He recognized the force, almost the passion, which trembled in her tone, and he at once abandoned the subject. He remained talking with her however. It was easy for him to see that she desired to be agreeable to him. They talked lightly but confidentially until Sir John approached them with a slight frown upon his face.

"Mr. Ennison," he said, "it is for you to cut in at Lady Angela's table. Anna, do you not see that the Countess is sitting alone?"

She rose, and flashed a quick smile upon Ennison behind her husband's back.

"You must come and see me some afternoon," she said to him.

He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. On the way home he was still thoughtful. He turned in at the club. They were talking of "Alcide," as they often did in those days.

"She has improved her style," someone declared. "Certainly her voice is far more musical."

Another differed.

"She has lost something," he declared, "something which brought the men in crowds around the stage at the 'Ambassador's.' I don't know what you'd call it—a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. She sings better perhaps. But I don't think she lays hold of one so."

"I will tell you what there is about her which is so fetching," Drummond, who was lounging by, declared. "She contrives somehow to strike the personal note in an amazing manner. You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. Yet you catch her eye—you can't seem to escape from it. You feel that that smile is for you, the words are for you, the whole song is for you. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself."

"And if you are a millionaire like Drummond," someone remarked, "you send round a note and ask her to come out to supper."

"In the present case," Drummond remarked, glancing across the room, "Cheveney wouldn't permit it."

Ennison dropped the evening paper which he had been pretending to read. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth.

"Cheveney wouldn't have anything to say about it, as it happens," he remarked, a little grimly. "Ungracious little beast, I call her. I don't mind telling you chaps that except on the stage I haven't set eyes on her this side of the water. I've called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won't see me. Rank ingratitude, I call it."

There was a shout of laughter. Drummond patted him on the shoulder.

"Never mind, old chap," he declared. "Let's hope your successor is worthy of you."

"You fellows," Ennison said quietly, "are getting a little wild. I have known Miss Pellissier as long as any of you perhaps, and I have seen something of her since her arrival in London. I consider her a very charming young woman—and I won't hear a word about Paris, for there are things I don't understand about that, but I will stake my word upon it that to-day Miss Pellissier is entitled not only to our admiration, but to our respect. I firmly believe that she is as straight as a die."

Ennison's voice shook a little. They were his friends, and they recognized his unusual earnestness. Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders.

"I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate," someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. "You see, her sister is married to Ferringhall, isn't she? and she herself must be drawing no end of a good screw here. I always say that it's poverty before everything that makes a girl skip the line."

Ennison escaped. He was afraid if he stayed that he would make a fool of himself. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. On his way he made a slight divergence from the direct route and paused for a moment outside the flat where Anna was now living. It was nearly one o'clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. Suddenly the door of the flat opened and closed. A man came out, and walking recklessly, almost cannoned into Ennison. He mumbled an apology and then stopped short.

"It's Ennison, isn't it?" he exclaimed. "What the devil are you doing star-gazing here?"

Ennison looked at him in surprise.

"I might return the compliment, Courtlaw," he answered, "by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man."

Courtlaw was pale and dishevelled. He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna's windows.

"What do you think of that farce?" he exclaimed bitterly. "You are one of those who must know all about it. Was there ever such madness?"

"I am afraid that I don't understand," Ennison answered. "You seem to have come from Miss Pellissier's rooms. I had no idea even that she was a friend of yours."

Courtlaw laughed hardly. His eyes were red. He was in a curious state of desperation.

"Nor am I now," he answered. "I have spoken too many truths to-night. Why do women take to lies and deceit and trickery as naturally as a duck to water?"

"You are not alluding, I hope, to Miss Pellissier?" Ennison said stiffly.

"Why not? Isn't the whole thing a lie? Isn't her reputation, this husband of hers, the 'Alcide' business, isn't it all a cursed juggle? She hasn't the right to do it. I——"

He stopped short. He had the air of a man who has said too much. Ennison was deeply interested.

"I should like to understand you," he said. "I knew Miss Pellissier in Paris at the 'Ambassador's,' and I know her now, but I am convinced that there is some mystery in connexion with her change of life. She is curiously altered in many ways. Is there any truth, do you suppose, in this rumoured marriage?"

"I know nothing," Courtlaw answered hurriedly. "Ask me nothing. I will not talk to you about Miss Pellissier or her affairs."

"You are not yourself to-night, Courtlaw," Ennison said. "Come to my rooms and have a drink."

Courtlaw refused brusquely, almost rudely.

"I am off to-night," he said. "I am going to America. I have work there. I ought to have gone long ago. Will you answer me a question first?"

"If I can," Ennison said.

"What were you doing outside Miss Pellissier's flat to-night? You were looking at her windows. Why? What is she to you?"

"I was there by accident," Ennison answered. "Miss Pellissier is nothing to me except a young lady for whom I have the most profound and respectful admiration."

Courtlaw laid his hand upon Ennison's shoulder. They were at the corner of Pall Mall now, and had come to a standstill.

"Take my advice," he said hoarsely. "Call it warning, if you like. Admire her as much as you choose—at a distance. No more. Look at me. You knew me in Paris. David Courtlaw. Well-balanced, sane, wasn't I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I'm pretty near being one now, and it's her fault. I've loved her for two years, I love her now. And I'm off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I'll thank the Lord for it."

He strode away and vanished in the gathering fog. Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared.

"I'm d——d if I understand this," he said thoughtfully. "I never saw Courtlaw with her—never heard her speak of him. He was going to tell me something—and he shut up. I wonder what it was."



Chapter XVIII

ANNABEL AND "ALCIDE"

Lady Ferringhall lifted her eyes to the newcomer, and the greeting in them was obviously meant for him alone. She continued to fan herself.

"You are late," she murmured.

"My chief," he said, "took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. He brought home a few waverers to talk to them where they had no chance of getting away."

She nodded.

"I am bored," she said abruptly. "This is a very foolish sort of entertainment. And, as usual," she continued, a little bitterly, "I seem to have been sent along with the dullest and least edifying of Mrs. Montressor's guests."

Ennison glanced at the other people in the box and smiled.

"I got your note just in time," he remarked. "I knew of course that you were at the Montressor's, but I had no idea that it was a music hall party afterwards. Are you all here?"

"Five boxes full," she answered. "Some of them seem to be having an awfully good time too. Did you see Lord Delafield and Miss Anderson? They packed me in with Colonel Anson and Mrs. Hitchings, who seem to be absolutely engrossed in one another, and a boy of about seventeen, who no sooner got here than he discovered that he wanted to see a man in the promenade and disappeared."

Ennison at once seated himself.

"I feel justified then," he said, "in annexing his chair. I expect you had been snubbing him terribly."

"Well, he was presumptuous," Annabel remarked, "and he wasn't nice about it. I wonder how it is," she added, "that boys always make love so impertinently."

Ennison laughed softly.

"I wonder," he said, "how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally."

"Are you master of all three methods?" she asked, stopping her fanning for a moment to look at him.

"Indeed, no," he answered. "Mine is a primitive and unstudied manner. It needs cultivating, I think."

His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box.

"That sounds so uncouth," she murmured. "I detest amateurs."

"I will buy books and a lay figure," he declared, "to practise upon. Or shall I ask Colonel Anson for a few hints?"

"For Heaven's sake no," she declared. "I would rather put up with your own efforts, however clumsy. Love-making at first hand is dull enough. At second hand it would be unendurable."

He leaned towards her.

"Is that a challenge?"

She shrugged her shoulders, all ablaze with jewels.

"Why not? It might amuse me."

Somewhat irrelevantly he glanced at the next few boxes where the rest of Mrs. Montressor's guests were.

