Chapter VI: Part 6

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.

"You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about--Meysey Hill they called him?"

He nodded.

"Miserable bounder," he murmured. "Turned out to be an impostor, too."

"He imposed on me," Annabel continued. "I believed that he was the great multi-millionaire. He worried me to marry him. I let him take me to the English Embassy, and we went through some sort of a ceremony. I thought it would be magnificent to have a great house in Paris, and more money than any other woman. Afterwards we started for _dejeuner_ in a motor. On the way he confessed. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. Every one took him for the millionaire, and he had lost his head about me. I--well, I lost my temper. I struck him across the face, twisted the steering wheel of the motor, sprang out myself, and left him for dead on the road with the motor on top of him. This is the first act."

"Served the beast right," Ennison declared. "I think I can tell you something which may be very good news for you presently. But go on."

"Act two," she continued. "Enter Sir John, very honest, very much in love with me. I thought that Hill was dead, but I was frightened, and I wanted to get away from Paris. Sir John heard gossip about us--about Anna the recluse, a paragon of virtue, and Annabel alias 'Alcide' a dancer at the _cafes chantants_, and concerning whom there were many stories which were false, and a few--which were true. I--well, I borrowed Anna's name. I made her my unwilling confederate. Sir John followed me to London and married me. To this day he and every one else thinks that he married Anna.

"Act three. Anna comes to London. She is poor, and she will take nothing from my husband, the man she had deceived for my sake, and he, on his part, gravely disapproves of her as 'Alcide.' She tries every way of earning a living and fails. Then she goes to a dramatic agent. Curiously enough nothing will persuade him that she is not 'Alcide.' He believes that she denies it simply because owing to my marriage with Sir John, whom they call the 'Puritan Knight,' she wants to keep her identity secret. He forces an engagement upon her. She never calls herself 'Alcide.' It is the Press who find her out. She is the image of what I was like, and she has a better voice. Then enter Mr. Hill again--alive. He meets Anna, and claims her as his wife. It is Anna again who stands between me and ruin."

"I cannot let you go on," Ennison interrupted. "I believe that I can give you great news. Tell me where the fellow Hill took you for this marriage ceremony."

"It was behind the Place de Vendome, on the other side from the Ritz."

"I knew it," Ennison exclaimed. "Cheer up, Annabel. You were never married at all. That place was closed by the police last month. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. Everything was done in the most legal and imposing way, but the whole thing was a fraud."

"Then I was never married to him at all?" Annabel said.

"Never--but, by Jove, you had a narrow escape," Ennison exclaimed. "Annabel, I begin to see why you are here. Think! Had you not better hurry back before Sir John discovers? You are his wife right enough. You can tell me the rest another time."

She smiled faintly.

"The rest," she said, holding tightly to his hands, "is the most important of all. You came to me, you wished me to speak to Anna. I went to her rooms to-night. There was no one at home, and I was coming away when I saw that the door was open. I decided to go in and wait. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. He had gained admission somehow, and he too was waiting for Anna. But--he was cleverer than any of you. He knew me, Nigel. 'At last,' he cried, 'I have found you!' He would listen to nothing. He swore that I was his wife, and--I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Shot him, do you hear?"

"Good God!" he exclaimed, looking at her curiously. "Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?"

She nodded.

"I shot him. I saw the blood come as he rolled over. I tore the marriage certificate from his pocket and burnt it. And then I came here."

"You came--here!" he repeated, vaguely.

"Nigel, Nigel," she cried. "Don't you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. She is a stranger to you. You cannot care for her. Think of those days in Paris. Do you remember when we went right away, Nigel, and forgot everything? We went down the river past Veraz, and the larks were singing all over those deep brown fields, and the river further on wound its way like a coil of silver across the rich meadowland, and along the hillside vineyards. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. Nigel! You have not forgotten. It was the first day you kissed me, under the willows, coming into Veraz. Nigel, you have not forgotten!"

"No," he said, with a little bitter smile. "I have never forgotten."

She suddenly caught hold of his shoulders and drew him down towards her.

"Nigel, don't you understand. I must leave England to-night. I must go somewhere into hiding, a long, long way off. I killed him, Nigel. They will say that it was murder. But if only you will come I do not care."

He shook her hands off almost roughly. He stood away from her. She listened with dumb fear in her eyes.

