The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 11, 1904, Page 2

su r, “a place where I have P ’zullfgnhfny e eisters. You will X ring your traveling dress, and vou would prefer it. Shall we - from her chalr. < carriage,” 4 hings." t A m‘fr "gfe Maston, in ths E 3 des Italiennes, at 7:30 then, he ed. “I shall be waiting for you in the meantime, if you will ¥ elf—pray don’t look like that. 1 affalr, after all, and e back if you will.” pocketbook and looked a little impulsive move- . shook, her eyes were melting. thank you, Sir John.” she 1 shall never be able to thank ke she said, postpone the attempt y, “until I have e your grati- forget—7:30. Cafe ¥ ut of what no execution, that mechani- n which is the rmy rack- there of he pped short up. ht the e coffee pre few hours assed awav from her and for- of what would be able to ¢ “Heappene things,” she declared indolently. “The most impor- tant is that 1 have a new admirer.” Th ful likeness betweeen the never tw € less noticeable than ment. Anna stood look- ing down unon her sister with grave perturbed face. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose d wide-open eves which never flinched or drooped. Ome realized indeed then where the differences lay: tender curves about Anna’s mouth intc hard, sharp lines in the eyves of one truthful the other's more beautiful less expression—windows lit Mg but through which Annabel? But what ith your going to Eng- He is Sir John Per- Very respect- ic2l. But. after al), hat matter? He is very with me. He tries hard to but he cannot.” why,” Anna asked quietly, run away? It is not like “do you you Annabel laughed softly, “How unkind!” she exclaimed. “Still, since it is better to tell you, Sir John is very much in earnest, but his respectabilitv is something altogether too overpowering. Of course I knew all about him years ago and he is ex- actly like everybody’s description of him. 1 am afraid, Anna, just a little afraid that in Paris I and my friends here might seem ~ trifle advanced. Be- sides, he might hear things. That is why I called myself Anna. “You—you did what?” claimed. “Called myself Anna,” the girl re- peated coolly. “It can't make any difference to you and there are not half a dozen people in Paris who could tell us apart.” Anna tried to look angry, but her mouth betrayed her. Instead she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, iaughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed Anna ex- weakly. “Why should I bear the bur- den of yvour wickedness? Who knows what ght come of it? I shall per- mit nothing of the sor Annabel shrugged her shoulders. Too late, my dear girl,” she ex- med. “I gave your name. I called If An After all, what can it » It was to make sure. ree little letters can't make a ‘bit of difference.” “But it may matter very much in- deed,” Anna declared. *“Perhaps for myself I do not mind, but this man is sure to find out some day nd he will r like having been deceived. Tell him the truth, Annabel. The truth!™ There was a brief but intense si- lence. Anna felt that her words had become charged with a fuller and more subtle meaning than any which d intended to impart. ‘“The L It was a moment of awk- wardness between the two sisters—a moment, too, charged with its own psychological interest, for there were secrets between them which for many months had made their intercourse a strained and difficult thing. It was bel who spoke. iow crude you are, Anna!” she laimed with a little sigh. “Sir hn is not at all that sort. He is the i of man whoe would much prefer > dust in his eyes. But heavens, 1 t oack!” sprang to her feet and disap- in the room beyond, from she emerged a few minutes lat- h flushed cheeks and disheveled It is positively no use, Anna,” she ared, appealingly. “You must pack for me. I am sorry, but you ha spoiit me. I can't do it even de- myself, and I dare not run the Lis- isk of ruining all What's that?” re was a sharp tap at the door. ords seemed to die away on nabel’s lips. The old look of terror moment, convulsed her face. seeing it, caught her by the arm. inabel, what is the matter?” y were face to face in the mid- » of the room, Anna on her way to '(he door. But her sister inter- my clothes. for a Ann Don’t answer it, Anna! Come!" ] gesture was one of entreaty. found herself perforce obeying e two girls stoie away into the r room. Annabel softly locked door, but remained kneeling by the kevhole, They were concealed before the outer pened and the shrill voice of the eldest daughter-of their erge, comm d a torrent of ex- ations. you see! It is as I told you, m ur. The room is empnty. The e mademoiselle has been here and gone. She packed her boxes in one half-hour and devarted for Eng- 1 It was a loss, but what mat- Such rooms let easily—mon- r can see for himself the beautiful ht, the view, too.” A man's voice interposed—coarse and strident—the voice of an English- man speaking the most abominable French onder whether you are telling