The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 25, 1904, Page 2

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. v THE ADVINTU B LA *J" HIS is the third Instailment ' Adventuress,” ally creeping { best-selling 2z “Amna the will “The rancis Lynde, a fch will be in of ign. The of action, st, and upon | Amna the A anic view peculiar] the cc ng contains plenty can | story a strong love inte; throws hts political d readily. “It is our being a occurred ve that I am not € ¥ P t know him. P2 b . ey f1 . " he an- Bwere t “it any one €hou € e was 3 d were y—les au- tres she declared knew him no cross the stre aw, who had been met het at the nt we have let an unkempt, h broken col- d the blood s » answered fierce! wn on him - * he said. “I know ur wife. The young s not married at all. ake sure before you ut like that upon a stranger?” th my wi * Hill re- “I suppose you're like Call her M Pel vou ghe’s my wife certific ho yeu are,” Enn tly, “but you are a thunder- red to his feet and drew PA% ( a folded paper from his pocket. “Marriage certificates don’t tell Iles, at any rate,” he sa “Just look that through, will you?” Ennison took the document, tore it If in two without looking at it and ng it back in Hill's face. Then he arned on his heel and walked off. CHAPTER XX. The Marksmanship of Montague Hill. “By the by,” his neighbor asked him languidly, “who is our hostess?" Usual known, I believe as Lady Ferringhall,” Ennison answered, less I have mixed up my engage: ome to the wrong house 1 you are,” the lady re- £ I mean, who was that her name was Pel- son answered. e repeated thoughtful- ere were some Hampshire Pel- lissiers.” re n nnison said John one of them, r I wonder where Sir d her up.” Paris I pick “I th Ennison an- swered. “Only married a,few months &g, and lived out at Hampstead.” “He s!"” the lady cla.med. “I m som where out- it Lady F L. “They from Laay are you doing here?” the * Ennison answered grimly. husband compar Do beginning to b st nowadays by 1 nothing. us in for am em to let their business, and in ask them to- ne: By you seen this new wom- npire? What is it they call have to ve seen her,” Ennison an- es about her,” Lady “For my part I can in ar of these » come over here with er and atrocious stands them, ough we d m iison thought so too half an hour when ving cut out from one of the bridge tables he settled down for a chat with Annabel. Every now themr something far n her of her he play are you not?"” was dis- hough elal late- ou yme respects curi- never in my life »d by any one as ng has changed e to be Here developed into a bril- an with more character and ess than I should ever have r credit for. Her features are vet the change has written into her face. Do you know, inghall, I am proud that your mits me to call myself her “And in Paris ’ " he interrupted, ‘“she was htful! companion, but & e did ‘not take her se am not bbring you, am I?" ously. I She raised her eyebrows to his and miled into his face. t boring me,” she said, rather talk of samething I suppose you will think me very “but' 1 woul else. unsisterly and cold-hearted, but there are circumstances in connection with ter's latest exploit which are in- ly irritating both to my husband elf.” gnized the force, almost the passion, which trembied in her tone, he at once abandoned the subject. He remalned talking with her, however. It was casy for him to see that she desired to be agreeable to him. They talked lightly but confidentially until Sir John approached them with a slight frown upon his face. “Mr. Ennison,” he said, “it is for you to cut in at Lady Angela's table. Anna, do you not see that the Countess is sit- ting alone?” She rose and flashed a quick smile upon Ennison behind her husband’s ack ‘ou must come and see me some on,” she said to him. murmured his delight and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his ac tomed skill. On the way home he w still thoughtful. He tunied in.at the club. They were talk- 1?1: nf‘ “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. “Heard nison?"” fato the . the latest sensation, En- he was asked on his entrance smokeroom. have ard nothing,” Ennison answered. “I have been to a political dinner, and I am weary. Besides I have lost all my money at bridge. Will some one stand me a whisky and soda?” me one touched the bell. The man who had spoken to him first continued, —;S'/// I 77 o 7PN ; A / T § A 4 - - - 10U know the mew woman at the Empire—'Alcide.’ Sings musical little French songs—lots of go in a very smart w . fes, ye Ennison “What about her?’ 10t at to-night on the stage. Man said he was her husband. The audi- ence got hold of him and mauled him interrupted. badly. They had to take him to the hospital.” The i ed match which Ennison was holding to his cigarette felf from him fingers unheeded to the ground. “Ann—Alcide,” he exclaimed. “Was she hurt?” “Not a scrap. Bullet grazed her shoulder. She came back and finished her s=ong, and the audience nearly brought the house down. If it hadn’t been such a near squeak for her one would have thought it was a plant.” Ennison struck another match, lit his cigarette and relapsed into an easy chair. They talked still of “Alcide.” clared musical. Another differed, “She has lost something,” he de- clared, “something which brought the men in crowds around the stage at the ‘Embassador’s.” I don't know what you'd call it—a sort of witchery, al- most suggestiveness. She sings better perhaps. But I don't think she.lays hold of one go.” 5 “L will tell you what there is about her which is so fetching,” Drummond, who was lounging by, declared. ‘“‘She contrives somehow to strike the per- sonal note in an amazing manner. You are *wedged in among a crowd, per- haps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it. You feel that that smile is for you, the words are for you, the whole gong is for you. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself.” “And if you are a millionaire Drummond,” some one remarked, “you send round a note and ask her to come out to supper.” “In the present case,” Drummond re- marked, glancing across the room, “Chevehey wouldn’'t permit it.” Ennison dropped the evening paper which he had been pretending to read. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it. as it happens,” he re- marked, a little grimly. *“Ungracious little beast, I ¢all her. I ddn't mind telling you chaps that except on the stage I haven’'t set eyes on her this side of the water. I've called half a dozen times &t her flat, and she won't egee me. Rank ingratitude, I call it.”” There was a shout of laughter. Drum- mond patted him on the shoulder. “'Certainly her voice Is far more e NONND EINISOYy LOOKELD DoOwry QN HLM Y NDPISGIST) “She has improved her style,” one de- - like AR RSN, “Never mind, old chap, he declared. “Let's hope your succesfor is worthy of you."” “You fellows,” Ennison said quietly, “‘are getting a little wild. I have known Miss Pellissier as iong. as any of you, perhaps, and I have seen something of her since her arrival in Lon- don. I consider her a very charm- ing young woman— and I won't hear a word about Paris, for there are things I don’t understand about that, but I will stake my word upon it that to-day Miss Pellissier is entitled not only to our admiration, but to our respect. I firmly believe that she is as straight as a die.” g Ennison’s voice shook a little. They were his friends, and they recognized his unusual earnestness. Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders, Ennison looked around him and swore softly under his breath. After all, what a fool he was! “I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” scme one remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. “You see, her sister is married to Ferringhall, isn't she? and she hersclf must be drawing no end of a good screw here. 1 always say that it’s poverty before everything that makes a girl skip the line.” Ennison escaped. He was afraid if he stayed that he would make a fool of himself. ' He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. On his way he made a slight divergence from the direct route and paused for a mo- ment outside the flat where Anna was now living. It was nearly 1 o’clock; but there were lights still in all her win- dows. Suddenly the door of the flat opened and closed. A man came out, and walking recklessly, almost can- noned into Enpison. He mumbled an apology and then stopped short. 3 nnison, isn't it?” he exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing star- gazing here?” Ennison looked at him in surprise. “I might return the compliment, Courtlaw,” he answered, “by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man.” Courtlaw was pale and disheveled. He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. 