Chapter 6

"I'm damned if I'll believe it," he muttered to himself savagely.

But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague.

* * * * *

The same night he met Meddoes and Drummond together, the latter over from Paris on a week's leave from the Embassy.

"Odd thing," Meddoes remarked, "we were just talking about the Pellissier girl. Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club."

"Sounds interesting," Ennison remarked. "May I hear?"

"It really isn't much to tell," Drummond answered. "You know what a fearful old prig Ferringhall is, always goes about as though the whole world were watching him? We tried to show him around Paris, but he wouldn't have any of it. Talked about his years, his position and his constituents, and always sneaked off back to his hotel just when the fun was going to begin. Well one night, some of us saw him, or thought we saw him, at a cafe dining with 'Alcide,'--as a matter of fact, it seems that it was her sister. He came into the club next day, and of course we went for him thick. Jove, he didn't take to it kindly, I can tell you. Stood on his dignity and shut us up in great style. It seems that he was a sort of family friend of the Pellissiers, and it was the artist sister whom he was with. The joke of it is that he's married to her now, and cuts me dead."

"I suppose," Ennison said, "the likeness between the sisters must be rather exceptional?"

"I never saw the goody-goody one close to, so I can't say," Drummond answered. "Certainly I was a little way off at the cafe, and she had a hat and veil on, but I could have sworn that it was 'Alcide.'"

"Is 'Alcide' still in Paris?" Ennison asked.

"Don't think so," Drummond answered. "I heard the other day that she'd been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. Anyhow, she's disappeared for some reason or other. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. He's the sort of johnny who wouldn't care about having a sister-in-law on the loose."

"Ennison here thought he saw her in London," Meddoes remarked.

Drummond nodded.

"Very likely. The two sisters were very fond of one another, I believe. Perhaps Sir John is going to take the other one under his wing. Who's for a rubber of whist?"

Ennison made so many mistakes that he was glad to cut out early in the evening. He walked across the Park and called upon his sister.

"Is Lady Lescelles in?" he asked the butler.

"Her ladyship dined at home," the man answered. "I have just ordered a carriage for her. I believe that her ladyship is going to Carey House, and on to the Marquis of Waterford's ball," he added, hastily consulting a diary on the hall table.

A tall elegantly dressed woman, followed by a maid, came down the broad staircase.

"Is that you, Nigel?" she asked. "I hope you are going to Carey House."

He shook his head, and threw open the door of a great dimly-lit apartment on the ground floor.

"Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche," he said. "I want to speak to you."

She assented, smiling. He was her only brother, and she his favourite sister. He closed the door.

"I want to ask you a question," he said. "A serious question."

She stopped buttoning her glove, and looked at him.

"Well?"

"You and all the rest of them are always lamenting that I do not marry. Supposing I made up my mind to marry some one of good enough family, but who was in a somewhat doubtful position, concerning whose antecedents, in fact there was a certain amount of scandal. Would you stand by me--and her?"

"My dear Nigel!" she exclaimed. "Are you serious?"

"You know very well that I should never joke on such a subject. Mind, I am anticipating events. Nothing is settled upon. It may be, it probably will all come to, nothing. But I want to know whether in such an event you would stand by me?"

She held out her hand.

"You can count upon me, Nigel," she said. "But for you Dad would never have let me marry Lescelles. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. I am with you through thick and thin, Nigel."

He kissed her, and handed her into the carriage. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar.

"There are two things to be done," he said softly to himself. "The first is to discover what she is here for, and where she is staying. The second is to somehow meet Lady Ferringhall. These fellows must be right," he added thoughtfully, "and yet--there's a mystery somewhere."

_Chapter XII_

THE POSTER OF "ALCIDE"

On Saturday mornings there was deposited on the plate of each guest at breakfast time, a long folded paper with Mrs. White's compliments. Anna thrust hers into her pocket unopened, and for the first time left the house without a smile upon her face. She was practically destitute of jewellery. The few pence left in her purse would only provide a very scanty lunch. Another day of non-success would mean many disagreeable things.

And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent's office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. There was already a score or more of people there, some standing up and talking together, others seated in chairs ranged along the wall. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters:

MR. EARLES, Strictly Private

Every one stared at Anna. Anna stared back at every one with undaunted composure. A young man with shiny frock coat and very high collar, advanced towards her languidly.

"Want to see Mr. Earles?" he inquired.

"I do," Anna answered. "Here is my card. Will you take it in to him?"

The young man smiled in a superior manner.

"Have to take your turn," he remarked laconically. "There's twenty before you, and Mr. Earles is going out at twelve sharp--important engagement. Better come another morning."

"Thank you," Anna answered. "I will take my chance."

