Anna the Adventuress Part 24

Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison.

"I won't pretend," he said, "that this is an accident. The fates are never so kind to me. As a matter of fact I have been waiting for you."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Really," she said. "And by what right do you do anything of the sort?"

"No right at all," he admitted. "Only it is much too late for you to be out alone. You have been to see your sister, of course. How is she?"

"My sister is quite well, thank you," she answered. "Would you mind calling that hansom for me?"

He looked at it critically and shook his head.

"You really couldn't ride in it," he said, deprecatingly. "The horse's knees are broken, and I am not sure that the man is sober. I would sooner see you in a 'bus again."

She laughed.

"Do you mean to say that you have been here ever since I came?"

"I am afraid that I must confess it," he answered. "Idiotic, isn't it?"

"Absolutely," she agreed coldly. "I wish you would not do it."

"Would not do what?"

"Well, follow buses from Russell Square to Hampstead."

"I can a.s.sure you," he answered, "that it isn't a habit of mine. But seriously----"

"Well seriously?"

"Isn't it your own fault a little? Why do you not tell me your address, and allow me to call upon you."

"Why should I? I have told you that I do not wish for acquaintances in London."

"Perhaps not in a general way," he answered calmly. "You are quite right, I think. Only I am not an acquaintance at all. I am an old friend, and I declined to be shelved."

"Would you mind telling me," Anna asked, "how long I knew you in Paris?"

He looked at her sideways. There was nothing to be learned from her face.

"Well," he said slowly, "I had met you three times--before Drummond's dinner."

"Oh, Drummond's dinner!" she repeated. "You were there, were you?"

He laughed a little impatiently.

"Isn't that rather a strange question--under the circ.u.mstances?" he asked quietly.

Her cheeks flushed a dull red. She felt that there was a hidden meaning under his words. Yet her embarra.s.sment was only a pa.s.sing thing. She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders.

"We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground," she said. "It was perhaps my fault. You have not forgotten----"

"I have forgotten nothing?" he answered, enigmatically.

Anna hailed a bus. He looked at her reproachfully. The bus however was full. They fell into step again. More than ever a sense of confusion was upon Ennison.

"Last time I saw you," he reminded her, "you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London."

"Quite true," she answered briskly, "and thanks to you I have succeeded."

"Thanks to me," he repeated, puzzled. "I don't understand."

"No? But it is very simple. It was you who were so much amazed that I did not try--the music hall stage here."

"You must admit," he declared, "that to us--who had seen you--the thought of your trying anything else was amazing."

"At any rate," she declared, "your remarks decided me. I have an engagement with a theatrical agent--I believe for the 'Unusual'."

"You are going to sing in London?" he said quietly.

"Yes."

For a moment or two he did not speak. Glancing towards him she saw that a shadow had fallen upon his face.

"Tell me," she insisted, "why you look like that. You are afraid--that here in London--I shall not be a success. It is that, is it not?"

"No," he answered readily. "It is not that. The idea of your being a failure would never have occurred to me."

"Then why are you sorry that I am going to the 'Unusual'? I do not understand."

Their eyes met for a moment. His face was very serious.

"I am sorry," he said slowly. "Why, I do not know."

"I positively insist upon knowing," she declared cheerfully. "The sooner you tell me the better."

"It is very hard to explain," he answered. "I think that it is only an idea. Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed--to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering. I find you an impenetrable enigma. I find it impossible to a.s.sociate you with--my little friend of the 'Amba.s.sador's.' The things she said and did from you--seem impossible. I had a sort of idea," he went on, "that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky."

There was a long silence. Then Anna spoke more seriously than usual.

"I think," she said, "that I rather like what you have said. Don't be afraid to go on thinking it. Even though I am going to sing at the 'Unusual' you may find that the 'Alcide,' whom you knew in Paris does not exist any more. At the same time," she added, in a suddenly altered tone, "it isn't anything whatever to do with you, is it?"

"Why not?" he answered. "You permitted me then to call you my friend.

I do not intend to allow you to forget."