me—as his wife. That is why I am here. You must tell me what it all means."

"And you?" Annabel exclaimed. "What did you say?"

"Well, I considered myself justified in denying it," Anna answered drily. "He produced what he called a marriage certificate, and I believe that nearly every one in the boarding-house, including Mrs. White, my landlady, believes his story. I am fairly well hardened in iniquity—your iniquity, Annabel—but I decline to have a husband thrust upon me. I really cannot have anything to do with Mr. Montague Hill."

"A—marriage certificate!" Annabel gasped.

Anna glanced into her sister's face, and rose to her feet.

"Let me get you some water, Annabel. Don't be frightened, dear. Remember——"

Annabel clutched her sister's arm. She would not let her move. She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear.

"A thick-set, coarse-looking young man, Anna!" she exclaimed in a hoarse excited whisper. "He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands."

Anna nodded.

"It is the same man, Annabel," she said. "There is no doubt whatever about that. There was the motor accident, too. It is the same man, for he raved in the hospital, and they fetched me. It was you, of course, whom he wanted."

"Alive! In London!" Annabel moaned.

"Yes. Pull yourself together, Annabel! I must have the truth."

The girl on the lounge drew a long sobbing breath.

"You shall," she said. "Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire. This man and he were alike, and about the same age. Montague Hill was taken for the millionaire once or twice, and I suppose it flattered his vanity. At any rate, he began to deliberately personate him. He sent me flowers. Celeste introduced him to me—oh, how Celeste hated me! She must have known. He—wanted to marry me. Just then—I was nervous. I had gone further than I meant to—with some Englishmen. I was afraid of being talked about. You don't know, Anna, but when one is in danger one realizes that the—the other side of the line is Hell. The man was mad to marry me. I heard everywhere of his enormous riches and his generosity. I consented. We went to the Embassy. There was—a service. Then he took me out to Monteaux, on a motor. We were to have breakfast there and return in the evening. On the way he confessed. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. He had heard me sing—the fool thought himself in love with me. Celeste he knew. She was chaffing him about being taken for Meysey Hill, and suggested that he should be presented to me as the millionaire. He told me with a coarse nervous laugh. I was his wife. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. His salary was a few paltry hundreds a year. Anna, I listened to all that he had to say, and I called to him to let me get out. He laughed. I tried to jump, but he increased the speed. We were going at a mad pace. I struck him across the mouth, and across the eyes. He lost control of the machine. I jumped then—I was not even shaken. I saw the motor dashed to pieces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road. I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. I could not hear his heart beat. I thought that he was dead. I stole away and walked to the railway station. That night in Paris I saw on the bills 'Fatal Motor Accidents.' Le Petit Journal said that the man was dead. I was afraid that I might be called upon as a witness. That is why I was so anxious to leave Paris. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend."

"The good God!" Anna murmured, herself shaken with fear. "You were married to him!"

"It could not be legal," Annabel moaned. "It couldn't be. I thought that I was marrying Meysey Hill, not that creature. We stepped from the Embassy into the motor—and oh! I thought that he was dead. Why didn't he die?"

Anna sprang to her feet and walked restlessly up and down the room. Annabel watched her with wide-open, terrified eyes.

"You won't give me away, Anna. He would never recognize me now. You are much more like what I was then."

Anna stopped in front of her.

"You don't propose, do you," she said quietly, "that I should take this man for my husband?"

"You can drive him away," Annabel cried. "Tell him that he is mad. Go and live somewhere else."

"In his present mood," Anna remarked, "he would follow me."

"Oh, you are strong and brave," Annabel murmured. "You can keep him at arm's length. Besides, it was under false pretences. He told me that he was a millionaire. It could not be a legal marriage."

"I am very much afraid," Anna answered, "that it was. It might be upset. I am wondering whether it would not be better to tell your husband everything. You will never be happy with this hanging over you."

Annabel moistened her dry lips with a handkerchief steeped in eau de Cologne.

"You don't know him, Anna," she said with a little shudder, "or you would not talk like that. He is steeped in the conventions. Every slight action is influenced by what he imagines would be the opinion of other people. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. He has no imagination, no real generosity. You might tell the truth to some men, but never to him."

Anna was thoughtful. A conviction that her sister's words were true had from the first possessed her.

"Annabel," she said slowly, "if I fight this thing out myself, can I trust you that it will not be a vain sacrifice? After what you have said it is useless for us to play with words. You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position—to escape from—things which you feared. Will you be a faithful and honest wife? Will you do your duty by him, and forget all your past follies? Unless, Annabel, you can——"

"Oh, I will pledge you my word," Annabel cried passionately, "my solemn word. Believe me, Anna. Oh, you must believe me. I have been very foolish, but it is over."