"Listen, Annabel," he said hoarsely. "We played at love-making in Paris. It was very pretty and very dainty while it lasted, but we played it with our eyes open, and we perfectly understood the game--both of us. Other things came. We went our ways. There was no broken faith--not even any question of anything of the sort. I met you here as Lady Ferringhall. We have played at a little mild love-making again. It has been only the sort of nonsense which passes lightly enough between half the men and women in London. You shall know the truth. I do not love you. I have never loved you. I call myself a man of the world, a man of many experiences, but I never knew what love meant--until I met your sister."

"You love--Anna?" she exclaimed.

"I do," he answered. "I always shall. Now if you are ready to go with me, I too am ready. We will go to Ostend by the early morning boat and choose a hiding place from there. I will marry you when Sir John gets his divorce, and I will do all I can to keep you out of harm. But you had better know the truth to start with. I will do all this not because I love you, but--because you are Anna's sister."

Annabel rose to her feet.

"You are magnificent," she said, "but the steel of your truth is a little oversharpened. It cuts. Will you let your servant call me a hansom," she continued, opening the door before he could reach her side. "I had no idea that it was so abominably late."

He scarcely saw her face again. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best.

"Where to?" he asked, as the hansom drove up.

"Home, of course," she answered. "Eight, Cavendish Square."

_Chapter XXVI_

ANNABEL IS WARNED

"You!"

David Courtlaw crossed the floor of the dingy little sitting-room with outstretched hands.

"You cannot say that you did not expect me," he answered. "I got Sydney's telegram at ten o'clock, and caught the ten-thirty from the Gare du Nord."

"It is very nice of you," Anna said softly.

"Rubbish!" he answered. "I could not have stayed in Paris and waited for news. Tell me exactly what has happened. Even now I do not understand. Is this man Hill dead?"

She shook her head.

"He was alive at four o'clock this afternoon," she answered, "but the doctors give little hope of his recovery."

"What is there to be feared?" he asked her quietly.

She hesitated.

"You are my friend," she said, "if any one is. I think that I will tell you. The man Hill has persecuted me for months--ever since I have been in England. He claimed me for his wife, and showed to every one a marriage certificate. He shot at me at the 'Unusual,' and the magistrates bound him over to keep the peace. I found him once in my rooms, and I believe that he had a key to my front door. Last night Mr. Brendon and I returned from the 'Unusual,' and found him lying in my room shot through the lungs. In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate. We fetched the doctor and the police. From the first I could see that neither believed my story. I am suspected of having shot the man."

"But that is ridiculous!" he exclaimed.

She laughed a little bitterly.

"I am under police surveillance," she said. "So is Mr. Brendon."

"But there is not a shadow of evidence against you," he objected. "The man alone could supply any, and if he recovers sufficiently to say anything, what he would say would exonerate you."

"Yes."

There was a moment's silence. Anna's face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. He stepped quickly towards her. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. She distinctly shivered as he forced her to look at him. He was bewildered.

"Anna!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Look at me. What is it? Good God!"

An unhappy little smile parted her lips. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire.

"I think," she said, "that I will tell you everything. I must tell somebody--and you would understand."

"I am your friend," he said slowly, "whatever you may have to tell me. You can trust me, Anna. You know that. I will be as silent as the grave."

"Not long ago," she said, "you left me in anger, partly because of this exchange of identities between Annabel and myself. You said that it would bring trouble. It has."

"Yes."

"Annabel's real reason for wishing to leave Paris, the real reason she married Sir John Ferringhall, was because of a very foolish thing which she did. It was--in connection with this man Hill. He personated over there a millionaire named Meysey Hill, and it seems that he induced Annabel to go through some sort of marriage with him at the Embassy."

"Where?" Courtlaw asked quickly.

"In Paris."

Courtlaw seemed about to say something. He changed his mind however, and simply motioned to her to proceed.

"Then there was a motor accident only an hour or so after this ceremony, and Hill was reported to be killed. Annabel believed it, came to England and married Sir John. Now you can understand why I have been obliged to----"

"Yes, yes, I understand that," Courtlaw interrupted. "But about last night."

"Annabel knew where I lived," Anna continued slowly. "She has been to my flat before. I saw her come out from the flat buildings two minutes before we entered it last night. I picked up her handkerchief on the floor."

