“Come, come; this will not do,” the stranger continued. “You may wish to hide your identity from most people, but when you try that on with your lawyer and man of business, I think that it is time to draw the line! To refresh your memory, Sir Harold,” a little sarcastically, “my name is Babbet, of the firm of Babbet & Co., and as you have not removed the management of your affairs from our hands, I naturally suppose that you continue to have confidence in us. Of course, we are in communication with Colonel Greyson.”
Sir Harold suddenly put his hands to his head, and reeled like a drunken man. His face turned deathly white.
“Ah, I recognize you, Babbet!” he gasped, “but the effort was awful. I have been ill, you know. Let me have fresh air.”
The lawyer led him to the door, much concerned, and walked with him toward Charing Cross.
“You will see me again before leaving London?” he said.
“Yes, I will endeavor to do so,” was the reply.
“Are you sure that you are able to proceed alone?”
“Quite,” said Sir Harold. “My hotel is near.”
They parted, but Annesley did not go to his hotel. He felt utterly bewildered, and walked in the direction of Hyde Park, where he seated himself, and bared his hot brow to the cool September breeze.
“It is all so strange, and yet so familiar,” he kept murmuring. “I cannot make it out at all. I must not delay; Theresa will be waiting for me. Poor little Theresa! I am married to Theresa—or is it a dream? I am on my wedding tour, of course, but I hope that I am not going to be ill. Oh, that cruel knife is ever present! My poor little Theresa!”