"Is your husband here to-night?" he asked.

"My husband!" she laughed a little derisively. "No, he wouldn't come here of all places—just now. He dined, and then pleaded a political engagement. I was supposed to do the same, but I didn't."

"You know," he said with some hesitation, "that your sister is singing."

She nodded.

"Of course. I want to hear how she does it."

"She does it magnificently," he declared. "I think—we all think that she is wonderful."

She looked at him with curious eyes.

"I remember," she said, "that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. Have you seen much of her lately?"

"Nothing at all," he answered.

The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. She was watching him intently.

"Do you know," she said, "that every one is remarking how ill you look. I too can see it. What has been the matter?"

"Toothache," he answered laconically.

She looked away.

"You might at least," she murmured, "have invented a more romantic reason."

"Oh, I might," he answered, "have gone further still. I might have told you the truth."

"Has my sister been unkind to you?"

"The family," he declared, "has not treated me with consideration."

She looked at him doubtfully.

"You promised faithfully to be there," he said slowly. "I loathe afternoon concerts, and——"

She was really like her sister he thought, impressed for a moment by the soft brilliancy of her smile. Her fingers rested upon his.

"You were really at Moulton House," she exclaimed penitently. "I am so sorry. I had a perfect shoal of callers. People who would not go. I only arrived when everybody was coming away."

A little murmur of expectation, an audible silence announced the coming of "Alcide." Then a burst of applause. She was standing there, smiling at the audience as at her friends. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. Then she sang.

Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. Her whole face stiffened with suppressed anger. She forgot Anna's sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister's shoulders. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. Anna was singing as she used to sing. She was chic, distinguished, unusual. What right had she to call herself "Alcide"? It was abominable, an imposture. Ennison listened, and he forgot where he was. He forgot Annabel's idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and seductive music from her lips.

Neither of them joined in the applause which followed upon her exit. They were both conscious, however, that something had intervened between them. Their conversation became stilted. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks.

"She is marvellously clever," he said.

"She appears to be very popular here," she remarked.

"You too sing?" he asked.

"I have given it up," she answered. "One genius in the family is enough." After a pause, she added, "Do you mind fetching back my recalcitrant cavalier."

"Anything except that," he murmured. "I was half hoping that I might be allowed to see you home."

"If you can tear yourself away from this delightful place in five minutes," she answered, "I think I can get rid of the others."

"We will do it," he declared. "If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper."

"Don't imperil my reputation before I am established," she answered, smiling. "Afterwards it seems to me that there are no limits to what one may not do amongst one's own set."

"I am frightened of Sir John," he said, "but I suggest that we risk it."

"Don't tempt me," she said, laughing, and drawing her opera-cloak together. "You shall drive home with me in a hansom, if you will. That is quite as far as I mean to tempt Providence to-night."

* * * * *

Again on his way homeward from Cavendish Square he abandoned the direct route to pass by the door of Anna's flat. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. Her sister had told him that it was true. Anna was married. After all, she was a consummate actress. Her recent attitude towards him was undoubtedly a pose. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. There was no longer any risk in association with her. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. He slackened his pace as he reached the flat. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. He lit a cigarette and loitered about. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold.

Then a hansom drove up, and his heart gave a great leap. She stepped on to the pavement almost before him, and his blood turned almost to ice as he saw that she was not alone. A young man turned to pay the cabman. Then she saw him.

"Mr. Ennison," she exclaimed, "is that really you?"

There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. She held out her hand frankly. She seemed honestly glad to see him.

"How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!" she remarked gaily. "Are you in a hurry? Will you come in and have some coffee?"

He hesitated, and glanced towards her companion. He saw now that it was merely a boy.

"This is Mr. Sydney Courtlaw—Mr. Ennison," she said. "You are coming in, aren't you, Sydney?"

"If I may," he answered. "Your coffee's too good to refuse."

She led the way, talking all the time to Ennison.

"Do you know, I have been wondering what had become of you," she said. "I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. I did not even know where to write and thank you."

"I have been abroad," he said. "The life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery. I had to go at a moment's notice."

"I am glad that you have a reasonable excuse for not having been to see me," she said good-humouredly. "Please make yourselves comfortable while I see to the coffee."

It was a tiny little room, daintily furnished, individual in its quaint colouring, and the masses of perfumed flowers set in strange and unexpected places. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Anna, who had thrown aside her sealskin coat, wore a tight-fitting walking dress of some dark shade. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. A woman indeed this to love and be loved, beautiful, graceful, gay. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. They talked lightly and smoked cigarettes till Anna, with a little laugh, threw open the window and let in the cool night air.

Ennison stood by her side. They looked out over the city, grim and silent now, for it was long past midnight. For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life. Yet even now there were so many things untouched, so much to be learned. To-night she had a curious feeling that she stood upon the threshold of some change. The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone. She felt a new warmth in her blood, a strange sense of elation crept over her. Sorrows and danger and disappointment she had known. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. She glanced into her companion's face, and she saw there strange things. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano.

"I am sure," she said, "that you mean to stay until you are turned out. Do you see the time?"

"I may come and see you?" Ennison asked, as his hand touched hers.

"Yes," she answered, looking away. "Some afternoon."



Chapter XIX

"THIS IS NOT THE END"

"I said some afternoon," she remarked, throwing open her warm coat, and taking off her gloves, "but I certainly did not mean to-day."

"I met you accidentally," he reminded her. "Our ways happened to lie together."

"And our destinations also, it seems," she added, smiling.

"You asked me in to tea," he protested.

"In self-defence I had to," she answered. "It is a delightful day for walking, but a great deal too cold to be standing on the pavement."

"Of course," he said, reaching out his hand tentatively for his hat, "I could go away even now. Your reputation for hospitality would remain under a cloud though, for tea was distinctly mentioned."

"Then you had better ring the bell," she declared, laughing. "The walk has given me an appetite, and I do not feel like waiting till five o'clock. I wonder why on earth the curtains are drawn. It is quite light yet, and I want to have one more look at that angry red sun. Would you mind drawing them back?"

Ennison sprang up, but he never reached the curtains. They were suddenly thrown aside, and a man stepped out from his hiding-place. A little exclamation of surprise escaped Ennison. Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry.

"You!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here? How dare you come to my rooms!"

The man stepped into the middle of the room. The last few months had not dealt kindly with Mr. Montague Hill. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights. His voice when he spoke was almost fiercely assertive, but there was an undernote of nervousness.

"Why not?" he exclaimed. "I have the right to be here. I hid because there was no other way of seeing you. I did not reckon upon—him."

He pointed to Ennison, who in his turn looked across at Anna.

"You wish me to stay?" he asked, in a low tone.

"I would not have you go for anything," she answered.

"Nevertheless," Hill said doggedly, "I am here to speak to you alone."

"If you do not leave the room at once," Anna answered calmly, "I shall ring the bell for a policeman."

He raised his hand, and they saw that he was holding a small revolver.

"You need not be alarmed," he said. "I do not wish to use this. I came here peaceably, and I only ask for a few words with you. But I mean to have them. No, you don't!"

Ennison had moved stealthily a little nearer to him, and looked suddenly into the dark muzzle of the revolver.

"If you interfere between us," the man said, "it will go hardly with you. This lady is my wife, and I have a right to be here. I have the right also to throw you out."

Ennison obeyed Anna's gesture, and was silent.

"You can say what you have to say before Mr. Ennison, if at all," Anna declared calmly. "In any case, I decline to see you alone."

