ble to explain. Even to
my own brother--if I had one--I could not tell everything, and you,
although you are so kind, you are almost a stranger, aren't you?"

"No, no!" he protested. "You must not think of me as one. Try and
consider me your elder brother, or an old family friend, whichever you
like best."

She thanked him with one of her shy little glances. More than ever Sir
John was glad that he had sat down.

"It is very, very difficult," she continued, looking steadfastly at
the ground. "Only--I have come face to face--with something terrible,
and wholly unexpected trouble. I want to leave Paris to-day--this very
day. I want to leave it for ever."

He looked at her very gravely.

"But your sister?" he asked. "What of her? Have you quarrelled with
her?"

The girl shook her head.

"No," she answered. "I have not quarrelled with her. It is simply our
point of view which is altogether different. I want to get away--to go
to London. I cannot explain beyond that."

"Then I am sure," Sir John declared, "that I shall not ask you. I know
nothing about the matter, but I feel convinced that you are right. You
ought to have had better advice two years ago. Paris is not the place
for two young girls. I presume that you have been living alone?"

She sighed gently.

"My sister," she murmured, "is so independent. She is Bohemian to the
finger-tips. She makes me feel terribly old-fashioned."

Sir John smiled and congratulated himself upon his insight. He was so
seldom wrong.

"The next question, Miss Anna," he said, "is how am I to help you? I
am wholly at your disposal."

She looked up at him quickly. Her expression was a little changed,
less innocent, more discerning.

"Anna!" she repeated. "How do you know--why do you think that my name
is Anna?" He smiled in a quietly superior way.

"I think," he said, "that I am right. I am very good at guessing
names."

"I am really curious," she persisted. "You must have heard--have
you--oh, tell me, won't you?" she begged. "Have you heard things?"

The tears stood in her eyes. She leaned a little towards him. Nothing
but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible
constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but
unmistakable evidence of his sympathy.

"I am afraid," he said gravely, "that your sister has been a little
indiscreet. It is nothing at all for you to worry about."

She looked away from him.

"I knew," she said, i