"At last," he murmured, "at last I have found you. I must not let you go again. Do you know, Annabel, that you are my wife."

"No," she moaned, "not that. I thought--the papers said----"

"You thought that I was dead," he interrupted. "You pushed the wheel from my hand. You jumped, and I think that you left me. Yet you knew that I was not dead. You came to see me in the hospital. You must have repented a little, or you would not have done that."

"I did not come," she faltered. "It was my sister Anna. I had left Paris."

He pa.s.sed his hand wearily over his forehead.

"That is where I got confused," he said. "I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. Then, I thought, she has repented, all will be well. So I made haste and recovered. I came to London to look for you, and somehow the figure I saw in my dreams had got mixed up with you. Your sister! Great G.o.d, how like she is to what you were!"

Annabel looked around her nervously.

"These are her rooms," she said. "Soon she will return."

"The sooner the better," he answered. "I must explain to her. Annabel, I cannot believe it. I have found you."

His eyes were burning. He advanced a step towards her. She held out both her hands.

"No, no," she cried. "You frighten me!"

He smiled at her indulgently.

"But I am your husband," he said. "You have forgotten. I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine."

"It was a mistake," she faltered. "You told me that your name was Meysey Hill. I thought that you were he."

His face darkened.

"I did it for love of you," he said. "I lied, as I would have committed a murder, or done any evil deed sooner than lose you. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. I can keep you. You shall have a house out at Balham or Sydenham, and two servants. 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 pa.s.sion conquered for a 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. I 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 care for!"

He laughed hardly.

"Tell me his name," he said, "and I promise that he shall never trouble you. But you," he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, "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. I will have nothing to do with you. You are not my husband."

He came towards her with that in his face which filled her with blind terror.

"You belong to me," he said fiercely; "the marriage certificate is in my pocket. You belong to me, and I have waited long enough."

He stepped past her to the door and closed it. Then he turned with a fierce movement to take her into his arms. There was a flash and a loud report. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment 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 before he had been a strong man, she had been in his power, a poor helpless thing. Now he lay there, a doubled-up ma.s.s, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. It could not be she who had done this. She had never let off a pistol in her life. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. The smell of gunpowder 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 several minutes. People were pa.s.sing in the street below. She could hear their footsteps upon the pavement. A hansom 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 upon her knees and unb.u.t.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 room seemed spinning round. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright.

Still silence everywhere. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. She turned out the electric light and gained the hall. Still no sound. Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. There was no one to be seen. She pa.s.sed down the stairs and into the street.

She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. Then she called a hansom and drove home.

"Miss Pellissier," Brendon said gently, "I am afraid that some fresh trouble has come to you."

She smiled at him cheerfully.

"Am I dull?" she said. "I am sorry."

"You could never be that," he answered, "but you are at least more serious than usual."

"Perhaps," she said, "I am superst.i.tious. This is my last week at the 'Unusual,' you know. We begin rehearsing on Monday at the 'Garrick'."

"Surely," he protested, "the change is all in favour of your own inclinations. It is your own choice, isn't it?"

She nodded.

"Yes. But I believe that Mr. Earles thinks I am a little mad, and between ourselves I am not sure about it myself. It is easy enough to sing these little chansons in an original way--it requires a very different sort of ability to succeed on the stage."

"You have it," he declared confidently.

She laughed altogether in her old manner.

"I wonder how it is," she exclaimed, "that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself."

"They know you better," he declared.

"I am afraid," she answered, "that one's friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself--stop."