At exactly ten minutes past ten Annabel rang the bell of her sister's
flat. There was no response. She rang again with the same result.
Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a
thin crack between the door and the frame. She pushed the former and
it opened. The latch had not fully caught.
The flat was apparently empty. Annabel turned on the electric light
and made her way into the sitting-room. There was a coffee equipage on
the table, and some sandwiches, and the fire had been recently made
up. Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for
her sister's return.
The clock struck half-past ten. The loneliness of the place somewhat
depressed her. She took up a book and threw it down again. Then she
examined with curiosity some knick-knacks upon a small round table by
her side. Amongst them was a revolver. She handled it half fearfully,
and set it carefully down again. Then for the first time she was
conscious of an unaccountable and terrifying sensation. She felt that
she was not alone.
She was only a few yards from the door, but lacked the courage to rise
and fly. Her knees shook, her breath came fast, she almost felt the
lurid effect of those tiny patches of rouge upon her pallor-stricken
cheeks. Her eyes were dilated--fixed in a horrified stare at the
parting in the curtains which hung before the window.
There was some one there. She had seen a man's head steal out for a
moment and draw the curtains a little closer. Even now she could trace
the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. She was wholly
unable to conceal her knowledge of his presence. A little smothered
cry broke from her lips--the curtains were thrown aside and a man
stepped out. She was powerless to move from her chair. All through
that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him
silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object.
Her courage and her presence of mind had alike deserted her. She
could neither speak nor move nor cry out.
"Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!"
She did not speak. Her lips parted, but no words came.
"What have you done to yourself?" he muttered. "You have dyed your
hair and darkened your eyebrows. But you are Annabel. I should know
you--in Heaven or Hell. Who is the other?"
"What other?"
Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. Her lips were dry and
cracked.
"The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the 'Unusual'?
They call her by your old name. Her hair and voice and figure are as
yours used to be. Who is she, I say?"