The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 11, 1904, Page 3

‘ THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. ur questions, will not ob- ne for me. You th while to take to resolve for May I in »ains owing— flesh valked m. The compelied s a black d before You will go to * she answered. ided that—apart f estion of Annabel.” 7 » y of life,” he € e is g the sur- E thing one lie to you. er on I ou to- th while? n fter 2ll, is it w T 8 tle broader than t s—b crosses it 1 t her with white, set fa. “Yes said, “I shall come. Tt is ver al after all, it will be different. I t k that I have be- come I need you every Y ngs I find la- bor eas e I am going to see vou. In the afternoon my brain and fingers leap tc have eir work because you e. Anna, you shall been w not go. I cannot let you g She threw aw r Without i r on she leaned fo supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. She gazed I t of the window at that arc f glittering 1 He made a quick nt toward her, but she did not 1 fell to his side. The self-repression cost him & sob. avid,” she said, “you are not a rd, ere you? I do not know,” he muttered. “The ravest of us have joints in our ar- ghts. ¥ are not a coward,” she repeat- would not be my friend. may choose any one for her t for her friend she makes no ou are not a coward, Da- not talk like one. and bid me God- is the only way.” ) it!” he cried hoarsely. with you. You have life. Anna. . . r you A woman your hand The man's passion unbearable at the sing her. And yet, as she rose slowly to her feet and stood look- ing at h with outstretched hands, a strange mixture of expressions shining in her wonderful eyes, he.realized in some measure the strength of her de- termination, felt the utter impotence of hing which he could say to her. 1t of 1 He forgot for the moment his own self- pity, the tism of his own passionate love. He took her hands firmly in his and ed them to his lips. “You shall go,” he declared. “I will make of the days and weeks one long morning, but remember the afternoon must come. Always remember that.” Her hands fell to her side. She re- mained for a few moments standing as thongh listening to his retreating foot- steps. Then she turned, and entering the inner room, commence to dress hastily for the street. CHAPTER VL A Question of Identification. The little an with the closely- cropped beard nd hair looked at her keenly thre h his gold eyeglasses. He littered all over with looking documents. room were lined with h were gla bottles and many ap- cal science. A skele- lle Pel g to his feet. azel there e very Anna is prot few He of paper by ss were upon it is r the man wiil live, we d if you would identify that I shall be red. “T> 1 have not a single English acquaintance in the city.” dear young lady,” the official said irritably, “this man would not have your name and address in his pocket without an cbject. You cannot tell whether you know him or not until you have seen him. Be s0 good as to come this way.” With a little shrug of the shoulders Anna followed him. They ascended by a lift to one of the upper floors, passed through a long ward, and finally came to a bed in the extreme corner, round which a screen had been arranged. A nurse came hurrying up. “He is quiet only this minute,” she said to the official. “All the time he is shouting and muttering. If this is the young lady, she can perhaps calm him.” Anna stepped to the foot of the bed. An electric light flashed out from the wall. The face of the man who lay there was clearly visible. Anna merely glanced 2t the coarse, flushed features, and at once shook her head. “I have never seen him in my life,” she said to the official. “I have not the least idea who he is.” Just then the man’s eyes opened. saw the girl, and sprang up In bed. “Apnabel at last,” he shouted. “Where have you been? All these hours I have been calling for you. Annabel, I was lying. Who says that I em not Meysey HIl? I was trying to scare you. See, it is on my cards—M. Hill, Meysey Hill. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you've jammed it iow. Do you want to kill us both? Stop the thing. Stop " Anna stepped back bewildered, but the man held out his arms to her. “I tell you it was a lie!” he shouted wildly. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey L I am the richest man in England. I am the richest man in the world. You love money. You know He Never mind, I've got plenty. We'll go to the shops. Dia- monds! You shali have all that you can carry away, sackfuls if -you lilte. Pearls toc! I mean it. I tell you I'm you do, Annabel. Meysey Hill, the railway man. Don’t leave me in this beastly thing. Anna- bel! Annabel!” His voice became a shriek. In re- sponse to an almost imperative gesture from the nurse, Anna laid her hand He fell back upon the pil- h a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. In a mo- ment his grasp grew weaker. The per- at once with a The hand which ing hung limp e. She held it away from her with an instinctive re- pulsi born of her unconquerable an- rs. She The man him was not a Part of his head was bandages. Such of h atures as were ible were of coerse mold. His re set too clo: together. d deliber- ately away fr . She fol- lowed the offic x into his roum “Well?” he asked r tersely. “I can only repeat what I said be- fore, declared. “To the best of my belief, I have never seen the man in my life.” “But he recognized you,” the’official objected, . “He fancied that he did,” she cor- rected him coolly. “I suppose delusions are not uncommon to patients in his condition.” The official frowned. