THE FLIGHT OF LADY ANNE
It was exactly nine forty-five in the evening, about three weeks later, when the two-twenty from London steamed into the Gare du Nord. Julien, from his place among the little crowd wedged in behind the gates, gazed with blank amazement at the girl who, among the first to leave the train, was presenting her ticket to the collector. At that moment she recognized him. With a purely mechanical effort he raised his hat and held out his hand.
"Lady Anne!" he exclaimed. "Why—I had no idea you were coming to
Paris," he added weakly.
She laughed—the same frank, good-humored laugh, except that she seemed to lack just a little of her usual self-possession.
"Neither did I," she confessed, "until this morning."
He looked at her blankly. She was carrying her own jewel-case. He could see no signs of a maid or any party.
"But tell me," he asked, "where are the rest of your people?"
She shook her head.
"Nowhere. I am quite alone."
Julien was speechless.