"Remember that you are young still, and fond of admiration," Anna said. "You will not give Sir John any cause for jealousy? You will have no secrets from him except—concerning those things which are past?"

"Anna, I swear it!" her sister sobbed.

"Then I will do what I can," Anna promised. "I believe that you are quite safe. He has had brain fever since, and, as you say, I am more like what you were then than you yourself are now. I don't think for a moment that he would recognize you."

Annabel clutched her sister's hands. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs.

"Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world," she cried. "Oh, I can't thank you. You dear, dear girl. I—listen."

They heard a man's voice outside.

"Sir John!" Annabel gasped.

Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door.

"One moment, if you please!"

She stopped short and looked round. Sir John stood upon the threshold.



Chapter XVI

THE DISCOMFITURE OF SIR JOHN

Sir John looked from one to the other of the two sisters. His face darkened.

"My arrival appears to be opportune," he said stiffly. "I was hoping to be able to secure a few minutes' conversation with you, Miss Pellissier. Perhaps my wife has already prepared you for what I wish to say."

"Not in the least," Anna answered calmly. "We have scarcely mentioned your name."

Sir John coughed. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands—he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him.

"It is concerning—our future relations," Sir John pronounced ponderously.

"Indeed!" Anna answered indifferently. "That sounds interesting."

Sir John frowned. Anna was unimpressed. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes.

"I have no wish," he said, "to altogether ignore the fact that you are my wife's sister, and have therefore a certain claim upon me."

Anna's eyes opened a little wider, but she said nothing.

"A claim," he continued, "which I am quite prepared to recognize. It will give me great pleasure to settle an annuity for a moderate amount upon you on certain conditions."

"A—what?" Anna asked.

"An annuity—a sum of money paid to you yearly or quarterly through my solicitors, and which you can consider as a gift from your sister. The conditions are such as I think you will recognize the justice of. I wish to prevent a repetition of any such errand as I presume you have come here upon this evening. I cannot have my wife distressed or worried."

"May I ask," Anna said softly, "what you presume to have been the nature of my errand here this evening?"

Sir John pointed to Annabel, who was as yet utterly limp.

"I cannot but conclude," he said, "that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. I should like to add that if a certain amount is needed to set you free from any debts you may have contracted, in addition to this annuity, you will not find me unreasonable."

Anna glanced momentarily towards her sister, but Annabel neither spoke nor moved.

"With regard to the conditions I mentioned," Sir John continued, gaining a little confidence from Anna's silence, "I think you will admit that they are not wholly unreasonable. I should require you to accept no employment whatever upon the stage, and to remain out of England."

Anna's demeanour was still imperturbable, her marble pallor untinged by the slightest flush of colour. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. Sir John hesitated, and then continued.

"I trust," he said, "that you will recognize the justice of these conditions. Under happier circumstances nothing would have given me more pleasure than to have offered you a home with your sister. You yourself, I am sure, recognize how impossible you have made it for me now to do anything of the sort. I may say that the amount of the annuity I propose to allow you is two hundred a year."

Anna looked for a moment steadily at her sister, whose face was still averted. Then she moved towards the door. Before she passed out she turned and faced Sir John. The impassivity of her features changed at last. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered.

"Really, Sir John," she said, "I don't know how to thank you. I can understand now these newspapers when they talk of your magnificent philanthropy. It is magnificent indeed. And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cultivate the art of discrimination. I am so much obliged to you for your projected benevolence. Frankly, it is the funniest thing which has ever happened to me in my life. I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. Good-bye, Anna!"

Annabel sprang up. Sir John waved her back.

"Do I understand you then to refuse my offer?" he asked Anna.

She shot a sudden glance at him. Sir John felt hot and furious. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. Anna went out.

* * * * *

Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison.

"I won't pretend," he said, "that this is an accident. The fates are never so kind to me. As a matter of fact I have been waiting for you."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Really," she said. "And by what right do you do anything of the sort?"

"No right at all," he admitted. "Only it is much too late for you to be out alone. You have been to see your sister, of course. How is she?"

"My sister is quite well, thank you," she answered. "Would you mind calling that hansom for me?"

He looked at it critically and shook his head.

"You really couldn't ride in it," he said, deprecatingly. "The horse's knees are broken, and I am not sure that the man is sober. I would sooner see you in a 'bus again."

She laughed.

"Do you mean to say that you have been here ever since I came?"

"I am afraid that I must confess it," he answered. "Idiotic, isn't it?"

"Absolutely," she agreed coldly. "I wish you would not do it."

"Would not do what?"