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. “I do not wish to make impertinent in- quiries into your private life. Nothing is of any concern of ours except the discovery of the man’s identity. He was picked up from among the wreck-- age of a broken motor on the road to Versalilles last night, and we have in- formation that a lady was with him only a few minutes before the accident occurred.” “You are very unbelieving,” Anna “I hope you will not com- pel me to say again that I do not know the man’s name, nor, to the best of my bellef, have I ever seen him before in my life.” . The official shrugged his shoulders. “You decline to help us in any way, then,” he said. “Remember that the man will probably die. He had little money about him, and unless friends come to his aid he must be treated as a pauper.” “I do not wish to seem unfeeling,” Anna said, slowly, “but I can only re- peat that I am absolutely without con- cern in the matter. The man is a stranger to me.” The official had no more to say. Only it was with a further and most unbe- lleving shrug of the shoulders that he resumed his seat. 4 “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, made- moiselle,” he said curtly. 4 “You have them both,” Anna an- swered. . g f He opened the door for her with a faint disagreeable smile. “It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended. It m&y yet bring us together again.” She passed out without reply. Yet she took with her an uneasy conscious- ness that in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble, As she crossed the square, almost hin a stone’s throw of. her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw. He stopped short with a little excla- maticn of surprise. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please.” He recovered himself. “I was surprised, I admit,” he said. “You did not tell me that you were go- ing out. or I would have offered my escort. Do you know how late it is?” She nodded. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered. “I was sent for to go to the Hospital St. Denis. But what are you doing here?” *Old Pere Runeval met me on your doorstep, and he would not let me go. 1 have been sitting with him ever since. The Hospital St. Denis, did you say? I Hope that no one of our friends has met with an accident.” She shook her head. “They wanted me to [dentify some one whom I had certainly never seen before in my life, and to tell ycu the truth, they were positively rude to me because I could not. Have you ever heard the name of Meysey Hill?” “Meysey Hill?” He repeated it after her, and she knew at once from his tone and his quick glance into her face that the name possessed some signifi- cance for him. / “Yes, I have heard of him, and I know him by sight,” he admitted. *“He was a friend of your sister's, was he not?" “I never heard her mention' his name,” she answered. “Stil], of course, it is possible.. This man was apparent- ly not sure whether he was Meysey Hill or not.” “How long had he been in the hos- pital?"” Courtlaw asked. “Since last night.” “Then, whoever he may be, he is not Meysey Hill,” Courtlaw sald. “That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Cafe de Paris to-day. I sat within a few feet of him. I feel almost inclined to re- gret the fact.” “Why?” she asked. “If one-half of the storfes about Mey- sey Hill are true,”” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life.” “Isn’t that a little extreme?” “I am an extreme person at times. This man -has an evil reputation. I know of scandalous deeds which he has done.” Anna had reached the house whers - she lodged, but she hesitated on the doorstep. . “Have you ever seen Annabel with him?” she asked. “Never.” “It is odd that this man at the hos- pital should call himself Meysey Hill” she remarked. *“If you wish,” he sald, “T will go there in the morning and see what can be done for him.” “It would be very kind of you,” she declared. “I am only sorry that I did not ask you to g0 with me.” She rang the bell, and he waited by her side until she was admitted to the tall, gloomy lodging-house. And eever after it struck him that her backward smile as she disappeared was charged with some speclal significance. The door closed upon her, and he moved reluctantly away. When nest he asked / s LE 70 A RIS, for her, some twelve hours later, he was told that Mademoiselle had left. His most eager inquiries and most lav- ish bribes could gain no further infor- mation than that she had left for Eng- land, and that her address was—Lon- don. 4 CHAPTER VIL Miss Pellissicr’s Suspicions. “Anna!” Anna kissed, her sister and nodded to her aunt. Then she sat down—unin- vited—and looked from one to the other curiously. There was something about their greeting and tone of Annabel's exclamation which puzzled her. