"Thank you," she interrupted. "I will not ask you to explain further.

Good night."

He left at once, immensely relieved, yet scarcely satisfied with himself as regarded his share of the interview with this young woman.

They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face.

"Why did you lie to that man?" he asked fiercely. "How dared you do yourself this injustice?"

"I did it for her sake," she answered. "It may be her salvation. I believe that he will marry her."

"You would let him--knowing--all that you know?"

"Why not? She is my flesh and blood. She is more dear to me than anything else. Perhaps if I had watched over her more closely, things would have been different."

"You! Why, you have been an angel to her," he exclaimed impatiently.

"You know very well that she is selfish and pleasure-loving to the backbone. You have made enough sacrifices for her surely without this.

Besides, you cannot tell where it will end. You have taken upon your shoulders the burden of her misdeeds. You may have to carry them further and longer than you think. Oh, it is unbearable."

The man's face was dark with pa.s.sion. It was as though he were personally aggrieved. His tone was rough, almost threatening. The girl only smiled at him serenely, but she laid her hand for a moment quietly upon his.

"Dear friend," she said, "this is a matter which you must leave to me to do as I think best. Annabel is my only sister, you know, almost my only relative. If I do not look after her, she has no one. And she is very young, younger than her years."

It was significant of her influence over him that he answered her calmly, although a storm of angry thoughts were struggling for expression within him.

"Look after her! Why not? But you have done it all your life. You have been her guardian angel. But even you cannot alter her character.

Annabel was born soulless, a human b.u.t.terfly, if ever there was one.

The pursuit of pleasure, self-gratification, is an original instinct with her. Blood and bone, body and spirit, she is selfish through and through. Even you have not been able to hold her back. I speak no harm of her. She is your sister, and G.o.d knows I wish her none. But----"

A look checked him.

"I know," she said quietly, "that Paris, where she has been so much admired, is not a good place for her. That is why I am glad that she has gone to London."

He rose from his chair, and walked restlessly up and down the room.

The pa.s.sion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. There was a black fear in his heart. He stopped before her suddenly.

"You, too," he said abruptly. "You mean to follow her. You will go to London?"

"It is necessary," she answered. "You yourself have decided that--apart from the question of Annabel."

He was suddenly calm.

"It is part of the irony of life," he said. "One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. I meant to lie to you. Would to G.o.d I had."

She shook her head.

"The surgeon's knife is surely a kindly weapon," she declared. "It was best for me to know. Later on I could scarcely have forgiven you."

"And now--I am to lose you."

"For a little time," she answered. "I meant to say good-bye to you to-night. Or, after all, is it worth while? The Channel is a little broader than the Boulevards--but one crosses it sometimes."

He looked at her with white, set face.

"Yes," he said, "I shall come. That is very certain. But, after all, it will be different. I think that I have become a drug drinker. I need you every day. In the mornings I find labour easy because I am going to see you. In the afternoon my brain and fingers leap to their work because you have been with me. Anna, you shall not go. I cannot let you go."

She threw away the end of her cigarette. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. He made a quick movement towards her, but she did not flinch. His arm fell to his side. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob.

"David," she said, "you are not a coward, are you?"

"I do not know," he muttered. "The bravest of us have joints in our armour."

"You are not a coward," she repeated, "or you would not be my friend.

A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake. You are not a coward David, and you must not talk like one. Put out your hand and bid me G.o.d-speed. It is the only way."

"I cannot do it!" he cried hoa.r.s.ely. "I cannot part with you. You have grown into my life. Anna----"

Again she stopped him, but this time it was not so easy. The man's pa.s.sion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her. And yet, as she rose slowly to her feet and stood looking at him with outstretched hands, a strange mixture of expressions shining in her wonderful eyes, he realized in some measure the strength of her determination, felt the utter impotence of anything which he could say to her. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own pa.s.sionate love. He took her hands firmly in his and raised them to his lips.

"You shall go," he declared. "I will make of the days and weeks one long morning, but remember the afternoon must come. Always remember that."

Her hands fell to her side. She remained for a few moments standing as though listening to his retreating footsteps. Then she turned, and entering the inner room, commenced to dress hastily for the street.

_Chapter VI_

A QUESTION OF IDENTIFICATION

The little man with the closely-cropped beard and hair looked at her keenly through his gold eye-gla.s.ses. He sat before a desk littered all over with papers and official looking doc.u.ments. The walls of the room were lined with shelves, on which were gla.s.s jars, retorts, countless bottles and many appliances of surgical science. A skeleton was propped against the mantelpiece. The atmosphere seemed heavy with the odour of drugs.

"You are Mademoiselle Pellissier?" he asked, without rising to his feet.

Anna admitted the fact.

"We sent for you several hours ago," he remarked.

"I came directly I was disengaged," Anna answered. "In any case, there is probably some mistake. I have very few friends in Paris."

He referred to a sheet of paper by his side.

"Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries," he said in a dry official tone. "As it is doubtful whether the man will live, we should be glad if you would identify him."

"It is most unlikely that I shall be able to do so," Anna answered.

"To the best of my belief, I have not a single English acquaintance in the city."

"My dear young lady," the official said irritably, "this man would not have your name and address in his pocket without an object. You cannot tell whether you know him or not until you have seen him. Be so good as to come this way."

With a little shrug of the shoulders Anna followed him. They ascended by a lift to one of the upper floors, pa.s.sed through a long ward, and finally came to a bed in the extreme corner, round which a screen had been arranged. A nurse came hurrying up.