MRS. BRANDRETH'S STORY
She came—into a room with all the blinds up, the curtains pushed back, and floods of sunshine streaming in.
Just for an instant I was chilled with doubt of last night's impression, for her face was so pale and anxious that she was more like Rosemary than had been the red-rose vision at the theatre. But she was genuinely surprised at sight of me.
"Why!" she exclaimed. "You are the lovely lady who sat next us at the play!"
"Does my name suggest nothing to you?" I asked.
"Nothing," she echoed.
"Then we'll sit down, and I'll tell you a story," I suggested.
I began with the Aquitania: the man in the cushioned deck-chair, going home condemned to die; the beautiful girl who appeared on the second day out; the recognition. I mentioned no names. When I said, however, that years ago the two had been engaged, a sudden light flashed into my visitor's eyes. She would have interrupted, but I begged her to let me go on; and she sat silent while I told the whole story. Then, before she had time to speak, I said: "There's just one thing I know! You are not the woman who came to England and married Ralston Murray. If you have a heart in your breast, you'll tell me where to find that woman. He will die unless she goes back to him."
Her lips parted, but she pressed them tightly together again. I saw her muscles stiffen in sympathy with some resolve.
"The woman, whoever she was, must have personated me for a reason of her own," she answered. "It's as deep a mystery to me as to you."