The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 18, 1904, Page 12

She eyed him scornfully. In any place her beauty would have been an uncom- mon thing. Here, where every element of her surroundings was tawdry and commonplace, and before this young man of vulgar origin and appearance, it was striking. “I do not know you,” she said coldly. “] have nothing to say_to you.” He stood before the®loor. Brendon made a quick movement forward. She laid her hand upon his arm. “Please don’t,” she sald. “It really is not necessary. Be so good as to let me , sir,” she added, looking her ob- tor steadlly in the face. sitated. his is all rot he declared an- “You can’t think that I am fool gh to be put off like this.” She glanced at Brendon, who stood by her side, tall and threatening. Her s were ted in expostulation. delightfully humorous smlle r iips. she sald, “if this per- be reasonabl I am t was enough. A hand of iron feil \'s shoul- Be so good as to stand away from or at once, sir,” Brendon or- i1 lost little of his truculen knew well that his m flabb; d his nerve ans what it should be. He was no natch for Brendon. He yielded his place and struck instead with his He turned to Mrs. White. y, ma’am, to seem the nce, but this,” he ¢ wife.” uced was gratl- » man's statement spoken with confi- oked at Anna. For too had started and exit from the room. tched the side of the fying was e dence. ) a moment faltered Her finger: door as tl caught h lit with a su 1 ered herself, hc ver, with amazing facility. rcely any one noticed the full measure of her consternation From the threshold she looked her a ly and coldly in the fac ou have said is a ridiculou she declared scornfully “I do not even know who you are. She swept out of the room. Hill would have followed her, but Mrs White and Miss Ellicot laid each a hand upon his arm, one on either side. The echoes of his hard, unpleasant Jaugh reached Anna on her way up- stairs, falsehood, CHAPTER XVIL Montague Hill Makes Himself Objectionable. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room, almost in the roof, with a partition As usual, Brendon lit Sydney dragged out the spirit-lamp and set it going. Anna cupboard and produced cups cers and a tin of coffee. four spoonfuls left,” she de- nd youriturn to buy Mr. the next pound, “Right!” he s to-morrow. and al! the rest of it. sier!” “I'll bring it Fresh ground, no chicory, But—Miss Pellis- el?” “Are you quite sure that you want us this evening? Wouldn't you rather be alone? Just say the word, and we'll clear out like a shot.” She laughed softl “You are afraid,” she said, “that the young man who thinks that he is my husband has upset me.” “Madman'” lithering ass!"” “The girl looked into the two indig- nant faces and held out both her hands. “You're very nice, both of you,” she said gently. “But I'm afraid you are going to be in a hopeless minority here as regards me.” They eyed her incredulously. “You can't imagine,” Sydney ex- claimed, “that the people downstairs will be such driveling asses as to be- lieve piffie like that.” Anna measured out the coffee. Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humor. After all, it was really rather funny. “Well, I don't know,” she said thoughtfully. “I always notice that peo- ple find it very easy to believe what they want to believe, and you see I'm not in the least popular. Miss Ellicot, for instance, considers me a most im- proper person.” “Miss Ellicot! That old cat!" Sydney exclaimed Indignantly. “Miss Ellicot!” Brendon echoed. “As if it could possibly matter what such a person thinks of you.” Anna laughed outright. “You are positively eloquent to-night —both of you,” she declared. “‘But, you see, appearances are very much against me. He knew my name, and aiso that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. He was pain- fully in earnest, too. I think you will find that his story will be believed, whatever I say; and in any case, if he is going to stay on here, I shall have to go away.” . “Don’t say that,” Sydney begged. “We shall see that he never annoys you.” Anna shook her head. “He is evidently a friend of Mrs, White's,” she saild, “and Iif he s going to persist in this delusion, we cannot both remain here. I'd rather not go,” she added. “This is much the cheapest place I know of where things are moderately clean, and I should hate rooms all by myself. Dear me, what a nuisance it is to have a pseudo husband shot down upon one from the skies.” “And such a beast of a on remarked vigorously. Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully. “I wonder,” he sald, thing we could do to rid of him?” “Can you think of anything?” Anna answered. “I can't! He appears to be & most immovable person.” Brendon hesitated for a moment. He was a little embarrassed. “There ought to be some means of getting at him,” he said. “The fellow seems to know your name, Miss Pellis- sier, and that you have lived in Paris. Might we ask you if you have ever seen him, if you knew him at all before this evening?” She stood up suddenly, and turning her back to them, looked steadilv out of the window. Below was an unin- epiring street, a thoroughfare of board- ing-houses and apartments. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside " Sydney “there any- you to get Jby the unusual heat of the evening, ‘most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress In Montague street. The sound of their strident volces floated upward, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill Jaughter of girls quick to &p- preciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. A yvoung man was playing the banjo. In the distance a barrel organ was grinding out a pot- pourri of popular airs. Anna raised her eyes. Above the housetops it was different. She drew a long breath. After all, why need one look down? Al- ways the other things remained. “I think,” she said, “that I would rather not have anything to say about that man.” “It isn't necessarv,” they both de- clared breathlessly. Brendon dismissed the subject with a wave of the hand. He glanced at his watch. “Let us walk round to Covent Gar- den,” he suggested. I daresay the gallery will be full, but there is always the chance, and I know you two are keen on Melba.” The girl shook her head. “Not to-night,” she said. go out.” They hesitated. As a rule their com- ings and goings were discussed with perfect confidence, but on this occasion they both felt that there was intent in her silence as to her destination. Nev- ertheless Sydney, clumsily but earnest- 1y, had something to say abaut it. “1 am afraid—I really think that one of us ought to go with you,” he said. “That beast of a fellow is certain to be hanging about.” She shook her head. “It is a secret mission,” she declared. "There are policemen—and omnibuses.” “You shall not need either,” Brenden said grimly. *“We will see that he doesn’t follow vou.” She thanked him with a rose to her feet. ¥ “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. “I ex- pect it is pretty well in shreds by now. To-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind what tc do.” " LA Mr. Carter said, pursing out his s in a manner pe- culiar to him, “that the young lady has always been an object of some suspigion to me.” “The way she monopolizes—has al- ways monopolized those two young men is most barefaced,” Miss Ellicot declared. “Still, one must not be un- charitable. I wish it were possible to get rid of one's suspicions.” “Her references,” Mrs. White anxiously, “were really excellent.” Miss Ellicot smiled. Mr. Carter also smiled. Mrs. Bodham shook her head solemnly. “References are so easy, Mrs. White,” she said. Mr. Bullding gulped down his coffee grunted audibly. “God bless my scul,” he said, “what's wrong with the girl? Scarcely spoken a word to her in ngy life, but if it's’ her story against Hill's, give her a chance, 1 say.” Hill himself at that moment entered. He was carryingdn his hand a folded paper. He addressed himself to Mrs. W €. “I've brought you this document to look at, m'am,” he said. “Read it through and. show it to all the other ladies and gentlemen, if you like. I'm not asking you to take my word against any one’s. There's proof—all the proof that an ne person can need.” Mr. Carter made his way to Mrs. White's side. His eyes were bright with curiosity. With twitching fingers he drew from his pocket a pair of spectacles and hastily adjusted them. “Dear, dear me, what's this?” he exclaimed. ‘“What's this? Upon my word, a marriage certificate. It is in- a marriage certificate.” he young man stood with his hands in his trousers pockets, an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Read it,” he said. “Read it, all of you. I don't mind. Nothing secret about me. Montague Hill—that's my name—and Annabel Pellissier—com- monly known as Anna, I believe. Mar- ried at the British Embassy at Paris. Bit swagger that, you know, and cost me a pretty penny. What's the odds, thcugh? Montague Hill's no pauper— no, sir.” He bit off the end of his cigar and stretched out his hand for the paper, which Mrs. White held toward him. Mr. Carter, however, was quick to eeize it. “Dear, dear me! “I have to lock and “I must confess, said my dear he exclaimed, pur- sing out his lips. “It is indeed a mar- riage certificate. Montague Hill, bach- elor, and Annabel Pellissier, spinster. All quite correct. My dear sir, you have my sympathy.” “Don’t want it,” the young man de- clared brusquely. *“Give me the pa- per.” Mr. tantly. ing it Carter parted with it reluc- He took a long time fold- up and Mr. Hill at last snatched It unceremoniously fyom his hands. Brendon and,Courtlaw entered at that moment. Their appear- ance was so unexpected and so unusual that there was a moment's silence. Then Miss Ellicott, with a thin little smile, motioned to them to join her on the sofa. “Dear, dear me! Isn't this a sad thing?” she exclaimed, ‘and you all such friends, too.” Brendon stretched out his long legs, and looked thoughtfully at his toes. “Isn't what sad?” he asked calmly. ‘Why this affair