"You mean--you think----"

"Hush! I think that he was concealed in my room, and Annabel and he met there. What passed between them I cannot think--I dare not. The pistol was his own, it is true, but it was one which was taken from him when he forced his way in upon me before. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. It is not for myself I fear. But if he speaks--I fear what he may tell."

"You have been to her?" he asked.

"I dare not," she answered.

"I will go," he said. "She must be warned. She had better escape if she can."

Anna shook her head.

"She will take her risk," she answered. "I am sure of it. If he recovers he may not accuse her. If he dies she is safe."

He paced the room for a minute or two restlessly.

"There are some people," he said at last, "who seem fated to carry on their shoulders the burdens of other people. You, Anna, are one of them. I know in Paris you pinched and scraped that your sister might have the dresses and entertainments she desired. You fell in at once with her quixotic and damnable scheme of foisting her reputation and her follies upon your shoulders whilst she marries a rich man and commences all over again a life of selfish pleasure. You on the other hand have to come to London, a worker, with the responsibility of life upon your own shoulders--and in addition all the burden of her follies."

"You forget," she said, looking up at him with a faint smile, "that under the cloak of her name I am earning more money a week than I could ever have earned in a year by my own labours."

"It is an accident," he answered. "Besides, it is not so. You sing better than Annabel ever did, you have even a better style. 'Alcide' or no 'Alcide,' there is not a music hall manager in London or Paris who would not give you an engagement on your own merits."

"Perhaps not," she answered. "And yet in a very few weeks I shall have done with it all. Do you think that I shall ever make an actress, my friend?"

"I doubt it," he answered bluntly. "You have not feeling enough."

She smiled at him.

"It is like old times," she said, "to hear these home truths. All the same, I don't admit it."

He shook his head.

"To be an actress," he said, "you require a special and peculiar temperament. I do not believe that there has ever lived a really great actress whose moral character from the ordinary point of view would bear inspection."

"Then I," she said, "have too much character."

"Too much character, and too little sentiment," he answered. "Too much sensibility and too cold a heart. Too easily roused emotions and too little passion. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life--you, who have never loved?"

"You have become French to the core," she murmured. "You would believe that life is kindled by the passions alone."

There was silence between them. Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. Anna tore it open and passed it to Courtlaw. It was from Brendon.

"Hill gradually recovering consciousness. Doctor says depositions
to-night. Recovery impossible.--BRENDON."

He looked at her gravely.

"I think," he said, "that some one ought to warn her."

"It is Number 8, Cavendish Square," she answered simply.

* * * * *

Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel's long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. Servants were passing backwards and forwards with tea and chocolate. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. Then she came a few steps to meet him.

"Mr. Courtlaw, is it not," she remarked, with lifted eyebrows. "Really it is very kind of you to have found me out."

He was bereft of words for a moment, and in that moment she escaped, having passed him on deftly to one of the later arrivals.

"Lady Mackinnor," she said, "I am sure that you must have heard of Mr. David Courtlaw. Permit me to make him known to you--Mr. Courtlaw--Lady Mackinnor."

With a murmured word of excuse she glided away, and Courtlaw, who had come with a mission which seemed to him to be one of life or death, was left to listen to the latest art jargon from Chelsea. He bore it as long as he could, watching all the time with fascinated eyes Annabel moving gracefully about amongst her guests, always gay, with a smile and a whisper for nearly everybody. Grudgingly he admired her. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite--something quite insignificant. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. And instead he found her playing the great lady, and playing it well. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. At last he could bear it no longer. He left his companion in the midst of a glowing eulogy of Bastien Leparge, and boldly intercepted his hostess as she moved from one group to join another.

"Can you spare me a moment?" he asked. "I have a message from your sister."

"Are you in a hurry," she asked carelessly. "A lot of these people will be going presently."

"My message is urgent," he said firmly. "If you cannot listen to me now it must remain undelivered."

She shrugged her shoulders and led him towards a small recess. "So you come from Anna, do you?" she remarked. "Well, what is it?"

"Montague Hill is recovering consciousness," he said. "He will probably make a statement to-night."

"That sounds very interesting," she answered coolly. "Perhaps I should better be able to understand its significance if you would explain to me who Mr. Montague Hill is."

"Your husband," he answered bluntly.

She did not wince. She laughed a little contemptuously.

"You and Anna," she said, "seem to have stumbled upon a mare's nest. If that is my sister's message, pray return to her and say that the doings and sayings of Mr. Montague Hill do not interest me in the least."

