has asked me to give
them my reasons--for shooting myself. I've told them all that was
necessary, but I--wanted to ask your pardon--for having made myself a
nuisance to you, and for breaking into your rooms--and to thank
you--the doctor says you bound up my wound--or I should have bled to
death."

"I forgive you willingly," Anna said, bending over him. "It has all
been a mistake, hasn't it?"

"No more talking," the doctor interposed.

"I want two words--with Miss Pellissier alone," Hill pleaded.

The doctor frowned.

"Remember," he said, "you are not by any means a dying man now, but
you'll never pull through if you don't husband your strength."

"Two words only," Hill repeated.

They all left the room. Anna leaned over so that he needed only to
whisper.

"Tell your sister she was right to shoot, quite right. I meant
mischief. But tell her this, too. I believed that our marriage was
genuine. I believed that she was my wife, or she would have been safe
from me."

"I will tell her," Anna promised.

"She has nothing to be afraid of," he continued. "I have signed a
statement that I shot myself; bad trade and drink, both true--both
true."

His eyes were closed. Anna left the room on tiptoe. She and Courtlaw
drove homewards together.

_Chapter XXX_

SIR JOHN'S NECKTIE

Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey
little room writing letters. The room was worse than pokey, it was
shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs,
wholly uninspiring. Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who
was enjoying himself. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of
his tie and hair were almost rakish. He stamped his last letter as
Annabel entered.

She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was
accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat.

"John," she declared, "I must eat or die. Do get your hat, and we will
go to that corner cafe."

"Right," he answered. "I know the place you mean--very good cooking
for such an out-of-the-way show. I'll be ready in a moment."

Sir John stamped his letters, brushed his hat, and carefully gave his
moustache an upward curl before the looking-glass.

"I really do not believe," he announced with satisfaction, "that any
one would recognize me. What do you think, Annabel?"

"I don't think they would," she admitted. "You seem to have cultivated
quite a jaunty appearance, and you certa