They eyed her incredulously.

"You can't imagine," Sydney exclaimed, "that the people downstairs will be such drivelling a.s.ses as to believe piffle like that."

Anna measured out the coffee. Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour. After all, it was really rather funny.

"Well, I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "I always notice that people 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 improper 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 also 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 painfully 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 will see that he never annoys you."

Anna shook her head.

"He is evidently a friend of Mrs. White's," she said, "and if he is 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 one," Sydney remarked vigorously.

Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully.

"I wonder," he said, "is there anything we could do to help you to get rid of him?"

"Can you think of anything?" Anna answered. "I can't! He appears to be a most immovable person."

Brendon hesitated for a moment. He was a little embarra.s.sed.

"There ought to be some means of getting at him," he said. "The fellow seems to know your name, Miss Pellissier, 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 steadily out of the window. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what pa.s.sed for evening dress in Montague Street. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. A young 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. Always the other things remained.

"I think," she said, "that I would rather not have anything to say about that man."

"It isn't necessary," they both declared breathlessly.

Brendon dismissed the subject with a wave of the hand. He glanced at his watch.

"Let us walk round to Covent Garden," 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. "I have to go out."

They hesitated. As a rule their comings 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. Nevertheless Sydney, clumsily, but earnestly, had something to say about it.

"I 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 buses."

"You shall not need either," Brendon said grimly. "We will see that he doesn't follow you."

She thanked him with a look and rose to her feet.

"Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation," she said, smiling. "I expect it is pretty well in shreds by now. To-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind what to do."

_Chapter XV_

A MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE

Anna looked about her admiringly. It was just such a bedroom as she would have chosen for herself. The colouring was green and white, with softly shaded electric lights, an alcove bedstead, which was a miracle of daintiness, white furniture, and a long low dressing-table littered all over with a mult.i.tude 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 followed by a maid presently appeared.

"Too bad to keep you waiting," Annabel exclaimed. "I'm really very sorry. Collins, you can go now. I will ring if I want you."

The maid discreetly withdrew, and 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 succeeded. Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were sisters. Don't you think that the shade of my hair is lovely?"

"There is nothing particular the matter with the shade," Anna answered, "but it is not nearly so becoming as before you touched it.

And what on earth do you want to darken your eyebrows and use so much make-up for at your age? You're exactly twenty-three, and you're got up as much as a woman of forty-five."

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.'"

Anna made no remark. Her disapproval 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 no use your taking my ident.i.ty and all the burden of my iniquities upon your dear shoulders if I am to be recognized 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 _ingenuee_ 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 ident.i.ties absolutely. It was not for a week or a month. It was for ever. 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.