Sir John was speechless. It was Annabel who caught at the paper.
“You—appear to know my name, sir,” Sir John said.
“Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. “I know you very well by sight, Sir John. It is my business to know most people. We were fellow passengers from Charing Cross, and we have been fellow lodgers in the Rue d’Entrepot. I trust you will not accuse me of discourtesy if I express my pleasure that henceforth our ways will lie apart.”
A little sobbing cry from Annabel arrested Sir John’s attention. The stranger with a bow returned to his table.
“Read this, John.”
“The Bucknall Mansions Mystery.
“Montague Hill, the man who was found lying wounded in Bucknall Mansions late on Wednesday night in the rooms of a well-known artiste, has recovered sufficiently to make a statement to the police. It appears that he was an unsuccessful admirer of the lady in question, and he admits that, under the influence of drink, he broke into her rooms, and there made a determined attempt at suicide. He further gave the name and address of the firm from whom he purchased the revolver and cartridges, a member of which firm has since corroborated his statement.
“Hill’s confession will finally refute a number of absurd stories which have been in circulation during the last few days. We understand that, notwithstanding the serious nature of the man’s injuries, there is every possibility of his recovery.”
Annabel pulled down her veil to hide the tears. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand.
“Thank God,” he exclaimed. “The fellow is not such a blackguard, after all.”