The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 25, 1904, Page 4

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. 2 v hours ago would have seem- ow,” she whis- a married wom- is Mr. Montague wered, and an at- Anna’s room among n had almost to h a group of ac- 1 e pretext he abso- s ¢ entered ned on to the Em- great hotels on ablaze with lights. b oA hovered round two isement on upon cool breeze Anna } ed reflec and. She s thoug her rd passed be- n that her littie ' 1 op the electric nd half fearfully where,” she sa ther am imper- you 1y here some ex mystery about laimed, with you , the solution of the one desire ant to g.ve you warning to solve it. Paris.” but she did not ng t To ¥ ? What do you not know,” he answered, going to see David Courtlaw ked up at him “but with Courtlaw! she with i repeated. now pale of fear in as much as this,” she s a-secret. I admit e find it out if you will b r 3 er dare to call your »d—your good only a : dge of what is ¥ T The tinkling bell of a seemed to ring into the rious distinctness. He felt faster and faster=-his away. After all, or anything else was within reach of ained her cheeks. »id his embrace. wed. “You must not. re around her. it possible,” he ecried. 1l things possible.” wildered. She aid not He only Anr know herself. Only she was consclous of an unfar r and wonderful emo- tion. She gave her lips to his without resistance. 1 her protests seemed stified before she could find words to utter them. With a little sigh of happi- ness she accepted this new thing. CHAPTER XXV. Her Sister's Secret. “f think dy Ferringhall said, “that you are talking very foolishly. I was quite as much annoyed as you were to see Mr. Ennison with my sister last night. But apart from that, you bave no particular objection to him, 1 suppose” “The occurrence of last night is quite sufficient in itself,” Sir John answered, “to make me wish to discontinue Mr. Ennison’s acquaintance. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er— of propriety would enable you to see thie. It is not possible for us to be on friendly terms with a young man who has been gecn in a public place, having supper alone with your sister after midnight. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. To receive him here afterward would be most repugnant to me He relati probably does not know of the rship.” Annabel remarked. 14 Sir John said, “that your sister would acquaint him with it. In ¢, he is liable to discover it at time. My own impression is that he already knows.” Why do you think s0?” she asked. 1 noticed him call her attention to us a8 we passed down the room,” he answered, “Of course, he may merely have t g her who we were, but 1 think bable.” “Apart from the fact of his acquaint- snce with Anna—Annabel,” Lady Fer- ringhall said quickly, “may I ask if ANy cas you have any other objection to Mr. Ennison 2" Sir John hesitated. “To the young man himself,” he an- swered, “no! 1 simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my aby “How absurd Annabel declared. “How could he call except in your ab- sence, s you are never at home ih the afternoon? And if I cared to have him come every day, why shouldn’t he? I find him very amusing and very useful « well. He brought his mother to call, and, as you know, the Countess goes Hers is quite the ve set in London.” v feeling in the matte Sir John as I have stated. Further, I are for you to accept social s from Mr. Ennison, or any ost exclus she declared con- reddening, that it is answered, assert he arcely use. You will forgive my with g remarking, Anna, that I consider there i a great change in your manner toward me and your general deport- T our marriage.” on?" he conelu lightly a foregone the matter “You treat nued. “To me it seems serious enough. 1 have fulfilled my part of our marriage contract. Can you wonder that I ex- pect you to fulfill your “I am not aware,” she answered, 1 have ever failed in doing so.” at le: aware,” he said, 3 have on several recent oe- direct opposition to that hair. I was perfectly with your appearance. 1 con- n now that the present color becoming. Then you have red not only that, but your man- f dressing it. You have darkened ir eyebr vou have even changed vour style dress. You have shown an aimost feverish a ety to eliminate from your pe ppearance all that reminded you—when we al of me . ‘has there not been reason for this? could scar You for to the * she said her He frowned heav that I could forget it,”” he ¥ unately I believe that the £ y known. 1 trust tha rumors will be circulated befc good,” § Icide y popular John turned toward tt It does not appear to me stiffly, “to be an affair for jest Annabel laughed de vely her book. She heard her husb. trez ending the stairs carriage as he drove threw the volume away » a little impatient exclamation. rose from her chair and began and down the room rest- svery now and then she fin- ment, moved a plece of rearranged some draper- Then she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thought- fully. “I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder. “This life is killing me! is dull, dull, dull!” Sudden an ijdea seemed to strike She went to her room and changed the morning gown In which s had lunched for a dark walking dr A few minutes lat she left the he ] on foot and taking a hansom at the er of the Square, drove to Anna’s her tea by herself She rose at once hailf of sur- was having e entered. ittle exclamation, If of pleasure. r Annabel,” she sald, “this but I thought that it was forbidde “It Annabel ans But I wanted to see you. Anna wheeled an easy chair to the red shortly. is,” will have some tea?” she asked. Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. £ was looking about her, her face was dark with anger. The You littie roc was fragrant with flowers, Anna herself bright, and with all the evid of well being. Annabel was conscious then of the slow anger which had been burning within her since the night of her visit to the Universal. Her voice trembled with suppressed passion have come for an explanation,” she said. *“You are an impostor. How dare you use my name and sing my scngs?” Anna looked at her sister in blank amazement. Annabel she exclaimed. “Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully. “Oh, you know,” she said. *“Don't be a hypoerite. You are not ‘Alcide.’ You have no right to call yourself ‘Alcide.” You used to declare that you hated the name. You used to beg me for hours at a time to give it all up, never to go near the ‘Embassador’s’ again. And yet the moment I am safely out’ of the way you are content to dress yourself in my rags, to go and get yourself popular and admired and successful, all on my reputation.” “Annabel! Annabel!” Annabel stamped her foot. Her tone was hoarse with passion. “Oh, you can act!” she cried. “You can look as innocent and shocked as you please. I want to know who sent wyou those. She pointed with shaking finger to a great bunch of dark red carnations, thrust carelessly into a deep china bowl, to which the card was still at- tacked. Anna followed her finger and looked back into her sister’s face. “They were sent to me by Mr. Nigel Ennison, Annabel. How on earth does it concern you?” Annabel laughed hardly. “Concern me!” she repeated flerce- ly. “You are not content then with stealing from me my name. You would steal from me then the only man I ever cared a snap of the fingers about. They are not your flowers. They are mine! THey were sent to ‘Alcide,’ not to you.” Anna rose to her feet. At last she was roused. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or 1 would bid you take the flowers If you care for them and leave the room. But behind these things which you have said to me there must be others of which I know nothing. You speak as one injured—as though T had been the qne to take your name —as though you had been the one 1o make sacrifices. In your heart you krow very well that this is absurd. It Is you who took my name, not I yours. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferring- hall. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your hus- band.” Annabel shivered a little and looked around her. “He does not come here,” she ex- claimed quickly. “He spends hours of every day on the pavement below,” Anna answered calmly. “He has attempted my life, I dare not even walk out alome. I have been bearing this—for your sake. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. “It was your own fault,” she ex- megd. “He would never have found out if you had not personated you me. n the contrary,” Anna whispered qnietly, “we met in a small boarding- hou where [ was stopping.” .’ “You have not told me yet,” Anna- bel id, “how it is that you have dared to personate me. To call your- self ‘Alcide!” Your hair, your ges- tures, vour voice, all mine! Oh, how you do it?"” “You must not forget,” Anna said mly. “that it is necessary for me —to live. I arrived here with something less than five pounds in my pocket. My reception at West Ken- sington you know of. I'was the black sheep. I was hurried out of the way. You did not complain then that I personated vou—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied.” “You did not ——" “Wait, Annabel! When I arrived in London I went to live in the cheap- est place I could find. I set myself to find employment. I offered myself as a clerk, as a milliner, as a shop girl. T would even have taken a place as a waltress in a tea shop. I walked London till the soles of my boots were worn through, and my toes were blis- tered. I ate only enough to keep body and soul together.” “There was no need for such hero- ism,” Annabel sald coldly. “You had only to ask- o “Do you think,” Anna interrupted, with a note of passion trembling also in her tona, “that I would have taken alms from Sir John, the man to whom I had lied for your sake. It was not poseible. I went at last when I had barcly a shilling in my purse to a dramatic agent. By chance I went to one who had known you in Paris.” “Well!” “He greeted me effusively. fercd me at once an engagement. T told him that I was not ‘Alcide.’ He only laughed. He had seen the ans nouncement of your marriage in the papers, and he imagined that I sim- ply wanted to remain ‘unknown bes cause of your husband’s puritanism. T sang to him, and he was satisfied. I did not appear, I have never an- nounced myself as ‘Alcide.’