7 “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. “You are one of those who must know all about it. ‘Was there ever such madness?” “I am afraid that I don’t under- stand,” Ennison answered. ‘“You seem to have come from Miss Pellissier's room. I had no idea even that she was a friend of yours.” Courtlaw laughed hardly. His eyes were red. He was in a curious state of desperation. r “Nor am I now,” he answered. “I have spoken too many truths to-night. Why do women take to lies and deceit and trickery as naturally as a duck to water?” £ are not alluding, I hope, to Miss Pellissier?”” Ennison sald stiffly. “Why not? Isn’t the whole thing a lie? Isn’t her reputation, this husband of hers, the ‘Alcide’ business, isn't it all a cursed juggle? She hasn't the right to do it. 1I—"" He stopped short. He had the dir of a man who has said too much. Ennison was deeply interested. “I should like to understand you,” he said. “I knew Miss Pellissier in Paris at the ‘Embassador’s,” and I know her now, but I am convinced that there is some mystery in connection with Her change of life. She is curiously altered in many ways. Is there any truth, do you suppose, in this rumored mar- riage?” “'I know nothing,” Courtlaw answer- ed hurriedly. *Ask me nothing. 1 will not talk toc you about Miss Pellissier or her affairs.” ‘“You are not yourself to-night, Courtlaw,” Ennison said. “Come to my rooms and have a drink.” Courtlaw refused brusquely, rudely. “I am off to-night,” he said. “T am going to America. I have work there. I ought to have gone long ago. Will you answer me a question flrst?"” “If I can,” Ennison said. ‘What were you doing outside Miss Pellissier’s flat to-night? You were looking at her windows. Why?* What is she to you?" “I was there by accident,” Ennison answered. ‘“Miss Pellissier is nothing to me except a young lady for whom I have the most profound and respect- ful admiration.” Courtlaw laid his hand upon Enni- son’s shoulder. They were at the cor- ner of the Pall Mall now and had come to a standstill. “Take my advice,” he said hoarsely. “Call it warning, if you like. Admire her as much as you choose—at a dis- tance. No more. Look at me. You knew me in Paris. David Courtlaw. ‘Well-balanced; sane, wasn't I? You never heard any one call me a mad- man? I'm pretty near being one now, and it's her fault. I've loved her for two years; I love her now. And I'm off to America and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I'll thank the Lord for it.” He strode away and vanished in the gathering fog. Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular almost spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. “I'm d—d if I understand this,” he said thoughtfully. “I never saw Court- law with her—never heard her speak of him. He was going to tell me some- thing—and he shut up. I wonder what it was.” CHAPTER XXIL “My ‘Pseudo Husband.” “I don’t ; understand what it all means,” Anna sald wearily, as she threw open’ her furs and sank into a low chair. “It was very horrid, too. Such a stuffy little room, and a most impertinent lawyer—the person who got up and asked me all those ques- tions.” Brendon stood opposite to her, upon the hearthrug. His sudden affluence seemed scarcely to have contributed to his well-being. He looked older, and there were lines about his eyes. His speech, too, seemed to have be- come more grave and measured. “He was bound over to keep the peace,” he said. “On the whole I don’t think that you can complain of the = proceedings. The magistrate stopped that fellow who tried to cross- examine you.” “Does being bouhd over to keep the peace mean that he is to leave me alone altogether?” Anna asked. “Not exactly that,” Brendon an- swered. “‘There is nothing to preven his speaking to you.” . “He ean still follow me about, then, pester me with his letters, glower at me from the street corners, hang about my door?” “There is nothing,” Brendon sald, “to prevent him from doing all these things. They are annoying enough, but they do not constitute an offense under the law.” " Anna kicked a footstool from under her feet viciously. “Then it is a very silly law,” she de- clared. “Is there no,way that I can get rid of him, Walter?" “Yes,” Brendon answered, “there is one way."” She looked up eagerly. “Don’t keep me in suspense. me how."” “Marry me!"” Brendon said slowly. Anna's face fell. Still she looked at him thoughtfully. “That is impossible,” she said. “You know that it is impossible.” “I do not,” he answered firmly. *“T know that you do not love me, if that is what you mean. Why should you? But then I do not believe that you have a very large capacity for sentimental affection. I-can give you all the things which make life pleasant, and I can free you from this madman.” The old instincts reasserted them- selves. Her lips curved into-'a smile. “He would have me arrested f-r bigamy,: she. exclalmed. “What a muddle it would be!™ “I can only repeat what T have just said,”” he went on earnestly. ‘“What- Do tell my promise. this man.” She shook her head. A Wyuid rulner beileve that you are oply hait in earnest,” she said.. "k do not say anything more abeut cannot rd to lose another “Friends are a help,” he said gedly; "a husband would be absoiu.s protection. 