Anna the Adventuress

The doctor glanced towards Anna. Considering his convictions he felt that his remark was a generous one. Anna’s face however was wholly impassive.

He took up his hat and went. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. Then he turned to Anna.

“Can you give me any information as to this affair?” he asked.

“I will tell you all that I know,” Anna said. “My name is Anna Pellissier, sometimes called Annabel. I am engaged to sing every evening at the ‘Unusual’ music hall. This man’s name is Montague Hill. I saw him first a few months ago at Mrs. White’s boarding-house in Russell Square. He subjected me there to great annoyance by claiming me as his wife. As a matter of fact, I had never spoken to him before in my life. Since then he has persistently annoyed me. I have suspected him of possessing a skeleton key to my apartments. To-night I locked up my flat at six o’clock. It was then, I am sure, empty. I dined with a friend and went to the ‘Unusual.’ At a quarter past eleven I returned here with this gentleman, Mr. Brendon. As we turned the corner of the street, I noticed that the electric light was burning in this room. We stopped for a moment to watch it, and almost immediately it was turned out. We came on here at once. I found the door locked as usual, but when we entered this room everything was as you see. Nothing has been touched since.”

The detective nodded.

“A very clear statement, madam,” he said. “From what you saw from the opposite pavement then, it is certain that some person who was able to move about was in this room only a minute or so before you entered it?”

“That is so,” Anna answered.

“You met no one upon the stairs, or saw no one leave the flats?”

“No one,” Anna answered firmly.

“Then either this man shot himself or some one else shot him immediately before your arrival – or rather if it was not himself the person who did it was in the room, say two minutes, before you arrived.”

“That is so,” Anna admitted.

“I will not trouble you with any questions about the other occupants of the flats,” Mr. Dorling said. “I shall have to go through the building. You say that this gentleman was with you?”

“I was,” Brendon answered, “most providentially.”

“You did not notice anything which may have escaped this lady? You saw no one leave the flats?”

“No one,” Brendon answered.

“You heard no pistol-shot?”

“None.”

The detective turned again to Anna.

“You know of no one likely to have had a grudge against this man?” he asked.

“No.”

“There is no one else who has a key to your rooms?”

“No one except my maid, who is away in Wiltshire.”

“The inference is, then,” the detective said smoothly, “that this man obtained admission to your rooms by means of a false key, that he burnt some papers here and shot himself within a few moments of your return. Either that or some other person also obtained admission here and shot him, and that person is either still upon the premises or escaped without your notice.”

“I suppose,” Anna said, “that those are reasonable deductions.”

The detective thrust his notebook into his pocket.

“I brought a man with me who is posted outside,” he remarked. “With your permission I should like to search the remainder of your rooms.”

Anna showed him the way.

“Have either of you been out of this room since you discovered what had happened?” he asked.

“Mr. Brendon went for the doctor,” Anna answered. “I have not left this apartment myself.”

Nothing unusual was discovered in any other part of the flat. While they were still engaged in looking round the doctor returned with a nurse and assistant.

“With your permission,” he said to Anna, “I shall arrange a bed for him where he is. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved.”

“You can make any arrangements you like,” Anna declared. “I shall leave the flat to you and go to a hotel.”

“You would perhaps be so good as to allow one of my men to accompany you and see you settled,” Mr. Dorling said deferentially. “In the event of his death we should require you at once to attend at the inquest.”

“I am going to pack my bag,” Anna answered. “In five minutes I shall be ready.”

Chapter XXV

THE STEEL EDGE OF THE TRUTH

The manservant, with his plain black clothes and black tie, had entered the room with a deferential little gesture.

“You will pardon me, sir,” he said in a subdued tone, “but I think that you have forgotten to look at your engagement book. There is Lady Arlingford’s reception to-night, ten till twelve, and the Hatton House ball, marked with a cross, sir, important. I put your clothes out an hour ago.”

Nigel Ennison looked up with a little start.

“All right, Dunster,” he said. “I may go to Hatton House later, but you needn’t wait. I can get into my clothes.”

The man hesitated.

“Can I bring you anything, sir – a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee.”

“Bring me a whisky and soda, and a box of cigarettes,” Ennison answered, “and then leave me alone, there’s a good fellow. I’m a little tired.”

The man obeyed his orders noiselessly and then left the room.

Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette.

“What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. “And yet I wonder whether the world ever held such another enigma in her sex. Paris looms behind – a tragedy of strange recollections – here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. And then – this sudden thrust. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. Something unpardonable is laid to my charge. Only last night she saw me, and there was horror in her eyes… I have written, called – of what avail is anything – against that look… What the devil is the matter, Dunster?”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you.”

Ennison turned round sharply.

“A lady, Dunster. Who is it?”

The man came a little further into the room.

“Lady Ferringhall, sir.”