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me.” “They were my posters,” Annabel sald. “The ones Cariolus did for me.” “The posters at least,” Anna an- swered quletly, “I Have some claim to. You know very well that you took from my easel David Courtlaw’'s study of me and sent it to Cariolus. You denied it at the time—but unfortu. He of- Courtlaw nately I have proof. Mr. studio.” found the study in Cariolus’ Annabel laughed hardly. “What did it matter?” she cried. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. It saved me the bother of being stud- ied.” “It convinced Mr. Earles that I was ‘Alcide,’ ” Anna remarked quietly. “We will convince him now > the contrary,” Annabel answered. Anna looked at her, startled. “What do you mean?” she asked. Annabel set her teeth hard, turned flercely toward Anna. “It means that I have had enough of this slavery,” she declared. “My husband and all his friends are fools, and the life they lead is impos- sible for me. It takes too many years to climb even a step in the social lad- der. I've had enough of it. I want my freedom.” “You mean to say,” Anna said slow- 1y, “that you are going to leave your husband ?"* “Yes." “You are willing to give up your po- sition, your beautiful houses, your car- riages and milliner’s accounts to come back to Bohemianism?” “Why not?” Annabel declared. “T am sick of it. It is dull—deadly dull.” “And what about this man—Mr. Montague Hill?” Annabel put her hand suddenly to her throat and steadied herself with the back of a chair. She looked stealth- ily at Anna. *“You have succeeded a little too well in your personation,” she eaid bitterly, svE 2R T o L, A BESISIINOE vyoo “to get rid very easily of Mr. Monta- gue Hill. You are a great deal more like what I was a few months ago than I am now.” Anna laughed softly. “You propose then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. I think not, Anna- bel. You are welcome to proclaim yourself ‘Alcide’ if you will. I would even make over my engagement to you, if Mr. Earles would permit. But I should certainly want to be rid of Mr. Montague Hill and I do not think that . under those circumstances I should be long about it.” Annabel sank suddenly Into a chalir. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs. “Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jeal- ous, ungrateful woman. But oh, how weary I am! I know. If only—Anna, tell me,” she broke off suddenly, “how did you get to know Mr. Ennison?" “'He spoke to me, thinking that I was you,” Anna answered. “I liked him, and never undeceived him.” “And he sat at my table,” Annabel said bitterly, “‘and yet he did not know me."” Anna glanced up. “You must remember,” she sald, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks."” only knew Mr. Ennison slightly”— There was a dead silence in the little room. Anna sat with the face of & Sphinx — waiting. Annabel thought, and thought again. “I knew Mr. Ennison better than I have ever told you,” she sald slowly. “Go on.” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an FEng- lishman’s. Nigel Ennison was he. Anna stood up. Her cheeks were aflame. Her eyes were lit with smol- dering passion. “Go on!" she commanded. “Let me know the truth.” Annabel looked down. to meet that gaze. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. “Don't fence with me,” Anna cried flercely. “The truth.” Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister’s ear. It was hard CHAPTEI: XVVL An Ol@ Fool. Lady Ferringhali made room for him on the sofa by her side. She was wearing a becoming tea gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least. “I am delighted to see you, Mr, En- nison,” she said, letting her fingers rest in his. “Do come and cheer me up. T am bored to distraction. He took a seat by her side. He was looking pale and ill. There were shad- ows under his eyes. He returned her ix,r;pressive greeting almost mechanic- ally. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. You poor man, what have you been doing to yourself?” “Nothing except traveling all night,” he answered. “I am just back from Paris. I am bothered. I have come to you for sympathy, perhaps fir help. “You may be sure of the one,” she murmured. “The other, too, iIf it is within my power."” “It is within yours—if anybody's,” he answered. “It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall.” Annabel gave a little gasp. The color slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. The change in her face was not a pleasant one, “About \my sister,” she slowly. Her tone should have warned him, but he was too much in earnest to re- gard it. “Yes. You remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?"” “Yes.” “And you knew, of course, were old friends?” “Indeed!” “Lady Ferringhall, I love your sis- repeated that we “You what?"”’ she repeated incredu- lously. “I love your sister.” Lady Ferringhall sat with half-closed eyes and clenched teeth. Brute! Fool! To have come to her on such an errand. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. The effort to maintain her self-controi was almost superluman. “But—your people!” she gasped. “Surely Lady Ennison would object, even if it were possible. And the Duke too—I heard him say that a married secretary would be worse than useless to him.” “‘The difficulties on my own side I can deal with,” he answered. “I am not de- péndent upon any one. I have plenty of money, and the Duke will not be in the next Cabinet. My trouble is with your sister.” Lady Ferringhall e relief. he has refused to listen to you?" “She has behaved in a most extraor- dinary manner,” he answered. “We parted—that night the best of friends. 