"No," he objected steadily. "I am sorry to contradict you, but that is not true. You are playing a trick on me for some reason that I can not understand. But I swear that you are not Miss Arkwright."
The lady smiled, as one who soothes a maniac.
"Indeed?" she said courteously. "Then perhaps you will tell me who I am?"
"You are Miss Beatrice Blair," said Lionel in a hard voice. He was bitterly disappointed, and no wonder.
"Beatrice Blair?" repeated the other, with an astonishment that could not but be genuine. "Whom do you mean? Who is Beatrice Blair?"
"She was playing last night at the Macready Theater," returned Lionel with a patient dignity. "How she contrives to be at Shereling at this hour, mystifying a poor wretch whose only fault is a too ardent devotion, I can not explain."
This he thought rather a fine speech, and he was relieved to see the clearing of her brow. But he was mistaken as to the cause.
"The Macready Theater!" cried the lady in a tone of satisfaction. "Ah! I can guess now. You must mean my sister, of course. There can be no other explanation. I know she is"—she shuddered daintily—"an actress, but I had quite forgotten her nom de guerre."
"Her ... sister ..." repeated Lionel dully. "Why, yes ... I thought I was calling on her sister ... I wished to see her—not Miss Blair again...."
He sat down, unable to realize it yet.