She removed some posters from a chair, and seated herself coolly. The young man looked at her.

"Unless you have an appointment, which you haven't," he said, "you'll only waste your time here."

"I can spare it," Anna answered suavely.

The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door. Anna picked up an ancient magazine, and began to turn over the pages in a leisurely way. The conversation which her entrance had interrupted began to buzz again all around her. A quarter of an hour passed. Then the inner door opened abruptly. A tall, clean-shaven man came out and walked rapidly through the room, exchanging greetings right and left, but evidently anxious to avoid being detained. Mr. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly.

"I'm next, Mr. Earles," she exclaimed. "Been sitting on the doorstep almost for two hours."

"In a minute, in a minute," he answered, his eyes fixed upon Anna. "Reuben, come here."

The young man obeyed the summons. His employer retreated into the further apartment, leaving the door ajar.

"What's that young lady's name--girl in dark brown, stranger here?" Mr. Earles asked sharply.

The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. A sense of impending disaster was upon him. Mr. Earles glanced at it, and his eyes flashed with anger.

"You blithering idiot!" he exclaimed.

Mr. Earles strode into the waiting-room. His face was wreathed in smiles, his be-ringed hand was cordially outstretched.

"My dear Miss Pellissier," he said impressively, "this is an unexpected pleasure. Come in! Come in, do. I must apologize for my young puppy of a clerk. If I had known that you were here you should not have been kept waiting for a second."

It took a good deal to surprise Anna, but it was all she could do to follow Mr. Earles with composure into the inner room. There was a little murmur of consternation from the waiting crowd, and the florid young woman showed signs of temper, to which Mr. Earles was absolutely indifferent. He installed Anna in a comfortable easy chair, and placed his own between her and the door.

"Come," he said, "this is capital, capital. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. Yet here you are, and at precisely the right moment, too. By-the-bye," he added, in a suddenly altered tone, "I hope, I trust--that you have not entered into any arrangements with any one here?"

"I--oh no!" Anna said, a little faintly. "I have made no arrangements as yet--none at all."

Mr. Earles recovered his spirits.

"Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Your arrival is really most opportune. The halls are on the lookout for something new. By-the-bye, do you recognize that?"

Anna looked and gasped. An enormous poster almost covered one side of the wall--_the_ poster. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. Mr. Earles regarded it approvingly.

"A wonderful piece of work," he declared. "A most wonderful likeness, too. I hope in a few days, Miss Pellissier, that these posters will be livening up our London hoardings."

Anna leaned back in the chair and laughed softly. Even this man had accepted her for "Alcide" without a moment's question. Then all the embarrassments of the matter flashed in upon her. She was suddenly grave.

"I suppose, Mr. Earles," she said, "that if I were to tell you that although that poster was designed from a rough study of me, and although my name is Pellissier, that nevertheless, I am not 'Alcide' would you believe me?"

"You can try it on, if you like," Mr. Earles remarked genially. "My only answer would be to ask you to look at that mirror and then at the poster. The poster is of 'Alcide.' It's a duplicate of the French one."

Anna got up and looked at the mirror and then at the poster. The likeness was ridiculous.

"Well?" she said, sitting down again. "I want an engagement."

"Capital!" Mr. Earles declared. "Any choice as to which of the Halls? You can pick and choose, you know. I recommend the 'Unusual.'"

"I have no choice," Anna declared.

"I can get you," Mr. Earles said, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed upon her, "forty at the 'Unusual,' two turns, encores voluntary, six for matinees. We should not bar any engagements at private houses, but in other respects the arrangement must be exclusive."

"Forty what?" Anna asked bewildered.

"Guineas, of course," Mr. Earles answered, glibly. "Forty guineas a week. I mentioned sixty, I believe, when I was in Paris, but there are expenses, and just now business is bad."

Anna was speechless, but she had presence of mind enough to sit still until she had recovered herself. Mr. Earles watched her anxiously. She appeared to be considering.

"Of course," he ventured, "I could try for more at the 'Alhambra.' Very likely they would give----"

"I should be satisfied with the sum you mention," Anna said quietly, "but there are difficulties."

"Don't use such a word, my dear young lady," Mr. Earles said persuasively. "Difficulties indeed. We'll make short work of them."

"I hope that you may," Anna answered enigmatically. "In the first place, I have no objection to the posters, as they have no name on them, but I do not wish to appear at all upon the stage as 'Alcide.' If you engage me it must be upon my own merits. You are taking it for granted that I am 'Alcide.' As a matter of fact, I am not."

"Excuse me," Mr. Earles said, "but this is rubbish."

"Call it what you like," Anna answered. "I can sing the songs 'Alcide' sang, and in the same style. But I will not be engaged as 'Alcide' or advertised under that name."