“Lady Ferringhall – alone?” Ennison exclaimed.

“Quite alone, sir.”

Ennison was dismayed.

“For Heaven’s sake, Dunster, don’t let her out of the carriage, or hansom, or whatever she came in. Say I’m out, away, anything!”

“I am sorry, sir,” the man answered, “but she had sent away her hansom before I answered the bell. She is in the hall now. I – ”

The door was thrown open. Annabel entered.

“Forgive my coming in,” she said to Ennison. “I heard your voices, and the hall is draughty. What is the matter with you?”

Dunster had withdrawn discreetly. Ennison’s manner was certainly not one of a willing host.

“I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. “For your own sake, let me beg of you not to stay for a moment. Dunster shall fetch you a cab. I – ”

She threw herself into an easy chair. She was unusually pale, and her eyes were brilliant. Never had she seemed to him so much like Anna.

“You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. You will agree with me when you have heard what I have to say. For me that is all over and done with.”

“Lady Ferringhall! Anna!” he exclaimed.

She fixed her brilliant eyes upon him.

“Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. “Call me Annabel.”

He started back as though he had been shot.

“Annabel?” he exclaimed. “That is your sister’s name.”

“No, mine.”

It came upon him like a flash. Innumerable little puzzles were instantly solved. He could only wonder that this amazing thing had remained so long a secret to him. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Nevertheless it was overwhelming.

“But your hair,” he gasped.

“Dyed!”

“And your figure?”

“One’s corsetière arranges that. My friend, I am only grieved that you of all others should have been so deceived. I have seen you with Anna, and I have not known whether to be glad or sorry. I have been in torment all the while to know whether it was to Anna or to Annabel that you were making love so charmingly. Nigel, do you know that I have been very jealous?”

He avoided the invitation of her eyes. He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment.

“But Sir John?” he exclaimed. “What made you marry him? What made you leave Paris without a word to any one? What made you and your sister exchange identities?”

“There is one answer to all those questions, Nigel,” she said, with a nervous little shudder. “It is a hateful story. Come close to me, and let me hold your hand, dear. I am a little afraid.”

There was a strange look in her face, the look of a frightened child. Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. He stood by her side, and he suffered her hands to rest in his.

“You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about – Meysey Hill they called him?”

He nodded.

“Miserable bounder,” he murmured. “Turned out to be an impostor, too.”

“He imposed on me,” Annabel continued. “I believed that he was the great multi-millionaire. He worried me to marry him. I let him take me to the English Embassy, and we went through some sort of a ceremony. I thought it would be magnificent to have a great house in Paris, and more money than any other woman. Afterwards we started for déjeuner in a motor. On the way he confessed. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. Every one took him for the millionaire, and he had lost his head about me. I – well, I lost my temper. I struck him across the face, twisted the steering wheel of the motor, sprang out myself, and left him for dead on the road with the motor on top of him. This is the first act.”

“Served the beast right,” Ennison declared. “I think I can tell you something which may be very good news for you presently. But go on.”

“Act two,” she continued. “Enter Sir John, very honest, very much in love with me. I thought that Hill was dead, but I was frightened, and I wanted to get away from Paris. Sir John heard gossip about us – about Anna the recluse, a paragon of virtue, and Annabel alias ‘Alcide’ a dancer at the cafés chantants, and concerning whom there were many stories which were false, and a few – which were true. I – well, I borrowed Anna’s name. I made her my unwilling confederate. Sir John followed me to London and married me. To this day he and every one else thinks that he married Anna.

“Act three. Anna comes to London. She is poor, and she will take nothing from my husband, the man she had deceived for my sake, and he, on his part, gravely disapproves of her as ‘Alcide.’ She tries every way of earning a living and fails. Then she goes to a dramatic agent. Curiously enough nothing will persuade him that she is not ‘Alcide.’ He believes that she denies it simply because owing to my marriage with Sir John, whom they call the ‘Puritan Knight,’ she wants to keep her identity secret. He forces an engagement upon her. She never calls herself ‘Alcide.’ It is the Press who find her out. She is the image of what I was like, and she has a better voice. Then enter Mr. Hill again – alive. He meets Anna, and claims her as his wife. It is Anna again who stands between me and ruin.”

“I cannot let you go on,” Ennison interrupted. “I believe that I can give you great news. Tell me where the fellow Hill took you for this marriage ceremony.”

“It was behind the Place de Vendome, on the other side from the Ritz.”

“I knew it,” Ennison exclaimed. “Cheer up, Annabel. You were never married at all. That place was closed by the police last month. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. Everything was done in the most legal and imposing way, but the whole thing was a fraud.”

“Then I was never married to him at all?” Annabel said.

“Never – but, by Jove, you had a narrow escape,” Ennison exclaimed. “Annabel, I begin to see why you are here. Think! Had you not better hurry back before Sir John discovers? You are his wife right enough. You can tell me the rest another time.”