"Well, follow buses from Russell Square to Hampstead."

"I can assure you," he answered, "that it isn't a habit of mine. But seriously——"

"Well seriously?"

"Isn't it your own fault a little? Why do you not tell me your address, and allow me to call upon you."

"Why should I? I have told you that I do not wish for acquaintances in London."

"Perhaps not in a general way," he answered calmly. "You are quite right, I think. Only I am not an acquaintance at all. I am an old friend, and I declined to be shelved."

"Would you mind telling me," Anna asked, "how long I knew you in Paris?"

He looked at her sideways. There was nothing to be learned from her face.

"Well," he said slowly, "I had met you three times—before Drummond's dinner."

"Oh, Drummond's dinner!" she repeated. "You were there, were you?"

He laughed a little impatiently.

"Isn't that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?" he asked quietly.

Her cheeks flushed a dull red. She felt that there was a hidden meaning under his words. Yet her embarrassment was only a passing thing. She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders.

"We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground," she said. "It was perhaps my fault. You have not forgotten——"

"I have forgotten nothing?" he answered, enigmatically.

Anna hailed a bus. He looked at her reproachfully. The bus however was full. They fell into step again. More than ever a sense of confusion was upon Ennison.

"Last time I saw you," he reminded her, "you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London."

"Quite true," she answered briskly, "and thanks to you I have succeeded."

"Thanks to me," he repeated, puzzled. "I don't understand."

"No? But it is very simple. It was you who were so much amazed that I did not try—the music hall stage here."

"You must admit," he declared, "that to us—who had seen you—the thought of your trying anything else was amazing."

"At any rate," she declared, "your remarks decided me. I have an engagement with a theatrical agent—I believe for the 'Unusual'."

"You are going to sing in London?" he said quietly.

"Yes."

For a moment or two he did not speak. Glancing towards him she saw that a shadow had fallen upon his face.

"Tell me," she insisted, "why you look like that. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. It is that, is it not?"

"No," he answered readily. "It is not that. The idea of your being a failure would never have occurred to me."

"Then why are you sorry that I am going to the 'Unusual'? I do not understand."

Their eyes met for a moment. His face was very serious.

"I am sorry," he said slowly. "Why, I do not know."

"I positively insist upon knowing," she declared cheerfully. "The sooner you tell me the better."

"It is very hard to explain," he answered. "I think that it is only an idea. Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed—to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering. I find you an impenetrable enigma. I find it impossible to associate you with—my little friend of the 'Ambassador's.' The things she said and did from you—seem impossible. I had a sort of idea," he went on, "that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky."

There was a long silence. Then Anna spoke more seriously than usual.

"I think," she said, "that I rather like what you have said. Don't be afraid to go on thinking it. Even though I am going to sing at the 'Unusual' you may find that the 'Alcide,' whom you knew in Paris does not exist any more. At the same time," she added, in a suddenly altered tone, "it isn't anything whatever to do with you, is it?"

"Why not?" he answered. "You permitted me then to call you my friend. I do not intend to allow you to forget."

They passed a man who stared at them curiously. Ennison started and looked anxiously at Anna. She was quite unconcerned.

"Did you see who that was?" he asked in a low tone.

"I did not recognize him," Anna answered. "I supposed that he took off his hat to you."

"It was Cheveney!" he said slowly.

"Cheveney!" she repeated. "I do not know any one of that name."

He caught her wrist and turned her face towards him. Her eyes were wide open with amazement.

"Mr. Ennison!"

He released her.

"Good God!" he exclaimed. "Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?"

Anna laughed.

"If it is a choice between the two," she answered, "I must be Annabel Pellissier. I am certainly no ghost."

"You have her face and figure," he muttered. "You have even her name. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum."

She laughed heartily, and became as suddenly grave.

"So Mr. Cheveney was another Paris friend, was he?" she asked.

"Don't befool me any more," he answered, almost roughly. "If any one should know——you should! He was your friend. We were only—les autres."

"That is quite untrue," she declared cheerfully. "I certainly knew him no better than you."

"Then he—and Paris—lied," Ennison answered.

"That," she answered, "is far easier to believe. You are too credulous."

Ennison had things to say, but he looked at her and held his tongue. They turned the last corner, and almost immediately a man who had been standing there turned and struck Ennison a violent blow on the cheek. Ennison reeled, and almost fell. Recovering himself quickly his instinct of self-defence was quicker than his recollection of Anna's presence. He struck out from the shoulder, and the man measured his length upon the pavement.

Anna sprang lightly away across the street. Brendon and Courtlaw who had been watching for her, met her at the door. She pointed across the road.