"Very well," the man answered. "I have come to tell you this. You are my wife, and I am determined to claim you. We were properly married, and the certificate is at my lawyer's. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. I know that you were disappointed because I did not turn out to be the millionaire. Perhaps I deceived you about it. However, that's over and done with. I'll make any reasonable arrangement you like. I don't want to stop your singing. You can live just about how you like. But you belong to me—and I want you."

He paused for a moment, and then suddenly continued. His voice had broken. He spoke in quick nervous sentences.

"You did your best to kill me," he said. "You might have given me a chance, anyway. I'm not such a bad sort. You know—I worship you. I have done from the first moment I saw you. I can't rest or work or settle down to anything while things are like this between you and me. I want you. I've got to have you, and by God I will."

He took a quick step forward. Anna held out her hand, and he paused. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features.

"Listen," she said. "I have heard these things from you before, and you have had my answer. Understand once and for all that that answer is final. I do not admit the truth of a word which you have said. I will not be persecuted in this way by you."

"You do not deny that you are my wife," he asked hoarsely. "You cannot! Oh, you cannot."

"I have denied it," she answered. "Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours."

"Delusion!" he muttered, glaring at her. "Delusion!"

"You can call it what you like," she said. "In any case you will never receive any different sort of answer from me. Stay where you are, Mr. Ennison."

With a swift movement she gained the bell and rang it. The man's hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips. The pistol fell to the floor. Ennison kicked it away with his foot.

"I shall send for a policeman," Anna said, "directly my maid answers the bell—unless you choose to go before."

The man made no attempt to recover the revolver. He walked unsteadily towards the door.

"Very well," he said, "I will go. But," and he faced them both with a still expressionless glance, "this is not the end!"

* * * * *

Anna recovered her spirits with marvellous facility. It was Ennison who for the rest of his visit was quiet and subdued.

"You are absurd," she declared. "It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over—and my toasted scones are delicious. Do have another."

"It is over for now," he answered, "but I cannot bear to think that you are subject to this sort of thing."

She shrugged her shoulders slightly. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned.

"It is an annoyance, my friend," she said, "not a tragedy."

"It might become one," he answered. "The man is dangerous."

She looked thoughtfully into the fire.

"I am afraid," she said, "that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. If so I shall have to leave."

"You cannot play at hide-and-seek with this creature all your life," he answered. "Let your friends act for you. There must be ways of getting rid of him."

"I am afraid," she murmured, "that it would be difficult. He really deserves a better fate, does he not? He is so beautifully persistent."

He drew a little nearer to her. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. Nevertheless she withdrew her hand.

"Let me help you," he begged. "Indeed, you could have no more faithful friend, you could find no one more anxious to serve you."

Her hand fell back into her lap. He touched it again, and this time it was not withdrawn.

"That is very nice of you," she said. "But it is so difficult——"

"Not at all," he answered eagerly. "I wish you would come and see my lawyers. Of course I know nothing of what really did happen in Paris—if even you ever saw him there. You need not tell me, but a lawyer is different. His client's story is safe with him. He would advise you how to get rid of the fellow."

"I will think of it," she promised.

"You must do more than think of it," he urged. "It is intolerable that you should be followed about by such a creature. I am sure that he can be got rid of."

She turned and looked at him. Her face scarcely reflected his enthusiasm.

"It may be more difficult than you think," she said. "You see you do not know how much of truth there is in his story."

"If it were all true," he said doggedly, "it may still be possible."

"I will think of it," she repeated. "I cannot say more."

They talked for a while in somewhat dreamy fashion, Anna especially being more silent than usual. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet.

"Heavens, look at the time!" she exclaimed. "It is incredible. I shall barely be in time for the theatre. I must go and dress at once."

He too rose.

"I will wait for you on the pavement, if you like," he said, "but I am going to the 'Unusual' with you. Your maid would not be of the least protection."

"But your dinner!" she protested. "You will be so late."

He laughed.

"You cannot seriously believe," he said, "that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not."

She laughed.

"Well, you certainly did very well at tea," she remarked. "If you really are going to wait, make yourself as comfortable as you can. There are cigarettes and magazines in the corner there."

Anna disappeared, but Ennison did not trouble either the cigarettes or the magazines. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire.

People spoke of him everywhere as a young man of great promise, a politician by instinct, a keen and careful judge of character. Yet he was in a state of hopeless bewilderment. He was absolutely unable to focus his ideas. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. And behind—there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. For the first time a definite doubt possessed him. A woman cannot change her soul. Then it was the woman herself who was changed. Anna was not "Alcide" of the "Ambassador's," whose subtly demure smile and piquant glances had called him to her side from the moment of their first meeting. It was impossible.

She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with common-sense, his own apprehension. He rose at once to his feet and turned a white face upon her.

"I am going to break a covenant," he cried. "I cannot keep silence any longer."

"You are going to speak to me of things which happened before we met in London?" she asked quietly.

"Yes! I must! The thing is becoming a torture to me. I must!"

She threw open the door and pointed to it.

"My word holds," she said. "If you speak—farewell."

He stood quite silent for a moment, his eyes fixed upon her face. Something he saw there had a curious effect upon him. He was suddenly calm.

"I shall not speak," he said, "now or at any other time. Come!"

They went out together and he called a hansom. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them.



Chapter XX

ANNA'S SURRENDER

"This is indeed a gala night," said Ennison, raising his glass, and watching for a moment the golden bubbles. "Was it really only this afternoon that I met you in St. James' Park?"

Anna nodded, and made a careful selection from a dish of quails.

"It was just an hour before teatime," she remarked. "I have had nothing since, and it seems a very long time."

"An appetite like yours," he said resignedly, "is fatal to all sentiment."

"Not in the least," she assured him. "I find the two inseparable."

He sighed.

"I have noticed," he said, "that you seem to delight in taking a topsy-turvy view of life. It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus Ward."

"You do not understand me at all," she declared. "I think that you are very dense. Besides, your remark is not in the least complimentary. I have always understood that men avoid like the plague a woman with a sense of humour."

So they talked on whilst supper was served, falling easily into the spirit of the place, and yet both of them conscious of some new thing underlying the gaiety of their tongues and manner. Anna, in her strange striking way, was radiantly beautiful. Without a single ornament about her neck, or hair, wearing the plainest of black gowns, out of which her shoulders shone gleaming white, she was easily the most noticeable and the most distinguished-looking woman in the room. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. Perhaps, after all, the others were right. Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. Ennison too, always handsome and debonnair, seemed transported out of his calm self. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. He said daring things with a grace which made them irresistible, his eyes flashed back upon her some eloquent but silent appreciation of the change in her manner towards him.

And then there came for both of them at least a temporary awakening. It was he who saw them first coming down the room—Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear. He bent over to Anna at once.

"It is your sister and her husband," he said. "They are coming past our table."

Annabel saw Ennison first, and noticing his single companion calmly ignored him. Then making a pretence of stooping to rearrange her flowing train, she glanced at Anna, and half stopped in her progress down the room. Sir John followed her gaze, and also saw them. His face clouded with anger.

It was after all a momentary affair. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John's bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. They vanished through the doorway. Anna and her escort exchanged glances. Almost simultaneously they burst out laughing.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Limp," he answered. "As a matter of fact, I deserve to. I was engaged to dine with your sister and her husband, and I sent a wire."

"It was exceedingly wrong of you," Anna declared. "Before I came to England I was told that there were two things which an Englishman who was comme-il-faut never did. The first was to break a dinner engagement."

"And the second?"

"Make love to a single woman."

"Your knowledge of our ways," he murmured "is profound. Yet, I suppose that at the present moment I am the most envied man in the room."

Her eyes were lit with humour. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible.

"But you do not know," she whispered, "whether I am a married woman or not. There is Mr. Montague Hill."