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off locking at me as though I were something grisly. I am your very dutiful niece, aunt, and. your most de- voted sister, Annabel. I haven't mur- dered any one, or broken the law in any way that I know of. Perhaps you will explain the state of panic into which I seem to have thrown you.” Anncbel, who was looking very well, and who was most becomingly dressed, moved to a seat from which she could command a view of the road outside. She was the first to recover herself. Her aunt, a faded, anaemic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gen- tility, was still sitting with her hand pre to her heart. ‘Annabel locked up and down the empty street, and then turned to her sister. “For one'thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you (- THE 43XED, had left, or were leaving Paris. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. It is quite a descent from the clouds, isn’t it?" “I will accept that,” Anha sald, “as accounting for the surprise. FPerhaps you will now explain the alarm.” Miss Pellissler 'was beginning to re- cover herself. She too at once devel- oped an anxlous interest in the street ougside. “I am sure, Anna,” she sald, “I do not see why we should conceal the truth from you. We are expecting & visit from Sir John Ferringhall at any moment. He is coming here to tea.” “Well?” Anna remarked calmly. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister.” Anna drummed impatiently with her fingers against the arm of her chair. “Well!” she declared good-humor- edly. “I shan’t eat him.” Miss Pellissier stiffened visibly. “This is not a matter altogether for levity, Anna,” she said. “Your sister’s future is at stake. I imagine that even you must realize that this is of some importance.” 3 Anna glanced toward her sister, but the latter avcided her eyes. “I have always,” she admitted calm- ly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel's future./ I should like to know how it is concerned with Sir John Ferringhall, and how my presence in- tervenes."” “Sir John,” Miss Pellissier sald im- pressively, “has asked your sister to be his wife. It is a most wonderful plece of good fortune, as I suppose you will be prepared to admit. The Ferring- halls are of course without any pre- tense at family, but Sir John is a very rich man, and will be able to‘'give An- nabel a very enviable position in the world. The settlements which he has spoken of, too, are most munificent. No wonder we are anxious that nothing should happen to make him change his mind.” “I stin—" Anna stopped short. Suddenly she understood. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. “Sir John, of course, disapproves of me,” she remarked slowly. “Sir John iIs a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly. “He naturally does not wish for connections which are—I do not wish to hurt your feel- ings, Anna, but I must say it—not al- together desirable.” The irrepressible smile curved Anna’s lips. She glanced toward her sister, and curfously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather somber mirth. She leaned back in her chair. It was no use. The smile had become a laugh. She laughed till the tears stood In her eyes. “I had a visit from Sir John in my rcoms,” she said. *“Did he tell you, Annabel 2" “Yes.” “He mentioned the matter to me also,” Miss Pellissier remarked stiffly. “The visit seems to have made a most painful impression upon him. To tell you the truth, he spoke to me very se- riously upon the subject.” Anna sprang up. “I will be off,” she declared. “My cab with all that luggage would give the whole show away. Good-k aunt.” Miss Pellissier tried ineffectually to conceal her relief. “I do not like to seem inhospitable, Anna,” she said hesitatingly. “And of course you are my niece just as Anna- bel is, although I am sorry to learn that your conduct has been much less discreet than hers. But at the same time, I must say plainly that I think your presence here just now would be a great misfortune. I wish very much that you had written Before leaving Paris.” Anna nodded. “Quite right,” she said. have done. Good-by, aunt. Il come and see you again later on. Annabel, come to the door with me,” she added a little abruptly. “There is something which I must say to you.” Annabel rose and followed her sister from the room. A maid-servant held the front door open. Anna sent her away. “Annabel,” “Listen to me.” “Well 2" “Sir John came to me — that you know—and you can guess what I told him. No, never mind about thanking me. I want to ask you a plain ques- tion, and you must answer me faith- fully. Is all that folly done with—for ever?” Annabel shivered ever so slightly. “Of course it is, Anna. You ought to know that. I am going to make a fresh start.” “Be very sure that you do,” Anna said slowly. “If I thought for a moment that there was any chance of a relapse I should stop here and tell him the truth even now.” Annabel looked at her with terrifled “I ought to she saild brusquely. eyes. “Anna,” she cried. “You must be- lHeve me. I am really in earnest. would not have him know—now—for the world.” 