"Please go and see that—nothing happens," she pleaded.

"It is the first moment we have let him out of our sight," Brendon exclaimed, as he hastened across the street.

Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. Ennison's signet-ring had cut nearly to the bone.

"What the devil do you mean by coming for me like that?" Ennison exclaimed, glowering down upon him. "Serves you right if I'd cracked your skull."

Hill looked up at him, an unkempt, rough-looking object, with broken collar, tumbled hair, and the blood slowly dripping from his face.

"What do you mean, hanging round with my wife?" he answered fiercely.

Ennison looked down on him in disgust.

"You silly fool," he said. "I know nothing about your wife. The young lady I was with is not married at all. Why don't you make sure before you rush out like that upon a stranger?"

"You were with my wife," Hill repeated sullenly. "I suppose you're like the rest of them. Call her Miss Pellissier, eh? I tell you she's my wife, and I've got the certificate in my pocket."

"I don't know who you are," Ennison said quietly, "but you are a thundering liar."

Hill staggered to his feet and drew a folded paper from his pocket.

"Marriage certificates don't tell lies, at any rate," he said. "Just look that through, will you."

Ennison took the document, tore it half in two without looking at it, and flung it back in Hill's face. Then he turned on his heel and walked off.



Chapter XVII

THE CHANGE IN "ALCIDE"

"By-the-bye," his neighbour asked him languidly, "who is our hostess?"

"Usually known, I believe, as Lady Ferringhall," Ennison answered, "unless I have mixed up my engagement list and come to the wrong house."

"How dull you are," the lady remarked. "Of course I mean, who was she?"

"I believe that her name was Pellissier," Ennison answered.

"Pellissier," she repeated thoughtfully. "There were some Hampshire Pellissiers."

"She is one of them," Ennison said.

"Dear me! I wonder where Sir John picked her up."

"In Paris, I think," Ennison answered. "Only married a few months ago and lived out at Hampstead."

"Heavens!" the lady exclaimed. "I heard they came from somewhere outrageous."

"Hampstead didn't suit Lady Ferringhall," Ennison remarked. "They have just taken this house from Lady Cellender."

"And what are you doing here?" the lady asked.

"Politics!" Ennison answered grimly. "And you?"

"Same thing. Besides, my husband has shares in Sir John's company. Do you know, I am beginning to believe that we only exist nowadays by the tolerance of these millionaire tradesmen. Our land brings us in nothing. We have to get them to let us in for the profits of their business, and in return we ask them to—dinner. By-the-bye, have you seen this new woman at the 'Empire'? What is it they call her—'Alcide?'"

"Yes, I have seen her," Ennison answered.

"Every one raves about her," Lady Angela continued. "For my part I can see no difference in any of these French girls who come over here with their demure manner and atrocious songs."

"'Alcide's' songs are not atrocious," Ennison remarked.

Lady Angela shrugged her shoulders.

"It is unimportant," she said. "Nobody understands them, of course, but we all look as though we did. Something about this woman rather reminds me of our hostess."

Ennison thought so too half an hour later, when having cut out from one of the bridge tables he settled down for a chat with Annabel. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. Then he remembered that she was Anna's sister.

He lowered his voice a little and leaned over towards her.

"By-the-bye, Lady Ferringhall," he said, "do you know that I am a very great admirer of your sister's? I wonder if she has ever spoken to you of me."

The change in Lady Ferringhall's manner was subtle but unmistakable. She answered him almost coldly.

"I see nothing of my sister," she said. "In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. I have heard of you from my husband. You are somebody's secretary, are you not?"

It was plain that the subject was distasteful to her, but Ennison, although famous in a small way for his social tact, did not at once discard it.

"You have not seen your sister lately," he remarked. "I believe that you would find her in some respects curiously altered. I have never in my life been so much puzzled by any one as by your sister. Something has changed her tremendously."

Annabel looked at him curiously.

"Do you mean in looks?" she asked.

"Not only that," he answered. "In Paris your sister appeared to me to be a charming student of frivolity. Here she seems to have developed into a brilliant woman with more character and steadfastness than I should ever have given her credit for. Her features are the same, yet the change has written its mark into her face. Do you know, Lady Ferringhall, I am proud that your sister permits me to call myself her friend."

"And in Paris——"

"In Paris," he interrupted, "she was a very delightful companion, but beyond that—one did not take her seriously. I am not boring you, am I?"

She raised her eyes to his and smiled into his face.

"You are not boring me," she said, "but I would rather talk of something else. I suppose you will think me very unsisterly and cold-hearted, but there are circumstances in connexion with my sister's latest exploit which are intensely irritating both to my husband and to myself."