They did not want her. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name. No, never mind about thanking me. But when she turned her thoughts to Morningside Park she perceived the tangled skein of life was now to be further complicated by his romantic importunity. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. ‘Sapristi,’ he shouted angrily. She regarded the young man coldly. He entered the room with his usual deliberation, and looked covertly about him. She made a quick movement, and the hand fell away. .
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