1 am rich. You know that. We would live where you like. how you like. And I would pever ask you for more than you are prepared Lo give. “It is impossible,” she said firmly “Last night I lost my best and oldest friend in this same manner. Why will ¥ou not believe me when I say that at present 1 do not intend to marry? There will come a time in my life, 1 when 1 shall feel differently I would free you from dog- At present nothing would move walt tretching out her hand to forget about this. 1am human enough, at any rate, to hate solitude, and 1 have 50 few friends. Do not let me lose you, too. He took her fingers and pressed them ever so slightly. “You will not ldse me,” he answered. “I shall be always at your call.” A mald interrupted them. She car- ried a card upon a silver salver. Anna glanced at it and itated. “MR. MONTAGUE HILL.” “You can show him in,” she said suddenly. “Walter, you will piease. I am so thankful that you are here. You w stay, will you not? It is my pseudo band.” “If you w it, he answered gravely. Mr. Montague Hill came in. He was dressed with ob too obvious according to of prevailing fasi a little his t twink ried a very g his manner we t be coneciliato he scowled. “Well,” sai “You wished t you have ¢ ridiculo 1 wanr 1y, “al “Than your previous ¢ has been such excused. You is my friend say you can “I.don’t want him, or 2 € swered shortlv. “I want to you, and .to you:alome. 1 don what any one wants interfe tween a man and his wife.” “You -will see me,” Anna remarked calmly, “under the presemnt conditions or not at all.” Mr. Hill set down his hat upon the table. “Very well,” he said. “I came her determined to Ke: temper, and 1 will. I will say what I have to say be- fore Mr. B: n. If you don't mind, I dop’t see why I should.” “That is sensible,” Anna sald. “Won't you sit down?” 0, thank Mr. Hill' answered. “I'm more at my ease standing. First of all I want to finish what I began to say just before the accident.” Anna opened her mouth and shut it she said quietly. * he continued, “that I was guilty of a shabby action in letting you belleve that I was Meysey Hill. It wasn't altogether my fault. I was led Into it. I was mistaken for him so often that I got tired of correcting people. Anda then Made- moiselle Celeste found out, and she only laughed. She advised me to keep it up. She told me that it was my only chance of getting you to look at me. And you kmow how I was about you. Every one knew. It was the sort of thing I'd heard of, but never under- stood. The thought of you was like a fever in my blood. I couldn’t sleep or eat or rest for thinking about you, It hard to talk about—and befores him,™ he pointed.to Brendon, “but as I was then so I am now. I knew that I was a cad to let you marry me, believing I was Meysey Hill. I can’t help it now. It's past and done with. What I want to say to you is this. We're man and wife, bound hard and fast. We can't get away from it. Won't you let by- gones be bygones, and make the best of it? I'm not a rich man. I'm trav- eler for a firm of brewers and wine merchaiits, but I don’t do badly, and you could keep on your show at the music halls if you wanted to. I'd do anything for you in reason. I—I'm not a bad sort really, though that Meysey was shabby. Come, what He was nervous. His twitching fea- tures showed it. There were drops of perspiration upon his forehead, His hand was extended half doubtfully. Anna did not take it, but there w: something of pitv as well as contempt in.her steadv regard of him, “Is this all?” she askeds “All!" he repeated vaguely. “All that you want to say to me, she explained. “I should like to have this matter quite settled up, now that we are here face to face.” “It depends,” he sald, answer."” ‘Very well,” Anna sald. “Now my whole answer to you is exactly what it has always been. You seem to be sane. I can only conclude that you were the victim of some extraordinary halluci- nation. I do not know you. I mever even saw you in Paris. I never was married to you.™ “upon your He drew a step nearer to her. She did not flinch. “Say it again,” he muttered. “Let me look at you while you say it." “I never saw you in my life before that evening in Montague street,” she repeated caimly. “As to my having been married to you, the whole story is an absolute and absurd fabrication.” The man was shaking with nervous tury. Brendon came closer to him. “Your mame.” he cried Do you deny that? You are Annabel Pellis- sier. I could bring a hundred to prove . “It is not necessary," she answered “I do not deny it “You are ‘Alcide” You sang last night at the Universal the same song that I have hearl you sing at the Em- bassador's.” “1 was certainly singing last night at the Universal,” Anna answered.