The lights were lowered, and an attentive waiter hovered round Anna's cloak. They left the room amongst the last, and Ennison had almost to elbow his way through a group of acquaintances who had all some pretext for detaining him, to which he absolutely refused to listen. They entered a hansom and turned on to the Embankment. The two great hotels on their right were still ablaze with lights. On their left the river, with its gloomy pile of buildings on the opposite side, and a huge revolving advertisement throwing its strange reflection upon the black water. A fresh cool breeze blew in their faces. Anna leaned back with half closed eyes.

"Delicious!" she murmured.

His fingers closed upon her hand. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. Not a word passed between them. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax.

He paid the cab, and turned to follow her. She passed inside and upstairs without a word. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully.

"Please search everywhere," she said. "I am going through the other rooms. I shall not let you go till I am quite sure."

"If he has a key," Ennison said, "how are you to be safe?"

"I had bolts fitted on the doors yesterday," she answered. "If he is not here now I can make myself safe."

It was certain that he was not there. Anna came back into the sitting-room with a little sigh of relief.

"Indeed," she said, "it was very fortunate that I should have met you this afternoon. Either Sydney or Mr. Brendon always comes home with me, and to-night both are away. Mary is very good, but she is too nervous to be the slightest protection."

"I am very glad," he answered, in a low tone. "It has been a delightful evening for me."

"And for me," Anna echoed.

A curious silence ensued. Anna was sitting before the fire a little distance from him—Ennison himself remained standing. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. She laughed nervously, but kept her eyes averted.

"It is strange that we should have met Annabel," she said. "I am afraid your broken dinner engagement will not be so easy to explain."

He was very indifferent. In fact he was thinking of other things.

"I am going," he said, "to be impertinent. I do not understand why you and your sister should not see more of one another. You must be lonely here with only a few men friends."

She shook her head.

"Loneliness," she said, "is a luxury which I never permit myself. Besides—there is Sir John."

"Sir John is an ass!" he declared.

"He is Annabel's husband," she reminded him.

"Annabel!" He looked at her thoughtfully. "It is rather odd," he said, "but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna."

"Many other people," she remarked, "have made the same mistake."

"Again," he said, "I am going to be impertinent. I never met your sister in Paris, but I heard about her more than once. She is not in the least like the descriptions of her."

"She has changed a good deal," Anna admitted.

"There is some mystery about you both," he exclaimed, with sudden earnestness. "No, don't interrupt me. Why may I not be your friend? Somehow or other I feel that you have been driven into a false position. You represent to me an enigma, the solution of which has become the one desire of my life. I want to give you warning that I have set myself to solve it. To-morrow I am going to Paris."

She seemed unmoved, but she did not look at him.

"To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?"

"I do not know," he answered, "but I am going to see David Courtlaw."

Then she looked up at him with frightened eyes.

"David Courtlaw!" she repeated. "What has he to do with it?"

"He was your sister's master—her friend. A few days ago I saw him leave your house. He was like a man beside himself. He began to tell me something—and stopped. I am going to ask him to finish it."

She rose up.

"I forbid it!" she said firmly.

They were standing face to face now upon the hearthrug. She was very pale, and there was a look of fear in her eyes.

"I will tell you as much as this," she continued. "There is a secret. I admit it. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again."

"It is for your good—your good only I am thinking," he declared.

"Then let me be the judge of what is best," she answered.

He was silent. He felt his heart beat faster and faster—his self-restraint slipping away. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. A quick flush stained her cheeks. She put out her hands to avoid his embrace.

"No!" she exclaimed. "You must not. It is impossible."

His arms were around her. He only laughed his defiance.

"I will make it possible," he cried. "I will make all things possible."

Anna was bewildered. She did not know herself. Only she was conscious of an unfamiliar and wonderful emotion. She gave her lips to his without resistance. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. With a little sigh of happiness she accepted this new thing.



Chapter XXI

HER SISTER'S SECRET

"I think," Lady Ferringhall said, "that you are talking very foolishly. I was quite as much annoyed as you were to see Mr. Ennison with my sister last night. But apart from that, you have no particular objection to him, I suppose?"

"The occurrence of last night is quite sufficient in itself," Sir John answered, "to make me wish to discontinue Mr. Ennison's acquaintance. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. It is not possible for us to be on friendly terms with a young man who has been seen in a public place, having supper alone with your sister after midnight. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. To receive him here afterwards would be most repugnant to me."

"He probably does not know of the relationship," Annabel remarked.

"I imagine," Sir John said, "that your sister would acquaint him with it. In any case, he is liable to discover it at any time. My own impression is that he already knows."

"Why do you think so?" she asked.

"I noticed him call her attention to us as we passed down the room," he answered. "Of course he may merely have been telling her who we were, but I think it improbable."

"Apart from the fact of his acquaintance with Anna—Annabel," Lady Ferringhall said quickly, "may I ask if you have any other objection to Mr. Ennison?"

Sir John hesitated.

"To the young man himself," he answered, "no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence."

"How absurd!" Annabel declared. "How could he call except in your absence, as you are never at home in the afternoon. And if I cared to have him come every day, why shouldn't he? I find him very amusing and very useful as well. He brought his mother to call, and as you know the Countess goes scarcely anywhere. Hers is quite the most exclusive set in London."

"My feeling in the matter," Sir John said, "is as I have stated. Further, I do not care for you to accept social obligations from Mr. Ennison, or any other young man."

"You are jealous," she declared contemptuously.

"If I am," he answered, reddening, "you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. You will forgive my remarking, Anna, that I consider there is a great change in your manner towards me and your general deportment since our marriage."

Annabel laughed gaily.

"My dear man," she exclaimed, "wasn't that a foregone conclusion?"

"You treat the matter lightly," he continued. "To me it seems serious enough. I have fulfilled my part of our marriage contract. Can you wonder that I expect you to fulfil yours?"

"I am not aware," she answered, "that I have ever failed in doing so."

"You are at least aware," he said, "that you have on several recent occasions acted in direct opposition to my wishes."

"For example?"

"Your dyed hair. I was perfectly satisfied with your appearance. I consider even now that the present colour is far less becoming. Then you have altered not only that, but your manner of dressing it. You have darkened your eyebrows, you have even changed your style of dress. You have shown an almost feverish anxiety to eliminate from your personal appearance all that reminded me of you—when we first met."

"Well," she said, "has there not been some reason for this? The likeness to Annabel could scarcely have escaped remark. You forget that every one is going to the 'Unusual' to see her."

He frowned heavily.

"I wish that I could forget it," he said. "Fortunately I believe that the relationship is not generally known. I trust that no unpleasant rumours will be circulated before the election, at any rate."

Annabel yawned.

"They might do you good," she remarked. "'Alcide' is very popular."

Sir John turned towards the door.

"It does not appear to me," he said, stiffly, "to be an affair for jests."

Annabel laughed derisively and took up her book. She heard her husband's heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. Then she threw the volume away with a little impatient exclamation. She rose from her chair, and began walking up and down the room restlessly. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully.

"I am getting plain," she said, with a little shudder. "This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!"

Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. A few minutes later she left the house on foot, and taking a hansom at the corner of the Square, drove to Anna's flat.

Anna was having tea by herself when she entered. She rose at once with a little exclamation, half of surprise, half of pleasure.

"My dear Annabel," she said, "this is delightful, but I thought that it was forbidden."

"It is," Annabel answered shortly. "But I wanted to see you."

Anna wheeled an easy chair to the fire.

"You will have some tea?" she asked.

Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. The little room was fragrant with flowers, Anna herself bright, and with all the evidences of well being. Annabel was conscious then of the slow anger which had been burning within her since the night of her visit to the "Unusual." Her voice trembled with suppressed passion.