about Miss Pelliss- jer—or Mrs. Hill, as I suppose we must call her. To think that we never sus- pected it! But perhaps you two knew. Such friends as you have been. I dare- say she told you all about it.” “All about what?” Brendon asked again. “Why, her marriage, of course,” Miss Ellicot said calmly. ‘They both looked at her. “Surely,” Brendon exclaimed, ‘“no- body here can honestly believe that ridiculous story.” “Fancy,” Sydney Courtlaw remarked, “a girl like Miss Pellissier married to a bounder like that fellow Hill. Can’t think how he had the nerve to try it on, even for bluff.” Miss Ellicot sighed and looked de- murely into her lap. “Dear me, I thought that you knew," she murmured. “We have all been shockingly deceived, Mr. Brendon. Mr. Hill's story is perfectly true. He has the marriage certificate here. We have all seen it.” Brendon laughed scornfully. “Fifty marriage certificates would never convince me,” he declared, “that Miss Pellissier was ever married to, or even theught of marrying a fellow like H{l. Why, he isn’t a gentleman—hasn't even the outward appearance of one. His story is absurd on the very face of it “Absurd!” Sydney muttered. “It's damned ridiculous,” he added, under his breath. “You are very foolish,” Miss Ellicot sald siarply. “People don’t forge mar- riage certificates nowadays.” The young man turned away from Mrs. White and glanced truculently to- ward thern,h e “What'’s that about forging marriage certificates?”” he asked. rgl . . Miss Ellicot smiled up at him sweetly. “It is nothing, Mr, Hill,” she declared. “Only T cannot persuade Mr. Brendon and Mr. Courtlaw here, who are great friends of Miss Pellissier, that she is really married to you.” 5 He looked at them with darkening ace, “I don’t know as it matters,” he sald slowly. “I don't know as it matters either way. But I don't want to hear anytbing about forgery, or there’ll be trouble.r If a properly stamped and wit- nessed legal document ain’t to be be- lieved—well, it “isn’t likely that any- thing I could say would convince them.” “You are quite right, Mr. Brandon gaid coolly, “Neither your document nor anything you could say would ever induce me ta believe your story. Put it away, please. Pray don’t waste your time showing it to me.” “1 wasn’t going to,” HIll "declared. “What you believe, or don’t believe, wouldn't trouble me in the least. Facts arg facts, and I can prove all I say, as you'll know before long.” The door leading into the hall stood wide open. Hill turned suddenly to- ward it. Brendon, even more quick in his movements, blocked the way. Anna had descended the stairs and was pass- ing along the passage. “'Here, let me pass!” Hill exclaimed. Sydney joined Brendon. Every one in the rocm regarded the three young men with breathless Interest. “I th'nk not,” Brendon said coolly. ““You have made yourself objectionable enough already to Miss Pellissier. Sit down, please.” “But I won't sit down,” Hiil declared, fuming. “What right have you to in- terfere between a man and his wife, eh?" “Fiddlesticks,” scornfully. “Rot!” Sydney echoed. Hill pushed forward. “I'll show you whether it’s rot or not,” he exclaimed furiously. He found himself suddenly in the grasp of a giant. He was set down gently upon a chair, and he felt as though all the breath had been shaken out of his body. Outside in the street an omnibus had stopped to pick up a passenger. Glancing over his shoulder, Brendon saw Anna climbing briskly up the stairs to the top. CHAPTER XVIIL "A Marriage Certificate. Anna looked about her admiringly. It was just such a bedroom as-* she. would have chosen for herself. The coloring was gr&n and white, with softly shaded electric lights, an alcove bedstead, which was a miracle of dain- white furniture and a long low dressing table liticred all over with a multitude of daintily fashioned toilet appliances. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself,* in a wonderful dressing-gown and fol- lowed by a maid, presently appeared. “Too bad ‘to keep you waiting,” An- nabel exclaimed. “I'm really very sorry. Collins, you can go now. I will ring if I want you." A The maid discreetly withdrew, dand Anna stood transfixed, gazing with puzzled frown at her sister. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed. Annabel laughed a little uneasily. . “The very question, my dear sister,” she said, “tells me that I have succeed- ed. Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were sistérs. Don't you think that the shade of my halr is lovely?” ““There is nothing particular the mat- ter with the shade,” Anna answered, “but it is not nearly so becoming as be- fore you touched it. And what on earth do you want to darken your eyebrows and use cosmetics for at your age? You're exactly 23, and you're got up as much as a woman of 45.” Annabel shrugged her shoulders. “I only use the weeniest little dab of rouge,” she declared, “and it is really necessary, because I want to get rid of the ‘pallor effect’ Do you remember when we were both called the ‘Moon- light Madonnas’? And, you know, now- adays it is piquante to make up, if you don’t really need to. Men like it.” Anna made no remark. Her disap- proval was obvious enough. Annabel saw it and suddenly changed her tone. “You are very stupid, Anna,” she said. “Can you not understand? It is of nb use your taking my identity and all the burden of my iniquities upon your dear shoulders if I am to be rec- ognized the moment I show my face in London. That is why I have dyed my hair, that is why I have abandoned my role of ingenue and, altered my whole style of dress. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself.” A sudden sense of the gravity of this thing came home to Anna. Her sister's words were true. They had changed identities absolutely. It was not for a week or a month. It was forever. A cold shiver came over her. That last year in -Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. Anna never knew whither it had led her—sometimes she had fears. It was her past now, not Annabel's. And somehow she fancied that even then the faint smile which was barting her sister’s lips was in- spired by some secret knowledge, some grimly humorous reflection ae to the nature of that burden which henceforth was hers. It was absurd to give way to such phantasies. Nevertheless Anna- bel’s smile tortured her. “It s very good of you to.come and see me, my dear sister,”” Annabel re- marked, throwing herself into a low chair and clasping her hands over her head. “To tell you the truth, I am & little dull.” ‘“Where ked. ‘He is addressing a meeting of his constituents somewhere,” Amnabel an- swered. “I do not suppose he will be home till late. Tell me, how are you musing yourself? Anna laughed. “T have been amusing myself up to now by trying to earn my living,” she replied. “I hope,” Annabel answered lazily, “that you have succeeded. By the by, do you want any money? Sir John's ideas of pin 'money are not exactly princely, but I can manage what you want, I dare say.” “Thank you,” Anna answered coldly. “I am not in need of any. I might add that in any case I should not touch Sir John's.” “That's r‘ther a pity,” Annabel said. ‘‘He wants to settle something on you, 1 believe. It is really amusing. He lives in constant dread of a reappear- ance of ‘La Belle Alcide,’ and hearing it said that she is his wife’s sister. But priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. Tell me how you ‘are Hil.” Brendon declared is your husband?’ Anna “ his friends ought to be, by the by. earning your living here, Anna—type- writing, or painting, or lady's com- panion?” “I think,” Anna sald, “that the less \ speed. We were going at a mad pace. I struck him across the mouth and across the eyes. He lost control of the machine. I jumped then — I was not you know about me the better. Is your, even shaken. I saw the motor dashed house on the same scale of magnifi- cence. as this, Annabel?” she asked, looking round. ¥ Annabel shook her head. “Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn't worth talking about. I have made up my mind to insist upon moving from here into Park Lane or one of the Squares. It is absolutely a frightful neighborhood, *his. If only you could see the people who have been to call on me! Sir John has the most absurd ideas, too. He won't have men-servants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a. museum—where most o{ can assure yow, Anna, it will take me years to get decently established. The man's as obstinate as a mule.” Anna looked at.her sister steadily. “He will find it difficult, no doubt, to alter his style of living,” she said, “I do, not blame him. I hope you will always remember—"" Annabel held out her hands with a little cry of protest. “No lecturing, Anna!” she exclaimed. “I hope you have not comé for that.” “I came,” Anna znswered, looking her sister steadily in the face, “to hear all that you can'tell me about a man named Hill.” Annabel had been lying curled up on ahe lounge, the personification of grace- ful animal ease. At Anna's words :ne seemed suddenly to stiffen. Her softly interwimed fingers became rigid. ' he lit- tle spot of rouge was vivid enough by reason of this new paller, which seemed to draw the color even from her lips. But she did not speak. She made no attempt to answer her sis- ter's question. Anpa looked at her curiously, and with sinking heart. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continuyed. “You must tell me «the truth, please. It is necessary.” Annabel rose slowly to ‘her feet, walked to the door as though to see that it was shut, and came back with slow, lagging footsteps. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said, hoarsely, “but he is dead.” “Then there is also,” Anna remarked, “a Montague Hill who is very much alive. Mot only that, but he is here i ondon. I have just come from him.”* « Annabel no longer attempted to con- cedl her emotions. She battled with a deadly . fainthess, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister's side and took her hand. “Do not be frightened dear,”” she said. ‘“You must tell me the truth, and I will see that no harm comes to you.” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “Is dead. I know he is dead. I saw him lying on the footway. I felt his heart. Jt had ceased to beat. It was a motor accident —a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it." They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead.” Anna nodded. ! “Yes, 1 remember,” she said. “It was the night you left Paris. They thought that he was dead at first, and they took him to the hospital. I believe that his recovery was considered almost mirac- ulous.” 8 “Alive,” Annabel moaned, her eyes lal:'ge with tegror. “You say that he is alive.” & “He is certainly alive,” Anna de- clared. ““More than that, he arrived to- day at the boarding-house where I am staying, greeted mé with a theatrical start and claimed me—as his wife. That is why I am here. You must tell me what it all means.” “And you?” Annabel “What did you say?"” “Well, T considered myself justified in denying it,” Anna answered dryly. “He produced what he called a marriage certificate, and I belleve that nearly every one in the boarding-house, in- cluding Mrs. White, my landlady, be- lieves Ris story. I am fairly, well hardened in iniquity—your iniquity, Annabel—but I decline to have a hus- band thrust upon me. I really cannot have anvthing to do with Mr. Monta- gue HilL"” “‘A—marriage certificate!” lasped. Anna glanced into her sister’s face, and rose to her feet. “Let me get you some water, Anna- bel. Don't be frightened, dear. Re- member—"" Annabel clutched her sister’'s arm. She would not let her move. She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear. » “A thick-set, man, Anna!” hoarse excited whisper. stubby yellow mu: and great horrid hands. Anna nodded. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. “There is no doubt whatever about that. There was the motor ac- cident, too. It ig the same man, for he raved in the hospital, and they fetched me. It was you, of course, whom he wanted."" “Alive! In moaned. ) ; “Yes. Pull yourself together, Anna- bel! I must have the truth.” The girl on the lounge drew a long sobbing breath. “You shall,” she said. “Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, 'an American railway millionaire. This man and he were alike, and about the same age. Montague Hill was taken for the millionaire once or twice, and I suppose it flattered his vanity. At any rate, he began to deliberately per- sonate him. He sent me floWers. Ce- leste introduced' him to me., Oh, how Celeste hated me! She must have known He—wanted to marry me. Just then— I wae nervous. I had gone further than I meapt to—with some English- men. I was afraid of being talked about. You don't know, Anna, but when one is in danger one realizes that the—the other side of the line is hell. The man was mad to'marry me. I heard everywhere of his enor- mous riches and his generosity. I con- sented. We went to the embassy. There was—a service. Then he took me out to Monteaux on a motor. We were to have breakfast there and return in the evening. On the way he confessed. He was a London man of business spending a small legacy {n Paris, He had heard me sing—the fool thought himgelf in love with me. Celeste he knew. She was chaffing him about being taken for Meysey Hill and sug- gested that he should be presented to me as a millionaire. He told me with a coarse, nervous laugh. I was his wife. ‘We were to live in some wretched Lon- don suburb. His salary was a few paltry hundreds a year. Amnna, I lis- tened to all he had to say, and I called to him to let me get out. He laughed. T tried to jump, but he increased the exclaimed. Annabel coarse-looking young she exclaimed in a “He has a weak eyes, London!” Annabel to pleces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road. I leaned over and looked at him. He was quite still. I could not hear his heart beat. I thought that he was dead. 1 stole away and walked to he raliway station. “That night In Paris I saw on the bills ‘Fatal Motor Accident.’ Le Petit Journal sald that the man was dead. I was afraid that I might be called upon as a witness. That is why I was so anxious to leave Paris. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend.” “The good God!" Anna murmured, herself shaken with fear. “You were married to him!” “It could not be legal,” Annabel moaned., “It couldn't be. I thought that I was marrying Meysey Hill, not that creature. We stepped from the Embassy the motor—and oh! I thoughg the was-dead. Why aidn't he die?” o Anna sprang te her feet and walked restlessly up and: dowa the room. An- nabel watched ‘her with wide-open, terrified eyes. v v ““You won’t give me away, Anna. 410 would never recognize me now. You are much more like what I was then.” Anna stopped in feont of her. “Yau don’t propose, do you,” she said «quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. “Tell him that he is mad. Go and live somewhere else.” “In his present mood,” Anna marked, “he would follow me.” “Oh, you are strong and brave,” Annabel murmured. “You can keep him at arm’'s length. Besides, it was _under false pretenses. He told me that he was a millionaire. It could not be a légal marriage.” “I am very much afraid,” Anna answered, “that it was. It might be upset. I am wondering whether it would not be better to tell your hus- band everything. You will never be happy with this hanging over you.” Annabel moistened her dry lips with a handkerchief steeped in eau de cologne. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. He is steeped in the conventions. Every slight action is influenced by what he imagines would be the opinion of other people. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. He has no imagination, no real generosity. You might tell the truth to some men, but gever to him.” Anna was thoughtful. A conviction that her sister's words were true had from the first possessed her. “Annabel,” she said slowly, “if I fight this thing out myself, can I trust you that it will not be a vain sacrifice? After what you have said it is useless for us to play with words. You do not love your husband® you have mar- ried him for a position—to escape from —things which you feared. Will you be a faithful and honest wife? Will you do your duty by him and forget all your past follies? Unless, Annabel, you can—"" “Oh, I will pledge you my word,” Annabel -cried passionately, “my sol- emn word. Believe me, Anna. Oh, you must belleve me. I have been very foolish, but it is over.” “‘Remember that you are still young, and fond of admiration,” Anna said. “¥ou will not give Sir John any cause for jealousy? You will have no se- crets except—concerning Te- from him those things which are past?” “Anna, I swear {t!” her sister sob- “Then I will do what I can,” Anna promised. “I belleve that you are quite safe. He has had brain fever since, and as you say, I am more like what you were then than you your- self are now. I don’t think for a mo- ment that he would recognize you.” Annabel clutched her sister's hands. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. “Oh, I can't thank you. You dear, dear girl. I—listen.” They heard a man's voice outside. “8ir. John!"” Annabel gasped. Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door. “One moment, if you please!" She stopped short and looked around. Sir John stood upon the threshold. CHAPTER XIX. The Discomfiture of Sir John. Sir John looked from one to the other of the two sisters. His face darkened. “My arrival appears to be oppor- tune,” he said stifly. *“I was hoping to be able to secure a few minutes’ conversation with you. Miss Pellissier. Perhaps my wife has already pre- pared you for what I wish to say.” “Not in ‘the least,” Anna answered calmly. “We have scarcely mentioned your name.” Sir John coughed. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands—he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. “It is concerning—our future rela- tions,” Sir John pronounced ponder- ously. “Indeed!” Anna answered indiffer- ently. ‘“That sounds interesting.” Sir John frowned. Anna was un- impressed. Elegant, a little scornful, sh® leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes. “I have no wish,” he said. “to alto- gether ignore the fact that you are my wife’s sister, and have therefore a certain claim upon me.” Anna's eyes opened a little wider, but she sald nothing. “A clalm.” he continued, “which I am quite prepared to recognize. It will give me great pleasure to settle an annujty for a moderate amount upon you on certain conditions.” S what?” Anna asked. “An annujty—a sum of money paid to you yearly or quarterly through g my solicféprs, and which you can con- sider as ‘a gift from your sister. The conditions are such as I think you wili recognize the justice of. I wish to prevent a repetition of any such errand as I presume you have come here upon this evening. I cannot have my wife distressed or worried.” “‘May ask,” Anna said softly, “what you presume to have been the nau:re of my errand here this even- ing?" p ir John ‘pointed to Annabel, who was as yet utterly limp. ‘I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. I shouid like to add that If a certain amount is needed to set you free from any debis you may have contracted, in addition to this annuity vou will not find me un- reasonable.” Anna glanced momentarily toward her sister, but Annabel neither spoke nor moved. “With regard to the conditions I mentioned,” Sir John continued, gain- ing a little confldence from Anna’s silence, “I think you will admit that they are not wholly unreasonable. I should require you to accept no em- ployment whatever upon the stage, and to remain out of England. Anna’s demeanor was still imperturb- able, her marble pallor untinged by the slightes! flush of color. She regard- ed him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. Sir John hésitated, and then continued. “I trust,” he said, “that you wllll recognize the justice of these condi- tions. Under happler circumstances nothing would have given me mora pleasure than to have offered you a home with your sister. You yourself, 1 am sure, recognize . how impossible you have made it fer me now to do anything of the sort. I may say that tHe amount of annuity I propose to al- low you is two hundred a year.” Anna looked for a moment steadily at her sister, whose face was still averted. Then she moved toward the door. Before she passed out she turned and faced Sir John. The impassivity of her features changed at last. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. I can under- stand now these newspapers when they talk of your magnificent philanthropy. It is magnificent indeed. And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cul- tivate the art of discrimination. I am so much obliged to you for your projected benevolence. Frankly, it is the funniest thing which has ever hap- pened to me in my life, I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. Good- by, Anna!” Annabel sprang up. Sir John waved her back. “Do I understand you then to refuse my offer?”” he asked Anna. She shot a sudden glance at him. Sir John felt hot and furious. It was mad- dening to be made to feel that he was in anv way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed voung woman, Whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintilate with scorn. There were one or two bit- ter moments in his life when he had been made te feel that gentility laid on with a brugh may sometimes crack and show weak places — that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. Anna went out. . Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, al- though she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to her- self fragments of an old French song. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. “I won't pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. The fates are never so kind to me. As a matter of fact I have been waiting for you.” She raised her eyebrows. “Really,” she said. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?"” “No right at all,” he admitted, “Only it is much too late for you to be out alone. You have been to see your sis- ter, of course. How is she?” “My sister is quite well, thank you,” she answered. “Would you mind call- ing that hansom for me?” He looked at it critically and shook his head. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. “The horse’s knees are broken, and I am not sure that the man is sober. I would sooner see you in a 'bus again.”. She laughed. “Do you mean to say that you have been here ever since I came?” “T am afraid that I must confess it,” he answered. “Idiotic, isn’t it?" ‘““Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. wish you would not do it.” “Would not do what?” “Well, follow omnibuses from Russell square to Hampstead.” “I can assure you,” he answered, “that it isn’t a habit of mine. But se- riousiy—" ‘“Well, seriously?”” “Isn’t it your own fault a little? Why do you not tell me your address and al- low me to call upgn you?” “Why should I? I have told you that I do not wish for acquaintances in Lon- don.” “Perhaps not in a general way,” he answered calmly. “You are quite right, I thihk. Only I am not an acquaint- ance at all. I am an old friend, and I decline to be shelved.” “Would you mind telling me,”.Anna asked, “how long I knew you in Paris?"” He looked at her sideways. There was nothing to be learned from her face. “Well,” he sald slowly, “I had met you three times before Drummond’'s dinner.” “Oh, Drummond’'s dinner!” she re- peated. “You were there, were you?" He laughed a little impatiently. “Isn't that rather a strange question —under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. Her cheeks flushed a dull red. She felt that there was a hidden meaning under his words. Yet her embarrass- ment was only a passing thing. She dismissed the whole subject with a lit- tle shrug of the shoulders. “We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. “It was perhaps my fault. You have not for- gotten—" “I have forgotten nothing,” he an- swered, enigmatically. Anna hailed an omnibus. He looked at her reproachfully. The omnibus, however, was full. They fell into step again. More than ever a sense of con- fusion was upon Ennison. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtain- ing some employment in London?” “‘Quite true,” she answered briskly. “and thanks to you I have succeeded.” “Thanks to me,” he repeated, puz- zled. “I don't understand.” “No? But it is very simple. It was you who were so much amazed that I did not try—the music hall stage here.” “You must admit,” he declared, “that to us—who had seen you—the thought of your trying anything else was amaz- ing.” “At any rate,” she declared, “your remark decided me. I have an engage- ment with a theatrical agent—I belleve for the Universal.” “You are going to sing h¢é said quletly. “Yes." “I in London?" For a moment or two he did not speak. Glancing toward- him she saw that a shadow had fallen upon his face. (Conginued Next Sunday.)