8he knew that I cared for her; she had admitted that she cared for me. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don't think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. When I went I was re- fused admittance. I have since received a most extraordinary letter from her. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope. She simply re- fuses to see or hear from me again. I went to the theater that night. I walited for her at the back. She saw me, and, Lady Ferringhall, I shall never forget her look as long as I live. It was horrible. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. I could not have spoken to her.. It took my breath away. By the time I had recovered my- self she had gone. My letters are re- turned unopened; her maid will not even allow me to cross the doorstep.” “The explanation seems to me to be reasonably simple,” Annabel sald cold- ly. “You seem to forget that my sister Is—married.” “If she is,” he answered, “I am con- vinced that there are circumstances in connection with that marriage which would make a divorce easy.” “You would marry a divorcee?” she asked. “I would marry your ter anyhow, Aknder any circumstances,” he answered. She looked at him curiously. “1 want to ask you a question,” she sald abruptly. “This wonderful afec- tlon of yours for my sister, does it date from vour first meeting with her In Paris?” He hesitated. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regarded her now as eltogether the same person. Something has happened to change her marvelously, either that, or she wilifully decelved me and every one else in those days as to her real self. She was a much lighter and more frivolous person, very charming and companionable—but with a difference— a great difference. I wonder whether you would mind, Lady Ferringhall,” he went on, with a sudden glance at her, “it I tell you that you yourself was conscious of [ rremind me a great deal more of what she was like then, except of course that your complexion and coloring are alto- gether different.” “I am - highly flattered,” marked, with subtle irony. “Will you help me?” he asked. “What can I do?” 4 “Go and see her. Find out what I have done or failed to do. Get me an interview with her.” / “Really,” she said, with a hard little laugh, ‘“you must regard me as a very good-natured person.” “You are,” he answered uncon- sciously. I am sure that you are. I want her to tell me the whole truth about this extraordinary marriage. We will find some way out of it.” “You think that you can do that?" she re- ‘“For the others,” Annabel said tear- / “I am sure of it,” he answered, con- fully, “that is well enough. But for him"— r Something in her sister's tone star- tled Anna. She ldoked at her for a moment fixedly,. When ghe tried to speak she found it difficult. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. ‘What do you mean, Annabel? You fidently. “Those things are arranged more easily in any other country than England., At any rate she must see me, I demand it as a right. I must know what new thing has come be- tween us that she should treat me as & lover one day and a monster the She leaned back among the cushions of her chair. She was very pale, but she reminded him more at that min- ute than at any time of “Alcide” as he had first known her. “T wonder,” she said, “how much you care.” I care as a man cares only once In his life,” he answered promptly. “When it comes there is no mistaking It. “Did it come—in Paris?” P> “I do not know,” he answered. “I do not think so. .Vhat does it mat- ter? It is here, and it here to stay. Do help me, Lady Ferringhall. \0'\1 need not be afrald. No trouble will ever come to your sister through me. 1f this idiotic marriage is binding then I will be her frienc. But I have pow- erful friends. I only want to know the truth and I will move heaven and earth to have it set aside.” “The truth,” she murmured, with her eyes fixed upon him. i She stopped short. some embarrassment. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I want to hear it from your sister. It is her duty to tell me, and I would not have her think that I had been trying to He looked at her in work upon. ycur sympathies to learn her secrets She was silent, “You will go and see her,” he begged. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. hushand’ “Tt 1s against my orders, and I am not sure ister will be particularly glad But I will go.” i all always be grateful to you, “Don’t be too sure of that." s $wered enigmatically. She looked at herself in the glass, long and earnestly. “Blind fool!” she exclaimed under her breath. “Why cannot he guess the truth? I have done my hair in the old way and left off the rouge. Yet he hasn’t the faintest idea.” Sir John came home from a board meeting and she gave him some tea. It chanced that there were no other callers. He looked at her once or twice curfously. “Is it mv fancy, Anna?" he asked, “or have you done your halr different- Iy 7" She laughed bitterly. “It is pleasant to have some one no- tice 'these things,” she declared. “You were complaining the other day, were you not, that T had changed so