She smiled faintly.

“The rest,” she said, holding tightly to his hands, “is the most important of all. You came to me, you wished me to speak to Anna. I went to her rooms to-night. There was no one at home, and I was coming away when I saw that the door was open. I decided to go in and wait. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. He had gained admission somehow, and he too was waiting for Anna. But – he was cleverer than any of you. He knew me, Nigel. ‘At last,’ he cried, ‘I have found you!’ He would listen to nothing. He swore that I was his wife, and – I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Shot him, do you hear?”

“Good God!” he exclaimed, looking at her curiously. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?”

She nodded.

“I shot him. I saw the blood come as he rolled over. I tore the marriage certificate from his pocket and burnt it. And then I came here.”

“You came – here!” he repeated, vaguely.

“Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. She is a stranger to you. You cannot care for her. Think of those days in Paris. Do you remember when we went right away, Nigel, and forgot everything? We went down the river past Veraz, and the larks were singing all over those deep brown fields, and the river further on wound its way like a coil of silver across the rich meadowland, and along the hillside vineyards. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. Nigel! You have not forgotten. It was the first day you kissed me, under the willows, coming into Veraz. Nigel, you have not forgotten!”

“No,” he said, with a little bitter smile. “I have never forgotten.”

She suddenly caught hold of his shoulders and drew him down towards her.

“Nigel, don’t you understand. I must leave England to-night. I must go somewhere into hiding, a long, long way off. I killed him, Nigel. They will say that it was murder. But if only you will come I do not care.”

He shook her hands off almost roughly. He stood away from her. She listened with dumb fear in her eyes.

“Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. “We played at love-making in Paris. It was very pretty and very dainty while it lasted, but we played it with our eyes open, and we perfectly understood the game – both of us. Other things came. We went our ways. There was no broken faith – not even any question of anything of the sort. I met you here as Lady Ferringhall. We have played at a little mild love-making again. It has been only the sort of nonsense which passes lightly enough between half the men and women in London. You shall know the truth. I do not love you. I have never loved you. I call myself a man of the world, a man of many experiences, but I never knew what love meant – until I met your sister.”

“You love – Anna?” she exclaimed.

“I do,” he answered. “I always shall. Now if you are ready to go with me, I too am ready. We will go to Ostend by the early morning boat and choose a hiding place from there. I will marry you when Sir John gets his divorce, and I will do all I can to keep you out of harm. But you had better know the truth to start with. I will do all this not because I love you, but – because you are Anna’s sister.”

Annabel rose to her feet.

“You are magnificent,” she said, “but the steel of your truth is a little oversharpened. It cuts. Will you let your servant call me a hansom,” she continued, opening the door before he could reach her side. “I had no idea that it was so abominably late.”

He scarcely saw her face again. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best.

“Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up.

“Home, of course,” she answered. “Eight, Cavendish Square.”

Chapter XXVI

ANNABEL IS WARNED

“You!”

David Courtlaw crossed the floor of the dingy little sitting-room with outstretched hands.

“You cannot say that you did not expect me,” he answered. “I got Sydney’s telegram at ten o’clock, and caught the ten-thirty from the Gare du Nord.”

“It is very nice of you,” Anna said softly.

“Rubbish!” he answered. “I could not have stayed in Paris and waited for news. Tell me exactly what has happened. Even now I do not understand. Is this man Hill dead?”

She shook her head.

“He was alive at four o’clock this afternoon,” she answered, “but the doctors give little hope of his recovery.”

“What is there to be feared?” he asked her quietly.

She hesitated.

“You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. I think that I will tell you. The man Hill has persecuted me for months – ever since I have been in England. He claimed me for his wife, and showed to every one a marriage certificate. He shot at me at the ‘Unusual,’ and the magistrates bound him over to keep the peace. I found him once in my rooms, and I believe that he had a key to my front door. Last night Mr. Brendon and I returned from the ‘Unusual,’ and found him lying in my room shot through the lungs. In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate. We fetched the doctor and the police. From the first I could see that neither believed my story. I am suspected of having shot the man.”

“But that is ridiculous!” he exclaimed.

She laughed a little bitterly.

“I am under police surveillance,” she said. “So is Mr. Brendon.”

“But there is not a shadow of evidence against you,” he objected. “The man alone could supply any, and if he recovers sufficiently to say anything, what he would say would exonerate you.”

“Yes.”

There was a moment’s silence. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. He stepped quickly towards her. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. She distinctly shivered as he forced her to look at him. He was bewildered.

“Anna!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “Look at me. What is it? Good God!”

An unhappy little smile parted her lips. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire.

“I think,” she said, “that I will tell you everything. I must tell somebody – and you would understand.”