"I have come for an explanation," she said. "You are an impostor. How dare you use my name and sing my songs?"

Anna looked at her sister in blank amazement.

"Annabel!" she exclaimed. "Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?"

Annabel laughed scornfully.

"Oh, you know," she said. "Don't be a hypocrite. You are not 'Alcide.' You have no right to call yourself 'Alcide.' You used to declare that you hated the name. You used to beg me for hours at a time to give it all up, never to go near the 'Ambassador's' again. And yet the moment I am safely out of the way you are content to dress yourself in my rags, to go and get yourself popular and admired and successful, all on my reputation."

"Annabel! Annabel!"

Annabel stamped her foot. Her tone was hoarse with passion.

"Oh, you can act!" she cried. "You can look as innocent and shocked as you please. I want to know who sent you those."

She pointed with shaking fingers to a great bunch of dark red carnations, thrust carelessly into a deep china bowl, to which the card was still attached. Anna followed her finger, and looked back into her sister's face.

"They were sent to me by Mr. Nigel Ennison, Annabel. How on earth does it concern you?"

Annabel laughed hardly.

"Concern me!" she repeated fiercely. "You are not content then with stealing from me my name. You would steal from me then the only man I ever cared a snap of the fingers about. They are not your flowers. They are mine! They were sent to 'Alcide' not to you."

Anna rose to her feet. At last she was roused. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright.

"Annabel," she said, "you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. But behind these things which you have said to me there must be others of which I know nothing. You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. In your heart you know very well that this is absurd. It is you who took my name, not I yours. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferringhall. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband."

Annabel shivered a little and looked around her.

"He does not come here," she exclaimed, quickly.

"He spends hours of every day on the pavement below," Anna answered calmly. "I have been bearing this—for your sake. Shall I send him to Sir John?"

Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent.

"It was your own fault," she exclaimed. "He would never have found you out if you had not personated me."

"On the contrary," Anna whispered quietly, "we met in a small boarding-house where I was stopping."

"You have not told me yet," Annabel said, "how it is that you have dared to personate me. To call yourself 'Alcide'! Your hair, your gestures, your voice, all mine! Oh, how dared you do it?"

"You must not forget," Anna said calmly, "that it is necessary for me also—to live. I arrived here with something less than five pounds in my pocket. My reception at West Kensington you know of. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied."

"You did not——"

"Wait, Annabel! When I arrived in London I went to live in the cheapest place I could find. I set myself to find employment. I offered myself as a clerk, as a milliner, as a shop girl. I would even have taken a place as waitress in a tea shop. I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. I ate only enough to keep body and soul together."

"There was no need for such heroism," Annabel said coldly. "You had only to ask——"

"Do you think," Anna interrupted, with a note of passion trembling also in her tone, "that I would have taken alms from Sir John, the man to whom I had lied for your sake. It was not possible. I went at last when I had barely a shilling in my purse to a dramatic agent. By chance I went to one who had known you in Paris."

"Well!"

"He greeted me effusively. He offered me at once an engagement. I told him that I was not 'Alcide.' He only laughed. He had seen the announcement of your marriage in the papers, and he imagined that I simply wanted to remain unknown because of your husband's puritanism. I sang to him, and he was satisfied. I did not appear, I have never announced myself as 'Alcide.' It was the Press who forced the identity upon me."

"They were my posters," Annabel said. "The ones Cariolus did for me."

"The posters at least," Anna answered quietly, "I have some claim to. You know very well that you took from my easel David Courtlaw's study of me, and sent it to Cariolus. You denied it at the time—but unfortunately I have proof. Mr. Courtlaw found the study in Cariolus' studio."

Annabel laughed hardly.

"What did it matter?" she cried. "We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. It saved me the bother of being studied."

"It convinced Mr. Earles that I was 'Alcide,'" Anna remarked quietly.

"We will convince him now to the contrary," Annabel answered.

Anna looked at her, startled.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Annabel set her teeth hard, and turned fiercely towards Anna.

"It means that I have had enough of this slavery," she declared. "My husband and all his friends are fools, and the life they lead is impossible for me. It takes too many years to climb even a step in the social ladder. I've had enough of it. I want my freedom."

"You mean to say," Anna said slowly, "that you are going to leave your husband?"

"Yes."

"You are willing to give up your position, your beautiful houses, your carriages and milliner's accounts to come back to Bohemianism?"

"Why not?" Annabel declared. "I am sick of it. It is dull—deadly dull."

"And what about this man—Mr. Montague Hill?"

Annabel put her hand suddenly to her throat and steadied herself with the back of a chair. She looked stealthily at Anna.

"You have succeeded a little too well in your personation," she said bitterly, "to get rid very easily of Mr. Montague Hill. You are a great deal more like what I was a few months ago than I am now."

Anna laughed softly.

"You propose, then," she remarked, "that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. I think not, Annabel. You are welcome to proclaim yourself 'Alcide' if you will. I would even make over my engagement to you, if Mr. Earles would permit. But I should certainly want to be rid of Mr. Montague Hill, and I do not think that under those circumstances I should be long about it."

Annabel sank suddenly into a chair. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs.

"Anna," she moaned, "I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. But oh, how weary I am! I know. If only—Anna, tell me," she broke off suddenly, "how did you get to know Mr. Ennison?"

"He spoke to me, thinking that I was you," Anna answered. "I liked him, and I never undeceived him."

"And he sat at my table," Annabel said bitterly, "and yet he did not know me."

Anna glanced up.

"You must remember," she said, "that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks."

"For the others," Annabel said tearfully, "that is well enough. But for him——"

Something in her sister's tone startled Anna. She looked at her for a moment fixedly. When she tried to speak she found it difficult. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off.

"What do you mean, Annabel? You only knew Mr. Ennison slightly——"

There was a dead silence in the little room. Anna sat with the face of a Sphinx—waiting. Annabel thought, and thought again.

"I knew Mr. Ennison better than I have ever told you," she said slowly.

"Go on!"

"You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one's—an Englishman's. Nigel Ennison was he."

Anna stood up. Her cheeks were aflame. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion.

"Go on!" she commanded. "Let me know the truth."

Annabel looked down. It was hard to meet that gaze.

"Does he never speak to you of—of old times?" she faltered.

"Don't fence with me," Anna cried fiercely. "The truth!"

Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister's ear.



Chapter XXII

AN OLD FOOL

Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. She was wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least.

"I am delighted to see you, Mr. Ennison," she said, letting her fingers rest in his. "Do come and cheer me up. I am bored to distraction."

He took a seat by her side. He was looking pale and ill. There were shadows under his eyes. He returned her impressive greeting almost mechanically.

"But you yourself," she exclaimed, glancing into his face, "you too look tired. You poor man, what have you been doing to yourself?"

"Nothing except travelling all night," he answered. "I am just back from Paris. I am bothered. I have come to you for sympathy, perhaps for help."

"You may be sure of the one," she murmured. "The other too if it is within my power."

"It is within yours—if anybody's," he answered. "It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall."

Annabel gave a little gasp. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. The change in her face was not a pleasant one.

"About my sister," she repeated slowly.

Her tone should have warned him, but he was too much in earnest to regard it.

"Yes. You remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?"

"Yes."

"And you knew, of course, that we were old friends?"

"Indeed!"

"Lady Ferringhall, I love your sister."

"You what?" she repeated incredulously.

"I love your sister."

Lady Ferringhall sat with half closed eyes and clenched teeth. Brute! Fool! To have come to her on such an errand. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman.

"But—your people!" she gasped. "Surely Lady Ennison would object, even if it were possible. And the Duke, too—I heard him say that a married secretary would be worse than useless to him."