th, girl!” was justly indignant. voice grew shriller. “But what does monsieur suppose? t for such insults that 1 have bed all these stairs and admitted icur here? Well, it is over. Mon- will be s0 good as to descend at Her h shri > unseen man pointed apparently the door, behind which the girl was ring, g re's another room there! How do 1 know that she isn't hiding? If what 1 guess is true, too anxious to be she’ll be none dropped upon just i what business of monsieur's f there is another rocm there?” demanded. ‘‘He asks for Made- lle Pellissier, and I tell him that s gone, gone, gone! Is it so dif- to understand? Those rooms were not even let to her. They to another tenant. If mon- r pleases.” onsieur was apparently bundled out. The outer door was closed. Steps were heard descending the st rs. Anna looked with grave eyes he girl who was still on her knees by the keyhole, and whose face was blanched with terror Is it you, Annabel?” she asked, in a low tene, “who have bought these lies from Marie?” Annabel rose slowly to her feet. Her s were still tremblinz. The hunt- look remained in her eyes. She had had a shock. “There was no buying,” she an- swered. “Marie was always our friend. I told her if any one came for e—that I had orried just no “Who is that man 1 do not know!" I do not wish to “Nonsense. Who is he?” “Indeed I do not know,” Annabel persisted. “He is the friend of some 1 leathe—some one of whom I am afrald. There are several of them. They pester me to death.” 1ou are going to England to es- cape from him?” B < Partly—yes.” “Why? What is he to you? What harm cag he do you?” Annabel, mercurial, inconsistent, a strange mixture of coward and fatal- . began to recover herself. She rose her feet. The footstens of Marie nd her comnanion had died away. “None,” she declared, “none what- ever. I am so easily upset, but I hate to be bothered. Please go on with my packing. I have so little time. Don’t crush my crepe de Chine, whatever you do. I shall have to take your trunk. ry, but you won’'t be going away shall you?” ‘ou have told me all that you in- tend to?” Anna asked. “Don’t be melodramatic. There is nothing to tell.” Anna continued her task in silence. With deft fingers she created order out of chaos. Soon the trunk, portmanteau and hat box were ready. Then she took her sister's hand. It was as cold as ice, “Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. We have lived under the same roof. but our ways seem to have lain wide apart. There are many things which I do not understand. Have you anything to tell me before you go?” Annabel laughed lightly. Already she was almost herself again. “My dear Anna! As though I should think of depressing you with my long list of misdeeds.” “You have nothing to tell me?” “Nothing!” So Annabel departed with the slight- est of farewells, wearing a thick trav- eling veil. and sitting far back in the Lcorner of a closed carriage. Anna to THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL watched her from the windows, watch- ed the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and . Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. “It is a night of endings,” she mu mured to herself. ‘Perhaps for me, she added, with a sudden wistful Jook out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings.” CHAPTER IIL Anna? or Annabel? Sir John was wholly unable to un- derstand the laugh and semi-ironical cheer which greeted his entrance to the smoking-room of the English Club on the following evening. He .stood upon the threshold, dangling -his eye- glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturb- able, mildly interrogative. He wanted to_know what the joke against him was—if any. ¥ 3 “May I inquire,” he asked smoothly, “in what way my appearance contrib- utes to your amusement? If there is a joke I should like to share it.” A fair-haired young Englishman looked up from the depths of his easy chair. “You hear him?” he remarked, look- ing impressively around. *“A joke! Sir John, if you had presented yourself here an hour agg we should have greeted you in pained silence. We had not then recovered from the shock. Our ideal has fallen. A sense of loss was amcng us. Drummond,” he con-~ tinued, looking acrcss at his vis-a-vis, “we look to you to give expressicn to our sentiment. Your career at the bar has given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals. Explain to Sir John our feelings.” Drummond, a few years older, dark, clean-shaven, with bright eyes and hu- morous mouth, laid down his, paper and turned toward Sir John. He re- moved his cigarette from his lips and waved it gently in the air. “Holcroft,” he remarked, “in bald language, and with the usual limita- tions of his clouded intellect, has still given some slight expression to the consternation which I believe 1 may say in general among us. up you, my dear Sir John, with rev- erence, almost with’' awe. You reprg- sented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. We have seen great and so- ber-minded men come to this unholy city, and become degenerates. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life only to exchange it with marvelous facility for the ‘violets of the Parisienne. But you, Ferring- hall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a progpective nolitician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glori- ous position of Lord Mayor—James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once, I can- not go on. My feelings overpower me.” “You all seem to be trying to pull my leg,” Sir John remarked quietly. “I suppose you'll come to the point soon—if there is one.” Drummond shook his head in melan- choly fashion. “He dissembles,” he sald. “After all, how easy the descent is, even for the greatest of us. I hope that James will not be lonz with that whisky and Apollinaris. My nerves are shaken. I require stimulant.” Sir John seated himself deliberately. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of the Times, “that it is your brain which is addled.” Drummond looked up with mock eagerness. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be — ye gods, it may be—innocence. Holcroft, we may have been mistaken.” e looked “Think not,” that young man re- marked laconically. “I will put the question,” Drummond said gravely. 'T?gmnghul‘l. were you or were you not dining last night at a certain restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes with—la petite Pellissler?” Now indeed Sir John was moved. He sat up in his chair as though the ques- tion had stung him. The Times slipped from his fingers. Hlis eyes were bright, and his_ volce had in it an unaccus- tomed timbre, “It ds true,” he sald, “that' I was dining last night at a restaurant in modest and ladylike. He went over his interview with her again, their con- versation at dinner time. She had be- haved in every way perfectly. Hig spirits began to rise. mmond had made an abominable mistake. It was not possible for him to have been de- ceived. He drew a little sigh of relief. Sir John, by Instinct and training, ‘was an unimaginative person. He was a business man, pure and simple, his eyes were fastened always upon,the practical side of life. Such ambitions as He had were stereotyped and ma- terial.. Yet in some hidden corner was e ulevard des Italiennes, and it is~“a vein of sentiment, of which for the at my companion was a young lady whose m.p;l' Pellissier. What _There was a shout of laughter. Sir John looked about him, 4nd somehow the laugh dled away. If such a thing in connection with him had been possi- ble they would have declared that he wés in a towering rage. An uncom- fortable silence followed. Sir John once . more looked around him. “I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously then it deserves, Fer- ringhall,” he remarked. “I fail to see the joke,” Sir John said. “Kindly explain it to me.” “Certalnly! The thing which appeals “7 WoNDER,” HE D WHAr THE FLTLRE S 1 7oRE FOE, > s em - to cur sense of humor is tpe fact that you and la petite Pellissler: were din- ing together.” “Will you tell Sir John said rously, “by t right you cail that young lagy—la petite Pellisster? 1 should be glad to know how you dare to allude to her in a public place in such a disrespectful manner!” Drummond looked at him and smiled. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he sald tersely. “Annabel Pellissier is known to most of us. I myself have had the pleasure of dining with her, She is very charming, and we all admire her immensely. She sings twice a week at the Embassador's and the Casing Mavise—" * Sir John held up his hand. “Stop!” he said. “You do not even know what you are talking about. The young lady with whom I was dining last night was Miss Anna Pellissier. Miss Annabel is her sister. I know nothing of that young lady.” There was a moment’s silence. Drum- mond took up a cigarette and lit it. “The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he re- marked. “It was not necessary,” Sir -John answered stiffiy. “I was already aware of the fact. I may add that the family is well known to me. The two aunts of * these young ladies lived in Hampshire. Under the circumstances you must permit me to be the best judge of the identity of the young lady who did me the honor, as an old fam- ily friend, of dining with me.” Like most men who lie but seldom, he lied well. Drummond smoked his cigarette medftatively. He remember- ed that he had heard stories about the wonderful likeness between those two sisters, one of whom was an artist and a recluse, while the other had attach- ed herself to a very gay and a very brilliant little coterle of pleasure-seek- ers. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. He thought it best to let the matter drop. A few minutes later Sir John left the room. He walked out into the Champs Elysees and sat down. His cigar burnt out between his fingers and he threw it impatiently away. He had seldom been more perturbed. He sat with folded arms and knittéd brows, think- ing intently. The girl had told him distinetly that her. name was Anna. Her whole conduct and tone had been first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. He was consclous of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of these few hours which already were becoming to assume & definite importance in his mind—a place curlously apart from those dry- as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. Somehow or other his reputation as a hardened and unassailable bachelor had won for him during the last few years a compara- tive immunity from attentions on the part of those women with whom he had been brought into contact. It was a reputation by no means deserved. A wife formed part of his scheme of life; for several years he had been secretly but assiduously looking for her. In his way he wgs critical. The young ladles in the somewhat mixed society among which he moved neither satisfied his taste nor appealed in any way to his affections. The girl whom he had met by chance’ and befriended had done both. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshiped, thé innate charm of breeding. The Pel- lissiers had been an old family in Hampshire, while his grandfather had driven a van. The fact itself was nothing to him, but it placed the girl very far apart from the young ladies of Hampstead and Balham, whose fathers and brothers had been his as- sociates. He believed in her firmly. This club gossip and chaff to which he had been subjected was annoying enough, but rjdiculous. He chose & fresh clffar, and strolling along under the trees, here and there touched with the lurid brilliancy of the electric lights, gave himself up to_ the rare luxury of imaginative thought. As in all things, so his thoughts came to 'him delibérately, He pictured him- s visiting Der in ‘this shabby little home of her aunt—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. She was poor, He was heartfully thankful for it. He thought of his wealth for once frem a different point of view. How much he would be able to do for her. Flowers, theater boxes, carriages, the “open se- same” to the whole world of pleasure. He himsclf, middle-aged, steeped in tra- ditions of the city and money-making, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with some- thing of the halo of romance by the al- most magical powers of an unlimited banking account. She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. And after- ward! Sir John drew his cigar from his lips, and looked upward where the white lights flashed strangely among the deep cool green of the lime-trees. His !lips parted in a rare smile. After- ward was the most delightful part of all! 2 - = If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin- prick, but still curiously persistent. Suddenly he stopped short. He was in front of one of the more imposing of the cafes chantants—opposite, il- luminated with a whole row of lights. was the wonderful poster which had helped to make Alcide famous. He hadlooked at it before without com- prehension. To-night the subtle sug- gestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed _broken English. eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to c to him with a rush. He stood still, alffiost breathiess. A slow anger burned in the man. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Ma- donna-like in their simplicity. Un- willingly he drew a little nearer and became one of the group of loiterers about the entrance. A woman touched him lightly on the arm and smiled Into his face. “Monsieur admires the poster?” As a rule Sir John treated such ad- vances with cold silence. This woman, contrary to his eustom, he answered. “It s hateful—diabolical!” he ex- claimed. The woman shrugged her shoulders. “It 18 a great art,” she said in “The little English girl is very fortunate. For what, in- deed, does she do? A simple song; no gesture, no-aeting—nothing. And they pay . Monsieur is going inside, per! B But 8ir John's eyes were still riv- eted upon the poster, and his heart was beating with unaccustomed force. For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness. He drew a little breath and stepped back. After all, he had the means of setting this tor- menting doubt at rest. She had men- tioned the address where she and her sister had lived. He would gb there. He would see this sister. He would know the truth then once and for all. He walked hastily to the side of the broad pavement and summoned 2 fiacre. CHAPTER IV. The Temperament of an Artist. “You may sit there and smoke An§ lobk out upon your wonderful Parls, she sald lightly. “You may mlk:—u you can talk cheerfully, not unless. *And you?" he asked. “Well, if I find your conversation interesting I shall listen. If not, I have plenty to think about,” she an- swered, leaning back In her chair, and watching the smoke from her own cigarette curl