l. He had gained admission
somehow, and he too was waiting for Anna. But--he was cleverer than
any of you. He knew me, Nigel. 'At last,' he cried, 'I have found
you!' He would listen to nothing. He swore that I was his wife, and--I
shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Shot him, do you
hear?"

"Good God!" he exclaimed, looking at her curiously. "Is this true,
Annabel? Is he dead?"

She nodded.

"I shot him. I saw the blood come as he rolled over. I tore the
marriage certificate from his pocket and burnt it. And then I came
here."

"You came--here!" he repeated, vaguely.

"Nigel, Nigel," she cried. "Don't you understand? It is I whom you
cared for in Paris, not Anna. She is a stranger to you. You cannot
care for her. Think of those days in Paris. Do you remember when we
went right away, Nigel, and forgot everything? We went down the river
past Veraz, and the larks were singing all over those deep brown
fields, and the river further on wound its way like a coil of silver
across the rich meadowland, and along the hillside vineyards. Oh, the
scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that
dived before us in the river. Nigel! You have not forgotten. It was
the first day you kissed me, under the willows, coming into Veraz.
Nigel, you have not forgotten!"

"No," he said, with a little bitter smile. "I have never forgotten."

She suddenly caught hold of his shoulders and drew him down towards
her.

"Nigel, don't you understand. I must leave England to-night. I must go
somewhere into hiding, a long, long way off. I killed him, Nigel. They
will say that it was murder. But if only you will come I do not care."

He shook her hands off almost roughly. He stood away from her. She
listened with dumb fear in her eyes.

"Listen, Annabel," he said hoarsely. "We played at love-making in
Paris. It was very pretty and very dainty while it lasted, but we
played it with our eyes open, and we perfectly understood the
game--both of us. Other things came. We went our ways. There was no
broken faith--not even any question of anything of the sort. I met you
here as Lady Ferringhall. We have played at a little mild love-making
again. It has been only the sort of nonsense which passes lightly
enough between half the men and women in London. You shall know the
truth. I do not love you. I have never loved you. I call myself a man
of the world, a man of many experiences, but I never knew what love
mea