“Good God! It is you!” said the woman.
Then he remembered. It was Annie Stevens, the girl who had betrayed him so miserably to the theatrical company years before.
“Won’t you speak to me?” she asked, somewhat humbly, as he remained silent.
“You recall a very bitter time to me,” said Joyce.
“Do you think it is any sweeter to me?” she asked.
And then, with a quick glance round at an approaching policeman:—
“Walk on a little way with me, will you?”
He hesitated for a moment, but a beseeching look in her eyes touched him. Her presence at that place, at that hour, spoke of tragedy. She had never been pretty. Now she had grown thin and hard-featured.
“You need n’t fear I’m going to ask you for anything—you of all people in the world. Of course, if you don’t want to be seen with me, don’t come. You can’t hurt me. I’m past that. But I’d like to speak with you for a minute or two.”
He had moved on with her while she was talking. Then there were a few moments’ silence.