“Strange,” he muttered beneath his mustache. “She said nothing. By what name did you know her—other than those pseudonyms you have mentioned?”
“Miss Anne Pendennis.”
“Ah!”
I thought his face cleared.
“And what is this danger that threatens her?”
“I think you may know that better than I do,” I retorted, with a glance at the flower—the red symbol—that made a vivid blot of color like a splash of blood on the white table-cloth.
“That is true; although you appear to know so much. Therefore, why have you spoken of her at all?”
Again I got that queer feeling in my throat.
“Because you love her!” I said bluntly. “And I love her, too. I want you to know that; though I am no more to her than—than the man who waits on her at dinner, or who opens a cab door for her and gets a smile and a coin for his service!”