upward. v “For instance?"” She smiled. “How am I to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or fajling that, what can 1 sell?” His face darkened. “And yet,” he sald, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all.” “Why not? Your spirits, at least, should be good. It 18 not you who runs the risk of going dinnerless to- morrow."” He turned upon her almost fiercely. “You know,” he muttered, know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me thay my own. Do you think that I am utterly selfish?” She raised -her eyebrows. “Troubles, my friend,” she claimed lightly. “But I .have troubles.” He stared at her inerédulously, and she laughed very softly. “What a gloomy person you are!" she murmured. “You éall yourself an artist—but you have no temperament. The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. A doubt as to your. dinner to-morrow would make you miserable to-night. You know I call all that pesitively wicked. It is not at all what I expected, eitner. On the whole, I think that I have been disappointed with the life here. There is so little abandon, so little joyous- ness.” “And yet,” he murmured, the greatest of our writers clared that the true spirit hemianism is denied in your sex.’ “He was probably right,” she clared. ‘“Bohémianism Is the least understood word ever coined. I do not think that I have the Bohemian spirit at all.” He looked at her thoughtfully. She wore a plain black dress, reaching al- most to her throat—her sm: face, with the large, brown eyes, w ex- no ‘“one of has de- of Bo- s colorless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its sphinx-like , immobility. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fasci- nating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtesan of her day, who had sent kings away from her door and had just an- nounced her intention of ending her life in a convent. Courtlaw himself, plain of feature, rugged, but a man of many emotions and a great artist, found in her presence some- thing akin to inspiration. The faces of most women are like open books. This girl, young, {riendless, unsuccess- ful, met misfortune with a jest, .re- vealed herself to no one; not even to him,, maintaining side by side with the utmost freedom of denortment a delicate aloofness which seemed to trace with fairy fingers a line imper- ceptijble yet vividly real and efficient. “I believe that you are right,”” he said softly. “It is the worst of in- cluding in our vocabulary words which have no definite meaning, per- haps I should say of which the mean- ing varies accerding to one's personal view. You, for instance, you live, you are not afraid to live. Yet you make Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing.” She stirred gently in her chair. “My friend,” she said, ;"I have been your pupil for two years. You have watched all the uncouth creations of my brain come sprawling out upon the canvas and besides we have been companions. Yet the fact remains that you do not understand me at all No, not one little bit. It is extraor- dinary.” “It is,” he replied, “the one humil- iation of my life. My opportunities have been immense and my failure utter. If I had been your companion only, and not your master, I might very well have béen content to accept you for what you seem. But there have been times, Anna, when your work has startled me. Il drawn, without method or sense of propor- tion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwit anding your me- chauical inefficien God knows how you did it. You are utterly bafling.” She laughed at him easily and mirthfully. “Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological prob- lem. 1 should only disappeint you terribly some day. I think I know where I am plzzling you now- « “Then for heaven's sake be merci- ful,” he exclaimed. ‘‘Lift up one cor- ner of the curfain for me.” “Very well. You shall tell me if I am wrong. You see me here, an ad- mitted failure in the object to which I have devoted two years of my life. You know that I am practically des- titute, without means or any certain knowledge of where my next meal is coming from. I speak frankly be- cause you also know that no possible extremity would induce me to accept help from ary living person. You no- tice that I”have recently spent .ten francs in a box of the best Russian cigarettes and that there are roses upon my table. You observe that I am as usual fairly cheerful and mod- erately amiable. It surprises you. You do not understand and you would like to. Very well! I will try to help fon.” 1 Her hand hung over the side of her chair nearest to him. He looked at it eagerly, but made no movement to take it. During all their long com- radeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. This was David Courtlaw, whose ways, too, had never been very different from the ways of other men as regards her sl»l.