Mr. Earles scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully. Then a light seemed to break in upon him. He slapped his knee.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Of course, I remember now. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn't it?"

Anna nodded.

"It was," she admitted.

"You needn't say a word more," Mr. Earles declared. "I see the difficulty. The old fool's been working on you through your sister to keep off the stage. He's a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John--doesn't know what an artist is. It's awkward, but we'll get round it somehow. Now I'll tell you what I propose. Let me run you for six months. I'll give you, say, thirty-five guineas a week clear of expenses, and half of anything you earn above the two turns a night. What do you say?"

"I agree," Anna said coldly, "if you will make it three months."

"Better say six," Mr. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink.

"Four," Anna decided firmly. "I shall not agree to six."

"It scarcely gives me a chance," Mr. Earles said, with a resigned sigh, "but I shall rely upon you to stick to me so long as I do the right thing by you. You can't do without an agent, and there's no one can run you better than I can."

"You must also put in the agreement," Anna said, "that I do not represent myself to be 'Alcide,' and that I am not advertised to the public by that name."

Mr. Earles threw down his pen with a little exclamation.

"Come this way," he said.

He opened the door of still another room, in one corner of which was a grand piano. He seated himself before it.

"Go to the far corner," he said, "and sing the last verse of _Les Petites_."

He struck a note, and Anna responded. Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. Mr. Earles closed the piano with a little bang.

"You are a funny, a very funny young lady," he said, "but we waste time here. You do not need my compliments. We will get on with the agreement and you shall have in it whatever rubbish you like."

Anna laughed, and went back to her easy chair. She knew that her voice was superior to Annabel's, and she had no further qualms. Whilst she was wondering how to frame her request for an advance, Mr. Earles drew out his cheque book.

"You will not object," he said, glancing towards her, "to accepting a deposit. It is customary even where an agreement is drawn."

"I shall have no objection at all," Anna assured him.

He handed her a cheque for thirty-one pounds, ten shillings, and read the agreement through to her. Anna took up the pen, and signed, after a moment's hesitation,

A. PELLISSIER.

"I will send you a copy," Mr. Earles said, rubbing his hands together, "by post. Now, will you do me the honour of lunching with me, Miss Pellissier?"

Anna hesitated.

"Perhaps," he queried, "you wish to avoid being seen about with any one--er--connected with the profession, under present circumstances. If so, do not hesitate to tell me. Be frank, I beg you, Miss Pellissier. I am already too much flattered that you should have given me your confidence."

"You are very good, Mr. Earles," Anna said. "I think, perhaps if you will excuse me, that we will defer the luncheon."

"Just as you wish," Mr. Earles declared good-humouredly, "but I shall not let you go without drinking a glass of wine to our success."

He plunged into one of his drawers, and brought up a small gold-foiled bottle. The cork came out with a loud pop, and Anna could not help wondering how it must sound to the patient little crowd outside. She drank her glass of wine, however, and clanked glasses good-naturedly with Mr. Earles.

"You must leave me your address if you please," he said, as she rose to go.

She wrote it down. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark.

"I shall probably want you to come down to the 'Unusual' to-morrow morning," he said. "Bring any new songs you may have."

Anna nodded, and Mr. Earles attended her obsequiously to the door. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street--alone. It was a brief solitude, however. A young man, who had been spending the last hour walking up and down on the opposite side of the way, came quickly over to her. She looked up, and recognized Mr. Brendon.

_Chapter XIII_

"HE WILL NOT FORGET!"

The external changes in Brendon following on his alteration of fortune were sufficiently noticeable. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. Not only that, but he carried himself erect--the slight slouch which had bent his shoulders had altogether disappeared. He came to her at once, and turning, walked by her side.

"Now I should like to know," she said, looking at him with a quiet smile, "what you are doing here? It is not a particularly inspiring neighbourhood for walking about by yourself."

"I plead guilty, Miss Pellissier," he answered at once. "I saw you go into that place, and I have been waiting for you ever since."

"I am not sure whether I feel inclined to scold or thank you," she declared. "I think as I feel in a good humour it must be the latter."

He faced her doggedly.

"Miss Pellissier," he said, "I am going to take a liberty."

"You alarm me," she murmured, smiling.

"Don't think that I have been playing the spy upon you," he continued. "Neither Sydney nor I would think of such a thing. But we can't help noticing. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late--tired out--too tired to come down to dinner. Forgive me, but you have been looking, have you not, for some employment?"

"Quite true!" she answered. "I have found out at last what a useless person I am--from a utilitarian point of view. It has been very humiliating."

"And that, I suppose," he said, waving his stick towards Mr. Earles' office, "was your last resource."

