"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 associate you with--my little friend of the
'Ambassador'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."

They passed a man who stared at them curiously. Ennison started and
looked anxiously at Anna. She was quite unconcerned.

"Did you see who that was?" he asked in a low tone.

"I did not recognize him," Anna answered. "I supposed that he took off
his hat to you."

"It was Cheveney!" he said slowly.

"Cheveney!" she repeated. "I do not know any one of that name."

He caught her wrist and turned her face towards him. Her eyes were
wide open with amazement.

"Mr. Ennison!"

He released her.

"Good God!" he exclaimed. "Who are you--Annabel Pellissier or her
ghost?"

Anna laughed.

"If it is a choice between the two," she answered, "I must be Annabel
Pellissier. I am certainly no ghost."

"You have her face and figure," he muttered. "You have even her name.
Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know
him. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman--you wear
different clothes, you have the air of another world. If you do not
help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very
soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum."

She laughed heartily,