She shrugged her shoulders slightly. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned.

"It is an annoyance, my friend," she said, "not a tragedy."

"It might become one," he answered. "The man is dangerous."

She looked thoughtfully into the fire.

"I am afraid," she said, "that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. If so I shall have to leave."

"You cannot play at hide-and-seek with this creature all your life,"

he answered. "Let your friends act for you. There must be ways of getting rid of him."

"I am afraid," she murmured, "that it would be difficult. He really deserves a better fate, does he not? He is so beautifully persistent."

He drew a little nearer to her. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers--she turned at once to look at him. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. Nevertheless she withdrew her hand.

"Let me help you," he begged. "Indeed, you could have no more faithful friend, you could find no one more anxious to serve you."

Her hand fell back into her lap. He touched it again, and this time it was not withdrawn.

"That is very nice of you," she said. "But it is so difficult----"

"Not at all," he answered eagerly. "I wish you would come and see my lawyers. Of course I know nothing of what really did happen in Paris--if even you ever saw him there. You need not tell me, but a lawyer is different. His client's story is safe with him. He would advise you how to get rid of the fellow."

"I will think of it," she promised.

"You must do more than think of it," he urged. "It is intolerable that you should be followed about by such a creature. I am sure that he can be got rid of."

She turned and looked at him. Her face scarcely reflected his enthusiasm.

"It may be more difficult than you think," she said. "You see you do not know how much of truth there is in his story."

"If it were all true," he said doggedly, "it may still be possible."

"I will think of it," she repeated. "I cannot say more."

They talked for a while in somewhat dreamy fashion, Anna especially being more silent than usual. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet.

"Heavens, look at the time!" she exclaimed. "It is incredible. I shall barely be in time for the theatre. I must go and dress at once."

He too rose.

"I will wait for you on the pavement, if you like," he said, "but I am going to the 'Unusual' with you. Your maid would not be of the least protection."

"But your dinner!" she protested. "You will be so late."

He laughed.

"You cannot seriously believe," he said, "that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not."

She laughed.

"Well, you certainly did very well at tea," she remarked. "If you really are going to wait, make yourself as comfortable as you can.

There are cigarettes and magazines in the corner there."

Anna disappeared, but Ennison did not trouble either the cigarettes or the magazines. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire.

People spoke of him everywhere as a young man of great promise, a politician by instinct, a keen and careful judge of character. Yet he was in a state of hopeless bewilderment. He was absolutely unable to focus his ideas. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. And behind--there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. For the first time a definite doubt possessed him. A woman cannot change her soul. Then it was the woman herself who was changed. Anna was not "Alcide" of the "Amba.s.sador's," whose subtly demure smile and piquant glances had called him to her side from the moment of their first meeting. It was impossible.

She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with common-sense, his own apprehension. He rose at once to his feet and turned a white face upon her.

"I am going to break a covenant," he cried. "I cannot keep silence any longer."

"You are going to speak to me of things which happened before we met in London?" she asked quietly.

"Yes! I must! The thing is becoming a torture to me. I must!"

She threw open the door and pointed to it.

"My word holds," she said. "If you speak--farewell."

He stood quite silent for a moment, his eyes fixed upon her face.

Something he saw there had a curious effect upon him. He was suddenly calm.

"I shall not speak," he said, "now or at any other time. Come!"

They went out together and he called a hansom. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them.

_Chapter XX_

ANNA'S SURRENDER

"This is indeed a gala night," said Ennison, raising his gla.s.s, and watching for a moment the golden bubbles. "Was it really only this afternoon that I met you in St. James' Park?"

Anna nodded, and made a careful selection from a dish of quails.

"It was just an hour before teatime," she remarked. "I have had nothing since, and it seems a very long time."

"An appet.i.te like yours," he said resignedly, "is fatal to all sentiment."

"Not in the least," she a.s.sured him. "I find the two inseparable."

He sighed.

"I have noticed," he said, "that you seem to delight in taking a topsy-turvy view of life. It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus Ward."