“I am your friend,” he said slowly, “whatever you may have to tell me. You can trust me, Anna. You know that. I will be as silent as the grave.”

“Not long ago,” she said, “you left me in anger, partly because of this exchange of identities between Annabel and myself. You said that it would bring trouble. It has.”

“Yes.”

“Annabel’s real reason for wishing to leave Paris, the real reason she married Sir John Ferringhall, was because of a very foolish thing which she did. It was – in connection with this man Hill. He personated over there a millionaire named Meysey Hill, and it seems that he induced Annabel to go through some sort of marriage with him at the Embassy.”

“Where?” Courtlaw asked quickly.

“In Paris.”

Courtlaw seemed about to say something. He changed his mind however, and simply motioned to her to proceed.

“Then there was a motor accident only an hour or so after this ceremony, and Hill was reported to be killed. Annabel believed it, came to England and married Sir John. Now you can understand why I have been obliged to – ”

“Yes, yes, I understand that,” Courtlaw interrupted. “But about last night.”

“Annabel knew where I lived,” Anna continued slowly. “She has been to my flat before. I saw her come out from the flat buildings two minutes before we entered it last night. I picked up her handkerchief on the floor.”

“You mean – you think – ”

“Hush! I think that he was concealed in my room, and Annabel and he met there. What passed between them I cannot think – I dare not. The pistol was his own, it is true, but it was one which was taken from him when he forced his way in upon me before. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. It is not for myself I fear. But if he speaks – I fear what he may tell.”

“You have been to her?” he asked.

“I dare not,” she answered.

“I will go,” he said. “She must be warned. She had better escape if she can.”

Anna shook her head.

“She will take her risk,” she answered. “I am sure of it. If he recovers he may not accuse her. If he dies she is safe.”

He paced the room for a minute or two restlessly.

“There are some people,” he said at last, “who seem fated to carry on their shoulders the burdens of other people. You, Anna, are one of them. I know in Paris you pinched and scraped that your sister might have the dresses and entertainments she desired. You fell in at once with her quixotic and damnable scheme of foisting her reputation and her follies upon your shoulders whilst she marries a rich man and commences all over again a life of selfish pleasure. You on the other hand have to come to London, a worker, with the responsibility of life upon your own shoulders – and in addition all the burden of her follies.”

“You forget,” she said, looking up at him with a faint smile, “that under the cloak of her name I am earning more money a week than I could ever have earned in a year by my own labours.”

“It is an accident,” he answered. “Besides, it is not so. You sing better than Annabel ever did, you have even a better style. ‘Alcide’ or no ‘Alcide,’ there is not a music hall manager in London or Paris who would not give you an engagement on your own merits.”

“Perhaps not,” she answered. “And yet in a very few weeks I shall have done with it all. Do you think that I shall ever make an actress, my friend?”

“I doubt it,” he answered bluntly. “You have not feeling enough.”

She smiled at him.

“It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. All the same, I don’t admit it.”

He shook his head.

“To be an actress,” he said, “you require a special and peculiar temperament. I do not believe that there has ever lived a really great actress whose moral character from the ordinary point of view would bear inspection.”

“Then I,” she said, “have too much character.”

“Too much character, and too little sentiment,” he answered. “Too much sensibility and too cold a heart. Too easily roused emotions and too little passion. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life – you, who have never loved?”

“You have become French to the core,” she murmured. “You would believe that life is kindled by the passions alone.”

There was silence between them. Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. Anna tore it open and passed it to Courtlaw. It was from Brendon.

“Hill gradually recovering consciousness. Doctor says depositions to-night. Recovery impossible. – Brendon.”

He looked at her gravely.

“I think,” he said, “that some one ought to warn her.”

“It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply.

Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. Servants were passing backwards and forwards with tea and chocolate. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. Then she came a few steps to meet him.

“Mr. Courtlaw, is it not,” she remarked, with lifted eyebrows. “Really it is very kind of you to have found me out.”

He was bereft of words for a moment, and in that moment she escaped, having passed him on deftly to one of the later arrivals.

“Lady Mackinnor,” she said, “I am sure that you must have heard of Mr. David Courtlaw. Permit me to make him known to you – Mr. Courtlaw – Lady Mackinnor.”

With a murmured word of excuse she glided away, and Courtlaw, who had come with a mission which seemed to him to be one of life or death, was left to listen to the latest art jargon from Chelsea. He bore it as long as he could, watching all the time with fascinated eyes Annabel moving gracefully about amongst her guests, always gay, with a smile and a whisper for nearly everybody. Grudgingly he admired her. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite – something quite insignificant. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. And instead he found her playing the great lady, and playing it well. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. At last he could bear it no longer. He left his companion in the midst of a glowing eulogy of Bastien Leparge, and boldly intercepted his hostess as she moved from one group to join another.