much? For your private benefit, and for this afternoon only, I have reverted to the old style. I can’'t alter the color, but you must take that for granted.” Sir John rose solemnly from his chalr, and, *oming over to her side, stooped and kissed her. She accepted his embrace passively. He returned to his seat. “I hope,” he said, “that you will not be ¢ ' this evening. This electioneer- ing is becoming wearisome, but it Is a necessity.” “Thank—you,” she said. “I shall not mind a quiet evening at all. If I am dull I shall go round and see Sylvia Mannerin, “Be sure that you take a carriage and your mald,” he sald. “T wish that 1 could ask you to come with me. I am afraid, however, that it will be a rather rough meeting.” She yawned. “I wish,” she said, “that politics was not so deadly dull.” “I am sorry,” he answered quietly, “that vouy find it so. I trust, how- ever, you will ember that I shall expect you to me some of your time next week. “What & bore! stractedly. Sir John frownel. He looked across at his wife in disapproval. “It seems to me, Anna,” he said, “that lately you find most things a bore.” “I am afrald I do,” she admitted. Sir John leaned forward in his chair. “It is an ungracious task,” he said, “to refer to the change in your life which I have been able to bring about, but you force me to remind you of certain things. I found you in Parig absolutely poverty stricken, and in real she answered, ab- or apparent distress concerning the misbehavior of your sister. Forgive me, Anna, but I see mo c-use for mirth.” The smile faded from her lips. “I agree with you,” she said. “Go on.” “It suited you,” he continued, “to make yourself a very charming com- panion to me. You were always bright and cheerful, and any little ex- pedition which I planned you seemed to enter into and enjoy. I myself, I fear, am a somewhat/dull person, For that reason perhaps you were more than or- dinarily attracted to me. We were mar- ried, and you yourself shall be the judge whether you have not been since then a .changed woman. You may say that I am a depressing person to live with. You see very little more of me now than during the few weeks before we were married, and you cer- tainly did not appear to find me such then.” “Dear me,” Annabel exclaimed. “This is a perfect indictment. You combat my excuses before I make them. I shall be crushed flat.” “I think you can scarcely fail to recognize the truth of what I say,” Sir John declared. *“You complained of our being able to get away for only a week, of my house at Hampstead, of my friends. I have let you choose your own residence, you are here to make such friends as your position antitles you to. I have not deceived you on one single point. On the con- trary, I have done far more than I ever promised. Am I unreasonable, therefore, if I look to you for some better evidence—of your apprecia- tion 2" A spark of real sympathy—or per- haps it was remorse—touched Anna- bel. She rose to her feet and bending lightly over his chalr, kissed him on the' lips. “You poor old thing,” she exclalm- ed. “I believe you're quite right. I'm not half so sweet as I ought to be.” Sir John was gratified. He ap- peared ridiculously pleased. He re- tained hold of her fingers. “That is very charming of you, dear,” he sald. “You know what I heard a man call me in the club the other day when he heard that I had married some one 8o very much younger—an old fool—that was it Lately I think the phrase has haunted me. There may be a little truth in it, Anna, but I don't want it thrust home too hard.” “How ldlotic!” she laughed. ‘“Be- tween ourselves I think—yes, I think that you would have been an old fool if you hadn’t married me.” Sir John smiled like a young mai “I quite agree with you, my dear, he said. CHAPTER XXVIL Montague Hill Sees Light at Last. At exactly ten minutes past ten An- nabel rang the bell of her sister’s flat. There was no response. She rang again with the same result. Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a thin crack be- tween the door and the frame. She pushed the former and it opened. The latch had not fully caught. The flat was apparently empty. An- nabel turned on the electric light and made her way into the sitting-room. There was a coffee equipage on the table and some sandwiches and the fire had been recently made up. An- nabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return. The clock struck half-past ten. The loneliness of the place somewhat de- pressed her. She took up a book and threw it down again. Then she ex- amined with some curlosity some knickknacks upon a small round table , by her side. Among them was a re- volver, She handled it half learfully, and set it carefully down agaln. Then for the first time she was consclous of an unaccountable and terrifying sensa tion. She felt that she was not a She was only a few yards from door, but lacked age to and fly. Her k her b came fast, s effect of those upon her pallor-st eyes were dilated in a horri stare at the parting in the which hung before the windos There was some one there. h hand cu i oz to conceal her knowledge of his ence. A lit mothered cry from her the curtal: s > thrown aside and a man stepped out She was powerless to move from he chair. All brief b measureless which won did her, she helpless object presence of mind her. e could nei nor cry out. “Annabel! God in heaven, it is An nabel!