Anna the Adventuress

At exactly ten minutes past ten Annabel rang the bell of her sister's

flat. There was no response. She rang again with the same result.

Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a

thin crack between the door and the frame. She pushed the former and

it opened. The latch had not fully caught.

The flat was apparently empty. Annabel turned on the electric light

and made her way into the sitting-room. There was a coffee equipage on

the table, and some sandwiches, and the fire had been recently made

up. Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for

her sister's return.

The clock struck half-past ten. The loneliness of the place somewhat

depressed her. She took up a book and threw it down again. Then she

examined with curiosity some knick-knacks upon a small round table by

her side. Amongst them was a revolver. She handled it half fearfully,

and set it carefully down again. Then for the first time she was

conscious of an unaccountable and terrifying sensation. She felt that

she was not alone.

She was only a few yards from the door, but lacked the courage to rise

and fly. Her knees shook, her breath came fast, she almost felt the

lurid effect of those tiny patches of rouge upon her pallor-stricken

cheeks. Her eyes were dilated--fixed in a horrified stare at the

parting in the curtains which hung before the window.

There was some one there. She had seen a man's head steal out for a

moment and draw the curtains a little closer. Even now she could trace

the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. She was wholly

unable to conceal her knowledge of his presence. A little smothered

cry broke from her lips--the curtains were thrown aside and a man

stepped out. She was powerless to move from her chair. All through

that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him

silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object.

Her courage and her presence of mind had alike deserted her. She

could neither speak nor move nor cry out.

"Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!"

She did not speak. Her lips parted, but no words came.

"What have you done to yourself?" he muttered. "You have dyed your

hair and darkened your eyebrows. But you are Annabel. I should know

you--in Heaven or Hell. Who is the other?"

"What other?"

Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. Her lips were dry and

cracked.

"The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the 'Unusual'?

They call her by your old name. Her hair and voice and figure are as

yours used to be. Who is she, I say?"