"It certainly was," she admitted. "I changed my last shilling yesterday."

He was silent for a moment or two. His lips were tight drawn. His eyes flashed as he turned towards her.

"Do you think that it is kind of you, Miss Pellissier," he said, almost roughly, "to ignore your friends so? In your heart you know quite well that you could pay Sydney or me no greater compliment than to give us just a little of your confidence. We know London, and you are a stranger here. Surely our advice would have been worth having, at any rate. You might have spared yourself many useless journeys and disappointments, and us a good deal of anxiety. Instead, you are willing to go to a place like that where you ought not to be allowed to think of showing yourself."

"Why not?" she asked quietly.

"The very question shows your ignorance," he declared. "You know nothing about the stage. You haven't an idea what the sort of employment you could get there would be like, the sort of people you would be mixed up with. It is positively hateful to think of it."

She laid her fingers for a moment upon his arm.

"Mr. Brendon," she said, "if I could ask for advice, or borrow money from any one, I would from you--there! But I cannot. I never could. I suppose I ought to have been a man. You see, I have had to look after myself so long that I have developed a terrible bump of independence."

"Such independence," he answered quickly, "is a vice. You see to what it has brought you. You are going to accept a post as chorus girl, or super, or something of that sort."

"You do not flatter me," she laughed.

"I am too much in earnest," he answered, "to be able to take this matter lightly."

"I am rebuked," she declared. "I suppose my levity is incorrigible. But seriously, things are not so bad as you think."

He groaned.

"They never seem so at first!" he said.

"You do not quite understand," she said gently. "I will tell you the truth. It is true that I have accepted an engagement from Mr. Earles, but it is a good one. I am not going to be a chorus girl, or even a super. I have never told you so, or Sydney, but I can sing--rather well. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. I made a wrong choice, it seems--but my voice remains."

"You are really going on the stage, then?" he said slowly.

"In a sense--yes."

Brendon went very pale.

"Miss Pellissier," he said, "don't!"

"Why not?" she asked, smiling. "I must live, you know."

"I haven't told any one the amount," he went on. "It sounds too ridiculous. But I have two hundred thousand pounds. Will you marry me?"

Anna looked at him in blank amazement. Then she burst into a peal of laughter.

"My dear boy," she exclaimed. "How ridiculous! Fancy you with all that money! For heaven's sake, though, do not go about playing the Don Quixote like this. It doesn't matter with me, but there are at least a dozen young women in Mr. Earles' waiting-room who would march you straight off to a registrar's office."

"You have not answered my question," he reminded her.

"Nor am I going to," she answered, smiling. "I am going to ignore it. It was really very nice of you, but to-morrow you will laugh at it as I do now."

"Is it necessary," he said, "for me to tell you----"

"Stop, please," she said firmly.

Brendon was silent.

"Do not force me to take you seriously," she continued. "I like to think of your offer. It was impulsive and natural. Now let us forget it."

"I understand," he said, doggedly.

"And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner," she declared lightly. "I will tell you something if you like. One of the reasons why I left Paris and came to London was because there was a man there who wanted me to marry him. I really cared for him a little, but I am absolutely determined not to marry for some time at any rate. I do not want to get only a second-hand flavour of life. One can learn and understand only by personal experience, by actual contact with the realities of life. I did not want anything made smooth and easy for me. That is why I would not marry this man whom I did and whom I do care for a little. Later on--well then the time may come. Then perhaps I shall send for him if he has not forgotten."

"I do not know who he is," Brendon said quietly, "but he will not forget."

Anna shrugged her shoulders lightly.

"Who can tell?" she said. "Your sex is a terrible fraud. It is generally deficient in the qualities it prides itself upon most. Men do not understand constancy as women do."

Brendon was not inclined to be led away from the point.

"We will take it then," he said, "that you have refused or ignored one request I have made you this morning. I have yet another. Let me lend you some money. Between comrades it is the most usual thing in the world, and I do not see how your sex intervenes. Let me keep you from that man's clutches. Then we can look out together for such employment--as would be more suitable for you. I know London better than you, and I have had to earn my own living. You cannot refuse me this."

He looked at her anxiously, and she met his glance with a dazzling smile of gratitude.

"Indeed," she said, "I would not. But it is no longer necessary. I cannot tell you much about it, but my bad times are over for the present. I will tell you what you shall give me, if you like."

"Well?"

"Lunch! I am hungry--tragically hungry."

He called for a hansom.

"After all," he said, "I am not sure that you are not a very material person."

"I am convinced of it," she answered. "Let us go to that little place at the back of the Palace. I'm not half smart enough for the West End."

"Wherever you like!" he answered, a little absently.