I was certain in my own mind that she was his wife, for I’d heard the words she called out,—his name, “An-thony,” not the French “Antoine,” but as a foreigner would pronounce the English word,—but I should only add to his distress if I told him that.
“Well, it remains a mystery; and one that I suppose we shall never unravel,” he said heavily, at last.
But it was unravelled for us, and that before many weeks had passed.
One dark afternoon just before Christmas I dropped in for a few minutes, as I generally contrived to do before going down to the office; for I was on the Courier again temporarily.
Anne and her father were still the Cayleys’ guests; for Mary wouldn’t hear of their going to an hotel, and they had only just found a flat near at hand to suit them. Having at last returned to England, Anthony Pendennis had decided to remain. He’d had enough, at last, of wandering around the Continent!
Mary had other callers in the drawing-room, so I turned into Jim’s study, where Anne joined me in a minute or so,—Anne, who, in a few short months, would be my wife.
The front-door bell rang, and voices sounded in the lobby; but though I heard, I didn’t heed them, until Anne held up her hand.
“Hush! Who is Marshall talking to?”
The prim maid was speaking in an unusually loud voice; shouting, in fact, as English folk always do when they’re addressing a foreigner,—as if that would make them more intelligible.
A moment later she came in, looking flustered, and closed the door.