"Don't be foolish," he said sharply. "You were seen to leave the flat, and your handkerchief was found there. Very likely by this time the whole truth is known."

She smiled at him, an understanding smile, but her words defied him.

"What a beautiful mare's nest!" she exclaimed. "I can see you and Anna groaning and nodding your grave heads together. Bah! She does not know me very well, and you--not at all. Do have some tea, won't you? If you must, go then."

Courtlaw was dismissed. As he passed out he saw in the hall a quietly dressed man with keen grey eyes, talking to one of the footmen. He shivered and looked behind as he stepped into his hansom. Had it come already?

_Chapter XXVII_

JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN

"Confess, my dear husband," Annabel said lightly, "that you are bewildered."

Sir John smiled.

"My dear Anna," he answered. "To tell you the truth, it has seemed just lately as though we were becoming in some measure estranged. You certainly have not shown much desire for my society, have you?"

"You have been wrapped up in your politics," she murmured.

He shook his head.

"There have been other times," he said a little sadly.

Her little white hand stole across the table. There was a look in her eyes which puzzled him.

"I have been very selfish," she declared. "But you must forgive me, John."

"I would forgive you a great deal more," he answered readily, "for the sake of an evening like this. You have actually given up a dinner-party to dine alone with me."

"And made you give up a political meeting," she reminded him.

"Quite an unimportant one," he assured her. "I would have given up anything to see you your old self again--as you are this evening."

"I am afraid I have not been very nice," she said sadly. "Never mind. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes--as a sort of atonement."

"I hope," he answered, looking at her in some surprise, "that we shall have many more such to think about."

They were lingering over their dessert. The servants had left the room. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it.

"I am developing ailments," she said, meeting his questioning eyes. "It is nothing of any importance. John, I have something to say to you."

"If you want to ask a favour," he remarked smiling, "you have made it almost impossible for me to refuse you anything."

"I am going to ask more than a favour," she said slowly. "I am going to ask for your forgiveness."

He was a little uneasy.

"I do not know what you mean," he said, "but if you are referring to any little coolness since our marriage let us never speak of it again. I am something of an old fogey, Anna, I'm afraid, but if you treat me like this you will teach me to forget it."

Annabel looked intently into her glass.

"John," she said, "I am afraid that I am going to make you unhappy. I am very, very sorry, but you must listen to me."

He relapsed into a stony silence. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. She wore a wonderful dress of turquoise blue, made by a great dressmaker for a function which she knew very well now that she would never attend. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic.

"You remember our first meeting?"

"Yes," he answered hoarsely. "I remember it very well indeed. You have the look in your eyes to-night which you had that day, the look of a frightened child."

She looked into her glass.

"I was frightened then," she declared. "I am frightened now. But it is all very different. There was hope for me then. Now there is none. No, none at all."

"You talk strangely, Anna," he said. "Go on!"

"People talked to you in Paris about us," she continued, "about Anna the virtuous and Annabel the rake. You were accused of having been seen with the latter. You denied it, remembering that I had called myself Anna. You went even to our rooms and saw my sister. Anna lied to you, I lied to you. I was Annabel the rake, 'Alcide' of the music halls. My name is Annabel, not Anna. Do you understand?"

"I do not," he answered. "How could I, when your sister sings now at the 'Unusual' every night and the name 'Alcide' flaunts from every placard in London?"

"The likeness between us," she said, "before I began to disfigure myself with rouge and ill-dressed hair, was remarkable. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. She came to London, and tried several things without any success."

"But why----"

Sir John stopped short. With a moment of inward shame he remembered his deportment towards Anna. It was scarcely likely that she would have accepted his aid. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. He remembered it suddenly. He thought of his severe attitude towards the girl who was rightly and with contempt refusing his measured help. He looked across at Annabel, and he groaned. This was his humiliation as well as hers.

"Anna of course would not accept any money from us," she continued. "She tried everything, and last of all she tried the stage. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. He refused to believe that Anna was not 'Alcide.' He thought she wished to conceal her identity because of the connexion with you, and he offered her an engagement at once. She was never announced as 'Alcide,' but directly she walked on she simply became 'Alcide' to every one. She had a better voice than I, and the rest I suppose is only a trick. The real 'Alcide'," she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, "is here."