t the things
straight."

She retreated as quietly as she had come, and I think we both felt that
her entrance and exit relieved the tension of our interview.

I rose and held out my hand.

"Thanks, Jim. I can't think how you know as much as you evidently do;
but, anyhow, I'll take your advice. I'll be off, now, and I won't come
back to-night, as Mary asked me to. I'd rather be alone. See you both
to-morrow. Good night."

I walked back to Westminster, lingering for a considerable time by the
river, where the air was cool and pleasant. The many pairs of lovers
promenading the tree-shaded Embankment took no notice of me, or I of
them.

As I leaned against the parapet, watching the swift flowing murky tide,
I argued the matter out.

Jim was right. I had behaved like an idiot in the garden just now. Well,
I would take his advice and buck up; be on guard. I would do more than
that. I would not even vex myself with conjectures as to how much he
knew, or how he had come by that knowledge. It was impossible to adopt
one part of his counsel--impossible to "forget that such a person as
Anne Pendennis ever existed;" but I would only think of her as the girl
I loved, the girl whom I would see in Berlin within a few days.

I wrote to her that night, saying nothing of the murder, but only that I
was unexpectedly detained, and would send her a wire when I started, so
that she would know when to expect me. Once face to face with her, I
would tell her everything; and she would give me the key to the mystery
that had tortured me so terribly. But I must never let her know that I
had doubted her, even for an instant!

The morning mail brought me an unexpected treasure. Only a post-card,
pencilled by Anne herself in the train, and posted at Dover.

It was written in French, and was brief enough; but, for the time being,
it changed and brightened the whole situation.

"I scarcely hoped to see you at the station, _mon ami_;
there was so little time. What haste you must have made to
get there at all! Shall I really see you in Berlin? I do
want you to know my father. And you will be able to tell me
your plans. I don't even know your destination! The
Reichshof, where we stay, is in Friedrich Strasse, close to
Unter den Linden. _Au revoir!_

A. P."

A simple message, but it meant much to me. I regarded it as a proof that
her hurried journey was not a fl