“Then we are Annie and John to each other,” said the girl; “that means that we are friends. Give me your hand, John, to close the compact.” She laid her little white hand in his, and he grasped it with right goodwill.
“John,” said Annie, “I must confide in you; I have no one else.”
“Of course if I can help you I shall be glad,” he said a little coldly; for there was something in her words which brought back his distrust of her.
“Well, it is just this: I have to go to Paris for a short time—”
“You have—I don’t understand.”
“And the painful part,” continued Annie, “is this—that I am unable to explain. But I can tell you this much. I have a school friend—indeed, two school friends—who are both in—in trouble; and they can’t possibly get out of their trouble without my help. If I go to Paris now to join my friend, things will be all right; if I don’t go, things will be all wrong.”
“But, excuse me,” said Saxon, “how can you go when your uncle is so ill?”
“That is it,” said Annie. “Of course, if he were in real danger I should be obliged to give my friends up. But he is not in danger, John; he only wants care. What I mean to do is this—or rather, I should say, what I should like to do. I would go, say, to-morrow to London, and then across to Paris, and there get through my little business and put things straight for those I love.”
Annie spoke most pathetically, and her blue eyes filled with tears.
“She has a feeling heart,” thought the young man. Once again his suspicions were disarmed.