"The difficulties on my own side I can deal with," he answered. "I am not dependent upon any one. I have plenty of money, and the Duke will not be in the next Cabinet. My trouble is with your sister."

Lady Ferringhall was conscious of some relief.

"She has refused to listen to you?"

"She has behaved in a most extraordinary manner," he answered. "We parted—that night the best of friends. She knew that I cared for her, she had admitted that she cared for me. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don't think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. When I went I was refused admittance. I have since received a most extraordinary letter from her. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope. She simply refuses to see or hear from me again. I went to the theatre that night. I waited for her at the back. She saw me, and, Lady Ferringhall, I shall never forget her look as long as I live. It was horrible. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. I could not have spoken to her. It took my breath away. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. My letters are returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the doorstep."

"The explanation seems to me to be reasonably simple," Annabel said coldly. "You seem to forget that my sister is—married."

"If she is," he answered, "I am convinced that there are circumstances in connexion with that marriage which would make a divorce easy."

"You would marry a divorcee?" she asked.

"I would marry your sister anyhow, under any circumstances," he answered.

She looked at him curiously.

"I want to ask you a question," she said abruptly. "This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?"

He hesitated.

"I admired your sister in Paris," he answered, "but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person. Something has happened to change her marvellously, either that, or she wilfully deceived me and every one else in those days as to her real self. She was a much lighter and more frivolous person, very charming and companionable—but with a difference—a great difference. I wonder whether you would mind, Lady Ferringhall," he went on, with a sudden glance at her, "if I tell you that you yourself remind me a great deal more of what she was like then, except of course that your complexion and colouring are altogether different."

"I am highly flattered," she remarked, with subtle irony.

"Will you help me?" he asked.

"What can I do?"

"Go and see her. Find out what I have done or failed to do. Get me an interview with her."

"Really," she said, with a hard little laugh, "you must regard me as a very good-natured person."

"You are," he answered unconsciously. "I am sure that you are. I want her to tell me the whole truth about this extraordinary marriage. We will find some way out of it."

"You think that you can do that?"

"I am sure of it," he answered, confidently. "Those things are arranged more easily in any other country than England. At any rate she must see me. I demand it as a right. I must know what new thing has come between us that she should treat me as a lover one day and a monster the next."

She leaned back amongst the cushions of her chair. She was very pale, but she reminded him more at that minute than at any time of "Alcide" as he had first known her.

"I wonder," she said, "how much you care."

"I care as a man cares only once in his life," he answered promptly. "When it comes there is no mistaking it."

"Did it come—in Paris?"

"I do not know," he answered. "I do not think so. What does it matter? It is here, and it is here to stay. Do help me, Lady Ferringhall. You need not be afraid. No trouble will ever come to your sister through me. If this idiotic marriage is binding then I will be her friend. But I have powerful friends. I only want to know the truth, and I will move heaven and earth to have it set aside."

"The truth," she murmured, with her eyes fixed upon him. "Well——"

She stopped short. He looked at her in some embarrassment.

"Forgive me," he said, "but I want to hear it from your sister. It is her duty to tell me, and I would not have her think that I had been trying to work upon your sympathies to learn her secrets."

She was silent.

"You will go and see her," he begged.

"Yes, I will go," she promised, with a queer little smile. "It is against my husband's orders, and I am not sure that my sister will be particularly glad to see me. But I will go."

"I shall always be grateful to you," he declared.

"Don't be too sure of that," she answered enigmatically.



Chapter XXIII

MONTAGUE HILL SEES LIGHT AT LAST

At exactly ten minutes past ten Annabel rang the bell of her sister's flat. There was no response. She rang again with the same result. Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a thin crack between the door and the frame. She pushed the former and it opened. The latch had not fully caught.

The flat was apparently empty. Annabel turned on the electric light and made her way into the sitting-room. There was a coffee equipage on the table, and some sandwiches, and the fire had been recently made up. Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister's return.

The clock struck half-past ten. The loneliness of the place somewhat depressed her. She took up a book and threw it down again. Then she examined with curiosity some knick-knacks upon a small round table by her side. Amongst them was a revolver. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again. Then for the first time she was conscious of an unaccountable and terrifying sensation. She felt that she was not alone.

She was only a few yards from the door, but lacked the courage to rise and fly. Her knees shook, her breath came fast, she almost felt the lurid effect of those tiny patches of rouge upon her pallor-stricken cheeks. Her eyes were dilated—fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window.

There was some one there. She had seen a man's head steal out for a moment and draw the curtains a little closer. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. She was wholly unable to conceal her knowledge of his presence. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. She was powerless to move from her chair. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. Her courage and her presence of mind had alike deserted her. She could neither speak nor move nor cry out.

"Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!"

She did not speak. Her lips parted, but no words came.

"What have you done to yourself?" he muttered. "You have dyed your hair and darkened your eyebrows. But you are Annabel. I should know you—in Heaven or Hell. Who is the other?"

"What other?"

Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. Her lips were dry and cracked.

"The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the 'Unusual'? They call her by your old name. Her hair and voice and figure are as yours used to be. Who is she, I say?"

"My sister!" Annabel faltered.

He trembled violently. He seemed to be labouring under some great excitement.

"I am a fool," he said. "All these days I have taken her for you. I have pleaded with her—no wonder that I have pleaded with her in vain. And all this time perhaps you have been waiting, expecting to hear from me. Is it so, Annabel?"

"I did not know," she faltered, "anything about you. Why should I?"

"At last," he murmured, "at last I have found you. I must not let you go again. Do you know, Annabel, that you are my wife."

"No," she moaned, "not that. I thought—the papers said——"

"You thought that I was dead," he interrupted. "You pushed the wheel from my hand. You jumped, and I think that you left me. Yet you knew that I was not dead. You came to see me in the hospital. You must have repented a little, or you would not have done that."

"I did not come," she faltered. "It was my sister Anna. I had left Paris."

He passed his hand wearily over his forehead.

"That is where I got confused," he said. "I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. Then, I thought, she has repented, all will be well. So I made haste and recovered. I came to London to look for you, and somehow the figure I saw in my dreams had got mixed up with you. Your sister! Great God, how like she is to what you were!"

Annabel looked around her nervously.

"These are her rooms," she said. "Soon she will return."

"The sooner the better," he answered. "I must explain to her. Annabel, I cannot believe it. I have found you."

His eyes were burning. He advanced a step towards her. She held out both her hands.

"No, no," she cried. "You frighten me!"

He smiled at her indulgently.

"But I am your husband," he said. "You have forgotten. I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine."

"It was a mistake," she faltered. "You told me that your name was Meysey Hill. I thought that you were he."

His face darkened.

"I did it for love of you," he said. "I lied, as I would have committed a murder, or done any evil deed sooner than lose you. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. I can keep you. You shall have a house out at Balham or Sydenham, and two servants. You shall have the spending of every penny of my money. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. Tell me that you are not sorry to see me again."

Her passion conquered for a moment her fear.

"But I am sorry," she exclaimed. "Our marriage must be annulled. It was no marriage at all."

"Never," he exclaimed vehemently. "You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up."

"But it is too late," she declared. "You have no right to hold me to a bargain which on your side was a lie. I consented to become Mrs. Meysey Hill—never your wife."

"What do you mean—by too late?" he demanded.

"There is some one else whom I care for!"

He laughed hardly.

"Tell me his name," he said, "and I promise that he shall never trouble you. But you," he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, "you are mine. The angels in Heaven shall not tear you from me. We leave this room together. I shall not part with you again."

"No," she cried, "I will not. I will have nothing to do with you. You are not my husband."