(: all, “You see, it comes after she - continued, jfrom certain orig- inal convictions’ which hav e come my religion. Rather a magniloquent term, perhaps, but what else am I to say? Onme cf these is that the most absolutely selnsk} th in the world is to give way to depr sion, to think of one’s troubles a except of how to overcome m; spend many delightful hours th of the pleasant and beautiful of life. - I decline to waste a single sec- ond even in considering the ugly ones. Do you know that this becomes a hab- "3 o ‘ 3 “If you would only teafh L;!s"a ed, “how to acquire it. m.z.l;n;‘\:;p”e people would say that .1L is a matter of temperament, she. con- tinued. “With me I belleve that it is more. It has become a part of zr'xe T~ der of my life. Whatever may h&]‘pf'h to-morrow I shall be none the better iseries to-day * he for anticipating its © ¥ “I wonder,” he said, a trifle le- vantly, “what the future has in store for you?” shrugged her shoulders. Sh a profitless spec- “Is that net rath ulation, my friend He seemed deaf to her interruption. His gray eyes burned under his shaggy eyebrows. He leaned toward her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the ungertain light. gt “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. “For great passloms, for great accomplishments. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at .empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one eculd but find the way to your heart. She laughed gayly. “Dear friend,” she sald, “remember that you are speaking to ome who has failed in the only serious object which she has ever sought to accomplish. My destiny, I am afraid, is going to lead me into the He shoo “You were n “to follow the head. born,” he declared, roads. 1 won- u ever realize how young you are “Young? “Yet you are ve: I am twenty-four.” ung. Anna, why le-handed I will,” he answered flercely. , 1 know you would stop me if you could. This time you can- not. You are the woman I love, Anna. Let me make ycur future for you. Don’t be afraid that I shall stunt it I will give you a broad, free life. You have room to develop, you shall where you will, only give me ht to protect you, to free you from all these petty material cares.” “Dear friend, think that y she said, “do you not e breaking’ an un- spo com 1 sorry. In your heart you ow well that all that you have said is useless.” “Ay,” he oking away from would John, who looked past him at girl still sit ting in th hadow, “I believe, he said stiffly, “that these are the apartments Pellissier. T must apolog turbing you at such an unse but I should be very much ob Miss Pe er would allow me a m versation. My name Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.” CHAPTER V. “Alcide.” “Your sister,” he answered, “dld me honor of dining with me last girl's eyes never left his face. She was civil, but she was obviously impatient to know his errand. Afraid, no doubt, he thought grimly, that her other vis- itor would leave. “I belleve,” he sald slowly, “that I shall do best to throw myself upon your consideration and tell you the truth. I have recently made your sis- ter's acquaintace, and in the course of conversation I understood from her that her christian name was Anna. Some friends who saw us dining to- gether persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel Pellissier. I am gullty practically of the impertinence of com- ing to ask you whether I misunder- stood your sister.” ‘Is my sister’'s christian name, then, of so much importance to you?" she asked with a faint smile. “The things involved in it are,” he answered gravely. She accepted his rejoinder with a brief nod. Courtlaw opened his lips, but remained ent In the face of her imperative gesture. “Let me hasten,” she said, “to reas- sure you. My sister was scarcely likely to make a mistake. She told you—the trut Courtlaw's walking stick, which he had been handling, fell with a crash to the ground. He stooped to recover it, and his face was hidden. Sir John felt and looked several years younger. “I am much obliged to you,” he said. “Really, I do not know why I should have doubted it.” “Nor 1,” she remarked tersely. He looked at her with a certain curl- She was a very elegant young slightly taller perhaps than ter, and with an alr of reserved strength underneath her quiet face and manner which Annabel may have lacked. It was hard to associate her with the stories which he and all Paris had heard of “Alcide.” “You, then,” he said, “are ‘Alcide.’ That wonder_ul poster—is of you.” She lifted her .eyebrows. “I am sorry,” she saild, “if you find the likeness unsatisfactory. My friends consider it wonderfully faithful. Have you any more questions to ask me? Sir John, on his way down, had de- termined to hint to this young woman that, providing certain contingencies which he had in his mind should come to pass, he would be prepared to make her a handsome offer tc change her rame. He found, however, that now the tim: had come he Gtterly lacked the courage to attempt any such speach. “None, I thank you,” he,answered.