erican girl, wasn't she?"

"How odd that you should know!"

"Not very. I remember there being a lot in the papers about the wedding
six or seven years ago. The girl was very rich--a Miss Haverstall. Her
father's lost his money since then."

"How _can_ you keep such uninteresting things in your mind--just now?"

"They're not uninteresting. They concern you!"

"Lord Annesley-Seton's affairs don't concern me, and never will."

"I wonder?" said Smith, looking thoughtful; and the girl wondered, too:
not about her future or her relatives, but what the next few minutes
would do with this strange young man, and how at such a time he could
bear to talk commonplaces.

"If you're trying to keep me from being nervous," she whispered, "it's
not a bit of use! I can't think of anything or any one except those men.
They've stopped whispering. But they're looking at you. Now--they're
getting up. They're coming toward us!"

CHAPTER IV

THE GREAT MOMENT

The men were staring so keenly at "Mr. N. Smith" that it seemed to
Annesley he must feel the stab of eyes, sharp as pin-pricks, in his back.
He had the self-control, however, not to look round, not even to change
expression. No man in the restaurant appeared more calmly at ease than
he.

The couple had accompanied their stare with eager whisperings. Then,
as if on some hasty decision, they pushed back their chairs and got up.
Taking a few steps they separated, approaching Smith on right and left.
One, therefore, stood between him and Annesley as if to prevent an
exchange of words or glances. There was something Eastern and oddly
alien about them in spite of their conventional clothes.

"Mr. Michael Varcoe!" said the bigger and older, he who stood on the left
of Smith. The other kept in the background, not to crowd with conspicuous
rudeness between Annesley and her host. The man who spoke had a thick
voice and a curious accent which the girl, with her small experience, was
unable to place.

"No," answered "Smith," in a puzzled tone. "You mistake me for someone
else."

"I think not," insisted the bearded man, in a hostile drawl. "I _think_
not!"

"I'm _sure_ not," echoed the other. "You are Michael Varcoe. There's no
getting away from that."

The emphasis seemed to add, "And no getting away from _us_."

Excitement stirred Annesley to courage. "Why, how horrid!" she exclaimed,
bending past the human obstacle; "people taking you for some _foreigner_!
I'm sure yo