He came towards her with that in his face which filled her with blind terror.

"You belong to me," he said fiercely; "the marriage certificate is in my pocket. You belong to me, and I have waited long enough."

He stepped past her to the door and closed it. Then he turned with a fierce movement to take her into his arms. There was a flash and a loud report. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor.

"Annabel;" he moaned. "You have killed me. My wife—killed me."

With a little crash the pistol fell from her shaking fingers. She stood looking down upon him with dilated eyes. Her faculties seemed for a moment numbed. She could not realize what she saw. Surely it was a dream. A moment before he had been a strong man, she had been in his power, a poor helpless thing. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. It could not be she who had done this. She had never let off a pistol in her life. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room.

It was true. She had killed him. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. Once before—but that had been different. This time they would call it murder.

She listened, listened intently for several minutes. People were passing in the street below. She could hear their footsteps upon the pavement. A hansom stopped a little way off. She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. There was no one stirring in the flats. He himself had deadened the sound by closing the door. She moved a little nearer to him.

It was horrible, but she must do it. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. She drew it out with shaking fingers. There was a great splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky. A deadly sickness came over her, the room seemed spinning round. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright.

Still silence everywhere. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. She turned out the electric light and gained the hall. Still no sound. Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. There was no one to be seen. She passed down the stairs and into the street.

She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. Then she called a hansom and drove home.

* * * * *

"Miss Pellissier," Brendon said gently, "I am afraid that some fresh trouble has come to you."

She smiled at him cheerfully.

"Am I dull?" she said. "I am sorry."

"You could never be that," he answered, "but you are at least more serious than usual."

"Perhaps," she said, "I am superstitious. This is my last week at the 'Unusual,' you know. We begin rehearsing on Monday at the 'Garrick'."

"Surely," he protested, "the change is all in favour of your own inclinations. It is your own choice, isn't it?"

She nodded.

"Yes. But I believe that Mr. Earles thinks I am a little mad, and between ourselves I am not sure about it myself. It is easy enough to sing these little chansons in an original way—it requires a very different sort of ability to succeed on the stage."

"You have it," he declared confidently.

She laughed altogether in her old manner.

"I wonder how it is," she exclaimed, "that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself."

"They know you better," he declared.

"I am afraid," she answered, "that one's friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself—stop."

She laid her fingers upon his arm, and they both stood still. They had turned into the street, on the opposite side of which were the flats where Anna lived. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. The curtains which she had left drawn were open, and the electric lights were turned on. Then, even as they stood there, the room was plunged into darkness.

"There is someone in my rooms," Anna said.

"Is it your maid?" he asked.

"I have given her two days' holiday," Anna answered. "She has gone down into the country."

"And no one else—has a key?"

"I believe," she said, "that that man must have one. I am safe while I am there, for I have had bolts fitted everywhere, and a pane of glass in the front door. But I am always afraid that he may get in while I am away. Look! Is that some one coming out?"

The front door of the flats stood open, and through it a woman, slim and veiled, passed on to the pavement and turned with swift footsteps in the opposite direction. Anna watched her with curious eyes.

"Is it any one you know?" Brendon asked.

"I am not sure," Anna answered. "But, of course, she may have come from one of the other flats."

"Perhaps," he said, "you had better let me have your key, and I will go up and explore."

"We will go together," she answered.

They crossed the street, and entering the front door passed up the outside stone steps of the flat. Anna herself opened the hall door. They stood for a moment in the passage and listened. Silence! Then Anna clutched her companion's arm.

"What was that?" she asked sharply.

He had heard nothing. They both listened intently. Again silence.

"I thought that I heard a groan," Anna whispered.

He laughed reassuringly.

"I heard nothing," he declared, "and my ears are good. Come."

He threw open the door of the sitting-room and switched on the electric light.

"There is no—Good God!" he exclaimed.

He turned round to keep Anna out by force if possible, but he was too late. She was by his side. She too had seen. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet.



Chapter XXIV

A CASE FOR THE POLICE

After that first horrible moment it was perhaps Anna who was the more self-possessed. She dropped on her knees by his side, and gently unbuttoned his waistcoat. Then she looked up at Brendon.

"You must fetch a doctor," she said. "I do not think that he is quite dead."

"And leave you here alone?" he asked, in a hoarse whisper. "Come with me."

"I am not afraid," she answered. "Please hurry."

He reeled out of the room. Anna was afterwards astonished at her own self-possession. She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from. Then she stood up and looked around the room.

There were no evidences of any struggle, no overturned chairs or disarranged furniture. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. Anna saw it, and for the first time found herself trembling.

She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. It was Annabel's. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. The perfume was the only one she ever used. Annabel had been here then. It was she who had come out from the flat only a few minutes before. It was she——

Anna's nerves were not easily shaken, but she found herself suddenly clutching at the table for support. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. She took up the poker and stirred the fire vigorously. Almost at the same moment the door opened and Brendon entered, followed by the doctor.

Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. Before he even glanced at the man on the floor he stepped over to her side and took the poker from her.

"Forgive me, madam," he said stiffly, "but in such a case as this it is better that nothing in the room should be disturbed until the arrival of the police. You have been burning paper, I see."

"Are you a detective or a doctor?" she asked calmly. "Do you need me to remind you that your patient is bleeding to death?"

He dropped on his knees by the man's side and made a hurried examination.

"Who tied this scarf here?" he asked, looking up.

"I did," Anna answered. "I hope that it has not done any harm."

"He would have been dead before now without it," the doctor answered shortly. "Get me some brandy and my bag."

It was nearly half an hour before they dared ask him the question.

"Will he live?"

The doctor shook his head.

"It is very doubtful," he said. "You must send for the police at once, you know. You, sir," he added, turning to Brendon, "had better take my card round to the police station in Werner Street and ask that Detective Dorling be sent round here at once on urgent business."

"Is it necessary to send for the police?" Anna asked.

"Absolutely," the doctor answered, "and the sooner the better. This is a case either of suicide or murder. The police are concerned in it in either event."

"Please go then, Mr. Brendon," Anna said. "You will come back, won't you?"

He nodded cheerfully.

"Of course I will," he answered.

The doctor and Anna were left alone. Every moment or two he bent over his patient. He seemed to avoid meeting Anna's eyes as much as possible.

"Does he live here?" he asked her presently.

"No."

"Far away?"

"I have no idea," Anna answered.

"Who is the tenant of these rooms?" he inquired.

"I am."

"You will have no objection to his remaining here?" he asked. "A move of any sort would certainly be fatal."

"Of course not," Anna said. "Had he better have a nurse? I will be responsible for anything of that sort."

"If he lives through the next hour," the doctor answered, "I will send some one. Do you know anything of his friends? Is there any one for whom we ought to send?"

"I know very little of him beyond his name," Anna answered. "I know nothing whatever of his friends or his home. He used to live in a boarding-house in Russell Square. That is where I first knew him."

The doctor looked at her thoughtfully. Perhaps for the first time he realized that Anna was by no means an ordinary person. His patient was distinctly of a different order of life. It was possible that his first impressions had not been correct.

"Your name, I believe, is——"

"Pellissier," Anna answered.

"Allow me," the doctor said, "to give you a word of advice, Miss Pellissier. A detective will be here in a few moments to make inquiries into this affair. You may have something to conceal, you may not. Tell the whole truth. It always comes out sooner or later. Don't try to shield anybody or hide anything. It is bad policy."

Anna smiled very faintly.

"I thank you for your advice," she said. "I can assure you that it was quite unnecessary. I know less about this affair perhaps than you suppose. What I do know I shall have no hesitation in telling anyone who has the right to ask."

