“It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. “Only you are the woman I love, and you are in trouble. And you are something of a heroine, too. You see, my riddle is solved. I know all.”
“You know all?”
“Your sister has told me.”
“You have seen her—since last night?”
“Yes.”
Anna shivered a little. She asked no further questions for the moment. Ennison himself, with the recollection of Annabel’s visit still fresh in his mind, was for a moment constrained and ill at ease. When they reached her rooms she stepped lightly out upon the pavement.
“Now you must go,” she said firmly. “I have had a trying evening and I need rest.”
“You need help and sympathy more, Anna,” he pleaded, “and I have the right, yes I have the right to offer you both. I will not be sent away.”
“It is my wish to be alone,” she said wearily. “I can say no more.”
She turned and fitted the latchkey into the door. He hesitated for a moment and then he followed her. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. She looked at it with a little shudder, but she made no motion to take it.