2 “Very well,” Anna said. “I will be- lieve you. Remember that he's not at all a bad sort, and to speak frankly, he's your salvation. Try and let him never regret it. There's plenty to be got out of Jife in a decent sort of way. Be a good wife to him. You can if you will.” “I promise,” Annabel declared. “He is very kind, Anna, really, and not half such a prig as he seems.” Anna moved towards the door, but her sister detained her. “Won’t_you tell me why you have come to England? she sald. “It was such a surprise to see you. I thought that you loved Paris and your work so much.” A momentary bitterness crept into Anna’s tone. y “I have made no pfogress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone. I had to ask Mr. Courtlaw for his true verdict, and he gave it me. I have given up painting.” nna “It is true, dear. After all there are other things. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. Only of course I must begin something else at once. That is why I came to London.” “But what- are you going to do— ‘where are you going to live?”’ Annabel asked. "Have you any money?” ‘Lots,” Anna answered laconically. “Never mind me. I always fall on my feet, you know.” “You will let us hear from you—let us know-where you are, very soon?” Annabel calied out from the step. Anna nodded as she briskly crossed the pavement. “Some day,” she answered. “Run in now. There's a hansom coming round the corner.” Annabel disappeared precipitately. Miss Pellissier was standing at the window of her little drawing-room when her niece entered, watching the departing cab and dabbing her eyes with a lavender-perfumed handker- chief. ‘“‘She never looked back once, Anna- bel, not oncel” she exclaimed. “T waved my hand, too. Really, it is most un- fortunate that she should have come to London just now. It is evident, too, that she intended to stay here. Of course, it was quite impossible, with Sir John here so often and feeling as he does about her. Did she tell you her plans, Annabel?” The girl shook her head. “I'm afraid she hasn’t any. All the same I don’t think we need worry about her, aunt. Anna always falls upon her feet. 1 never knew any one so capable of looking after herself.” Miss Pellissier glanced at her niece with unaccustomed sharpness. “I am afraid, Annabel, that you are inclined to be a selfish young woman.” Annabel shrugged her shoulders. “I do not think that I am selfish In an ordinary way,” she answered. “I simply do not worry about things. It really is not worth while, and it makes one old and frritable. I would rather have Anna here—as she has to be In London—but as it is not possible I simply do not think about it. I sup- pose you are going to have a really en- joyable hour now, thinking how many scrapes she can possibly get into. Every one to their taste, of course. It simply wouldn't suit me.” “If it is not selfishness it is just sheer heartlessness with you, Annabel,™ Miss Pellissier declared. “I wish that Arnna had left an address. I must con- fess that I am uneasy about her. She was always your father's favorite, After all, of you two girls—" She stopped short, lookihig at Anna- bel with a sudden keenness. “Well, aunt?"” Miss Pellissier did not finish her sen- tence then, or at any other time. Nev- rtheless from that momstr;t she was agued with a constantly recurring suspicion that she was never able alto- gether to quiet. It was not & suspicion which she would have cared to share with Sir John Ferringhall, and it was connected with that curious change of names between the two girls which she had accepted but never - - - - - - e & Anna-sat back in her cab, but found it remained stationary. “Graclous!” she exclaimed to herself. *I don’t know where to go.” . “Stay where she directed. dres The man contente: The cabman, knocking with the butt end of his whip upon the window, re- minded her that he was In a similar predicament. “Drive towards St. Paner; rected, promptly. to stop.” The cab rumbled off. Anna leaned forward, watching the people in the streets. It was then for the first time she remembered that she had said nothing to her sister of the man in the hospital. ~ she di- “T will t you when CHAPTER VIIL “White’s.” orthwards, away from the inhos- pitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-weeled ecab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse days. Ir E T tle forward to w h e passers-by, bright-eyed, full to the brim of the in- satiable curiosity of youth—the desire to