"Just so," the doctor remarked drily. "And if I were you I would keep away from the fire."

Brendon reappeared, followed by a tall thin man with a stubbly brown moustache and restless grey eyes. The doctor nodded to him curtly.

"Good evening, Dorling," he said. "Before you do anything else I should advise you to secure those charred fragments of paper from the grate. I know nothing about this affair, but some one has been burning documents."

The detective went down on his hands and knees. With delicate touch he rescued all that was possible of them, and made a careful little parcel. Then he stepped briskly to his feet and bent over the wounded man.

"Shot through the lungs," he remarked.

The doctor nodded.

"Bad hemorrhage," he said. "I am going to fetch some things that will be wanted if he pulls through the next hour. I found him lying like this, the bleeding partly stopped by this scarf, else he had been dead by now."

The doctor glanced towards Anna. Considering his convictions he felt that his remark was a generous one. Anna's face however was wholly impassive.

He took up his hat and went. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. Then he turned to Anna.

"Can you give me any information as to this affair?" he asked.

"I will tell you all that I know," Anna said. "My name is Anna Pellissier, sometimes called Annabel. I am engaged to sing every evening at the 'Unusual' music hall. This man's name is Montague Hill. I saw him first a few months ago at Mrs. White's boarding-house in Russell Square. He subjected me there to great annoyance by claiming me as his wife. As a matter of fact, I had never spoken to him before in my life. Since then he has persistently annoyed me. I have suspected him of possessing a skeleton key to my apartments. To-night I locked up my flat at six o'clock. It was then, I am sure, empty. I dined with a friend and went to the 'Unusual.' At a quarter past eleven I returned here with this gentleman, Mr. Brendon. As we turned the corner of the street, I noticed that the electric light was burning in this room. We stopped for a moment to watch it, and almost immediately it was turned out. We came on here at once. I found the door locked as usual, but when we entered this room everything was as you see. Nothing has been touched since."

The detective nodded.

"A very clear statement, madam," he said. "From what you saw from the opposite pavement then, it is certain that some person who was able to move about was in this room only a minute or so before you entered it?"

"That is so," Anna answered.

"You met no one upon the stairs, or saw no one leave the flats?"

"No one," Anna answered firmly.

"Then either this man shot himself or some one else shot him immediately before your arrival—or rather if it was not himself the person who did it was in the room, say two minutes, before you arrived."

"That is so," Anna admitted.

"I will not trouble you with any questions about the other occupants of the flats," Mr. Dorling said. "I shall have to go through the building. You say that this gentleman was with you?"

"I was," Brendon answered, "most providentially."

"You did not notice anything which may have escaped this lady? You saw no one leave the flats?"

"No one," Brendon answered.

"You heard no pistol-shot?"

"None."

The detective turned again to Anna.

"You know of no one likely to have had a grudge against this man?" he asked.

"No."

"There is no one else who has a key to your rooms?"

"No one except my maid, who is away in Wiltshire."

"The inference is, then," the detective said smoothly, "that this man obtained admission to your rooms by means of a false key, that he burnt some papers here and shot himself within a few moments of your return. Either that or some other person also obtained admission here and shot him, and that person is either still upon the premises or escaped without your notice."

"I suppose," Anna said, "that those are reasonable deductions."

The detective thrust his notebook into his pocket.

"I brought a man with me who is posted outside," he remarked. "With your permission I should like to search the remainder of your rooms."

Anna showed him the way.

"Have either of you been out of this room since you discovered what had happened?" he asked.

"Mr. Brendon went for the doctor," Anna answered. "I have not left this apartment myself."

Nothing unusual was discovered in any other part of the flat. While they were still engaged in looking round the doctor returned with a nurse and assistant.

"With your permission," he said to Anna, "I shall arrange a bed for him where he is. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved."

"You can make any arrangements you like," Anna declared. "I shall leave the flat to you and go to a hotel."

"You would perhaps be so good as to allow one of my men to accompany you and see you settled," Mr. Dorling said deferentially. "In the event of his death we should require you at once to attend at the inquest."

"I am going to pack my bag," Anna answered. "In five minutes I shall be ready."



Chapter XXV

THE STEEL EDGE OF THE TRUTH

The manservant, with his plain black clothes and black tie, had entered the room with a deferential little gesture.

"You will pardon me, sir," he said in a subdued tone, "but I think that you have forgotten to look at your engagement book. There is Lady Arlingford's reception to-night, ten till twelve, and the Hatton House ball, marked with a cross, sir, important. I put your clothes out an hour ago."

Nigel Ennison looked up with a little start.

"All right, Dunster," he said. "I may go to Hatton House later, but you needn't wait. I can get into my clothes."

The man hesitated.

"Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You'll excuse me, sir, but you haven't touched your coffee."

"Bring me a whisky and soda, and a box of cigarettes," Ennison answered, "and then leave me alone, there's a good fellow. I'm a little tired."

The man obeyed his orders noiselessly and then left the room.

Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette.

"What a fool I am!" he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. "And yet I wonder whether the world ever held such another enigma in her sex. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phoenix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. And then—this sudden thrust. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. Something unpardonable is laid to my charge. Only last night she saw me, and there was horror in her eyes.... I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look.... What the devil is the matter, Dunster?"

"I beg your pardon, sir," the man answered, "there is a lady here to see you."

Ennison turned round sharply.

"A lady, Dunster. Who is it?"

The man came a little further into the room.

"Lady Ferringhall, sir."

"Lady Ferringhall—alone?" Ennison exclaimed.

"Quite alone, sir."

Ennison was dismayed.

"For Heaven's sake, Dunster, don't let her out of the carriage, or hansom, or whatever she came in. Say I'm out, away, anything!"

"I am sorry, sir," the man answered, "but she had sent away her hansom before I answered the bell. She is in the hall now. I——"

The door was thrown open. Annabel entered.

"Forgive my coming in," she said to Ennison. "I heard your voices, and the hall is draughty. What is the matter with you?"

Dunster had withdrawn discreetly. Ennison's manner was certainly not one of a willing host.

"I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall," he said quietly. "For your own sake, let me beg of you not to stay for a moment. Dunster shall fetch you a cab. I——"

She threw herself into an easy chair. She was unusually pale, and her eyes were brilliant. Never had she seemed to him so much like Anna.

"You needn't be worried," she said quietly. "The conventions do not matter one little bit. You will agree with me when you have heard what I have to say. For me that is all over and done with."

"Lady Ferringhall! Anna!" he exclaimed.

She fixed her brilliant eyes upon him.

"Suppose you call me by my proper name," she said quietly. "Call me Annabel."

He started back as though he had been shot.

"Annabel?" he exclaimed. "That is your sister's name."

"No, mine."

It came upon him like a flash. Innumerable little puzzles were instantly solved. He could only wonder that this amazing thing had remained so long a secret to him. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Nevertheless it was overwhelming.

"But your hair," he gasped.

"Dyed!"

"And your figure?"

"One's corsetiere arranges that. My friend, I am only grieved that you of all others should have been so deceived. I have seen you with Anna, and I have not known whether to be glad or sorry. I have been in torment all the while to know whether it was to Anna or to Annabel that you were making love so charmingly. Nigel, do you know that I have been very jealous?"

He avoided the invitation of her eyes. He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment.

"But Sir John?" he exclaimed. "What made you marry him? What made you leave Paris without a word to any one? What made you and your sister exchange identities?"

"There is one answer to all those questions, Nigel," she said, with a nervous little shudder. "It is a hateful story. Come close to me, and let me hold your hand, dear. I am a little afraid."

There was a strange look in her face, the look of a frightened child. Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. He stood by her side, and he suffered her hands to rest in his.