™ She did not speak. Her lips parted, but no words came ‘What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. “You have dyed your hal and dar brows. But re Anna ild know you heaven or heil ho is the other? What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. Her lips were dry and cracked. “The Annabel sings every They call her hair and voice used to be. “My sister!™ He trembled violent He seemed to be laboring under some great excite- ment. “I am a fool,” he said. 11 thess days I have taken her for you. I have pleaded with her—no wonder that I have pleaded with her In valn. And all this time haps you have been waiting, to hear from Is it so, . “I did not * she faltered, “any- thing about yc Why should 17 “At last,” he murmured, “at last I have found you. I must not Jet you go again. Do ou know, Annabel, that you are my wife?" No,” she moaned, ‘“not that. I thought—the papers sal — “You thought that ¥ was dead,” he interrupted. “You pushed the wheel from my hand. You j and I think that you left me. that I was not dead. You c me in the hospital. You mr pented a little, or you w done that.” “I did not come,” she faltered. “It was my sister Anna. I had left Parfs.”™ He passed his hand wearily over his forehe Ye me to ses t have re- uld not have is where at T got confused,” he said. “I oper bending over thought, she well. So I ma I came to London to ter! Great God. how like what you were Annabel 1 d around her neryousl “These are her * ghe sald. “Soon she will retu “The sooner the swered T must nabel, I cannot b you.” His eyes were burning. a step toward her. her hands, . He advanced She held out both she cried. “You frighten me He smiled at her indulgently, “But I am your husband,” he sald. You have forgotten. I am your hus- band, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine. “It was a mistake,” she faltered. “You told me that your name s ;\:[9 sey Hill. I thought that you wers o. His face darkened. “I did 1t for love of you,” he sald. I Hed, as I would have committed a murder or done any evil deed soc than lose you. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. I can keep you. You shall have a house at Balham or Sydenham, and two ser- vants. You shall have the spending of every penny of my money. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. Tell me that you are not sorry to see me again.” Her passion conquered for & moment her fear. “But I am sorry, * she exclaimed. “Our marriage must be annulled. It was no marriage at all.” Never!” he exclaimed vehemently. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up.” “But it Is too late,” she declared. “You have no right to hold me to a bargain which on your side was a lie. T consented to become Mrs, Meysey Hill-—never your wife,” ‘“What do you mean by too late?” he demanded. “There is some one else whom I for.” He Jaughed hardly. “Tell me his name,” he sald, “and I promise that he shall never trouble you. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibly a little nearer to Rher, “you are mine. The angels in heaven shall not tear you from me. We leave this room together. I shall not part with you again.” “No,” she cried, “I will not. ¥ will have nothing to do with you. You are not my husband.” He came toward her with that In his face which filled her with blind terror. “You belong to me,” he sald flercely; “the marriage certificate is In my pock- et. You belong to me, and I have walt- ed long enough.” He stepped past her to the door and closed it. Then he turned with a flerce movement to take her into his arma. There was a flash and a loud report. He threw up his hand, reeled for a mo- ment on his feet and collapsed upon the floor. “Annabel,” he moaned. “You have killed me. My wife—killed me.” ‘With a little crash the pistol fell from her shaking fingers. She stood looking down upon him with dilated eyes. Her faculties seemed for a moment numbed. She could not realize what she saw. Surely it was a dream. A moment be- fore he had been a strong man; she had been in his power, a poor, helpless thing. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted feattres and a dark wet stain dripping slowly onto the carpet. It could not be she who had done this. She had never let off a pis- tol in her life. Yet the smoke was curl- ing upward in a faint, innocent looking cloud to the ceiling. The smell of gun- powder was strong In the room. It was true. She had killed him. It ‘was as much accident as anything—but she had killed him. Once before—but that had been different. This time they would call it murder. She listened, listened Intently for sev- eral minutes. People were passing in the street below. She could hear their footsteps upon the pavement. A han- som stopped a little way off. She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. There was no one stirring In the flats. He himself had deadened the sound by closing the door. She moved a little nearer to him. It was horrible, but she must do it. She sank unon her knees and unbot- toned his coat. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. She drew it out with shaking fingers. There was a great splash of blood upon it; her hand was all wet and sticky. A deadly sickness came over her, the cars