understand and apprecfate this new world in which she found he was practical even the ghos ture, and she had something ! five pounds in heg ket. She watched the people and hummed softly to here self. Suddenly she thrust her head out of the win W he ordered. s not a dif- fontague street, W. C.7* nod. Anna rummw dressing case and letter. On the envel SYDNEY COU 13 Mor She put her head “We've cc past it, mi he 1 2 note of finality in his round and go back he audible His he to sle neuvering, crawl around to a stop aga y painted house seemed « and assertive prosperi v row. This was number treet, famil- iarly spe hborhood as “Whit 3 Anna promptly alighted with the let- ter in her ha he door was opened 1g youth in & s too ,large attire was Courtlaw, Mr. Sydney here, please?” Anna asked him. “Not home yet, miss,” the young man replied. “Generally gets here ut 7.” Anna hesitated letter. “I think that I will leave this letter for him,” she said. “It is from his brother in Paris. Say that I will call in or let him know my address in don.” The young man accepted the latter and the message, and seemed about te close the door when a lady issued from one of the front rooms and intervened, wore a black satin dress, a little shiny at the seams, a purposeless bow of white tulle at the back of her neck and a huge chatelaine, She addressed Anna with a beaming smile and a very creditable mixture of condescension and officiousnes: Under the somewhat trying incandescent light her cheeks pleaded guilty to a recent use of the powder puff. “I think that you were inquiring for Mr. Courtlaw,” she remarked. “He I8 one of our guests—perhaps I should say boarders here, but he seldom re- turns before dinner time. We dine a8 7:30. Can I give him any message for and then held out the L you “Thank you,” Anna answered I have a letter for him from his brother, which I was just leaving.” T will see that he gets it immediat on his return,” the lady pros “You did not wish to see him particu= larly this evening, then?” Anna hesitated. “Well, no,” she answered. “Teo tell you the truth though, I am quite stranger in London, and it oecun‘z to me that Mr. Courtlaw might have been able to give me an idea where te stop.” The lady In black satin looked at the pile of luggage outside and hesitated. “Were you thinking of private aparte ments, a boarding-house or a hotel?™ she asked. “I really had not thought about it a8 all,” Anna answered, smiling. “T ex= pected to stay with a relation, but L found that thelr arrangements did not allow of it. 1 have been used to living in apartments in Paris, but I suppose the system is different here The lady in black satin appeared une decided. She looked from Anna, whe was far too nice looking to be zrn.v‘&a about alone, to that reassuring pile luggage, and wrinkied her Dbrows thoughtfully. “Of course,” she said AiMdently, “this is a boarding-house, although we never take in promiscuous travelers The class of guests we have are all permanent, and I am obliged to be very eful indeed. But— if you are a friend of Mr. Courtlaw’s—I should like to oblige Mr. Courtlaw.” “It is very nice of you to think of Anna said briskly. “I should really to find somewhere to stay, if It was y for a few nights.” on The lady stood away from the doon “Will vou come this way,” she “into the drawing-room? There is ne one tifere just now. Most of my peo- ple are upstairs dressing for dinnen The gentlemen are so particular now, and a good thing, too, I say. I was always used to it, and I think it gives quite a tone to an establishment, Please sit down, Miss— dear me, I haven't asked your name yet." “My name is Pellissier,” Anna said; “Anna Pellissier.” “I am Mrs. White,” the lady in black satin remarked. “It makes one feel quite awkward to mention such & thing, but after all I think that it 18 best for both parties. - Could vou give me any references?” “ghere {s Mr. Courtlaw,” Anns said, “and my solicitors, Messrs. Le Mercier & Stowe of St. Hellers. They are rather a long way off. but you could write te them. I am sorrvy that I do not know any one in London. But after all, Mrs, White, I am not at all sure that I could afford to come to you. I am shoclk- ingly poor. Please tell me what your terms are.” “Well,” Mrs. White satd slowly, "1t depends a good deal upon what rooms you have. Just now my best ones are all taken.” “So much the better,” Anna declared cheerfully. “The smallest will do for me quitefwell.” ugs. White looked mysteriously about the room as though to BDe sure that no one was listening. “T should llke you to come here,” she sald. “It's a great deal for a lady who's alone in the world, suppose you are at present, to have & respectable home, apd I do not think in such a case that private apartments are at all desirable. We have a very nice set of young people here, too, just at present, and you would soon make some friends. I will take yom for thirty-five shillings a week. don‘t’lat any one know that.™ “I have no idea what It costs in London,” Anna sald, “but I