“Of course,” he said, reaching out his hand tentatively for his hat, “I could go away even now. Your reputation for hospitality would remain under a cloud though, for tea was distinctly mentioned.”

“Then you had better ring the bell,” she declared, laughing. “The walk has given me an appetite, and I do not feel like waiting till five o’clock. I wonder why on earth the curtains are drawn. It is quite light yet, and I want to have one more look at that angry red sun. Would you mind drawing them back?”

Ennison sprang up, but he never reached the curtains. They were suddenly thrown aside, and a man stepped out from his hiding-place. A little exclamation of surprise escaped Ennison. Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry.

“You!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here? How dare you come to my rooms!”

The man stepped into the middle of the room. The last few months had not dealt kindly with Mr. Montague Hill. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights. His voice when he spoke was almost fiercely assertive, but there was an undernote of nervousness.

“Why not?” he exclaimed. “I have the right to be here. I hid because there was no other way of seeing you. I did not reckon upon – him.”

He pointed to Ennison, who in his turn looked across at Anna.

“You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone.

“I would not have you go for anything,” she answered.

“Nevertheless,” Hill said doggedly, “I am here to speak to you alone.”

“If you do not leave the room at once,” Anna answered calmly, “I shall ring the bell for a policeman.”

He raised his hand, and they saw that he was holding a small revolver.

“You need not be alarmed,” he said. “I do not wish to use this. I came here peaceably, and I only ask for a few words with you. But I mean to have them. No, you don’t!”

Ennison had moved stealthily a little nearer to him, and looked suddenly into the dark muzzle of the revolver.

“If you interfere between us,” the man said, “it will go hardly with you. This lady is my wife, and I have a right to be here. I have the right also to throw you out.”

Ennison obeyed Anna’s gesture, and was silent.

“You can say what you have to say before Mr. Ennison, if at all,” Anna declared calmly. “In any case, I decline to see you alone.”

“Very well,” the man answered. “I have come to tell you this. You are my wife, and I am determined to claim you. We were properly married, and the certificate is at my lawyer’s. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. I know that you were disappointed because I did not turn out to be the millionaire. Perhaps I deceived you about it. However, that’s over and done with. I’ll make any reasonable arrangement you like. I don’t want to stop your singing. You can live just about how you like. But you belong to me – and I want you.”

He paused for a moment, and then suddenly continued. His voice had broken. He spoke in quick nervous sentences.

“You did your best to kill me,” he said. “You might have given me a chance, anyway. I’m not such a bad sort. You know – I worship you. I have done from the first moment I saw you. I can’t rest or work or settle down to anything while things are like this between you and me. I want you. I’ve got to have you, and by God I will.”

He took a quick step forward. Anna held out her hand, and he paused. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features.

“Listen,” she said. “I have heard these things from you before, and you have had my answer. Understand once and for all that that answer is final. I do not admit the truth of a word which you have said. I will not be persecuted in this way by you.”

“You do not deny that you are my wife,” he asked hoarsely. “You cannot! Oh, you cannot.”

“I have denied it,” she answered. “Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours.”

“Delusion!” he muttered, glaring at her. “Delusion!”

“You can call it what you like,” she said. “In any case you will never receive any different sort of answer from me. Stay where you are, Mr. Ennison.”

With a swift movement she gained the bell and rang it. The man’s hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips. The pistol fell to the floor. Ennison kicked it away with his foot.

“I shall send for a policeman,” Anna said, “directly my maid answers the bell – unless you choose to go before.”

The man made no attempt to recover the revolver. He walked unsteadily towards the door.

“Very well,” he said, “I will go. But,” and he faced them both with a still expressionless glance, “this is not the end!”

Anna recovered her spirits with marvellous facility. It was Ennison who for the rest of his visit was quiet and subdued.

“You are absurd,” she declared. “It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over – and my toasted scones are delicious. Do have another.”

“It is over for now,” he answered, “but I cannot bear to think that you are subject to this sort of thing.”

She shrugged her shoulders slightly. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned.

“It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy.”

“It might become one,” he answered. “The man is dangerous.”

She looked thoughtfully into the fire.

“I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. If so I shall have to leave.”

“You cannot play at hide-and-seek with this creature all your life,” he answered. “Let your friends act for you. There must be ways of getting rid of him.”

“I am afraid,” she murmured, “that it would be difficult. He really deserves a better fate, does he not? He is so beautifully persistent.”

He drew a little nearer to her. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers – she turned at once to look at him. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. Nevertheless she withdrew her hand.

“Let me help you,” he begged. “Indeed, you could have no more faithful friend, you could find no one more anxious to serve you.”

Her hand fell back into her lap. He touched it again, and this time it was not withdrawn.

“That is very nice of you,” she said. “But it is so difficult – ”

“Not at all,” he answered eagerly. “I wish you would come and see my lawyers. Of course I know nothing of what really did happen in Paris – if even you ever saw him there. You need not tell me, but a lawyer is different. His client’s story is safe with him. He would advise you how to get rid of the fellow.”

“I will think of it,” she promised.

“You must do more than think of it,” he urged. “It is intolerable that you should be followed about by such a creature. I am sure that he can be got rid of.”

She turned and looked at him. Her face scarcely reflected his enthusiasm.

“It may be more difficult than you think,” she said. “You see you do not know how much of truth there is in his story.”

“If it were all true,” he said doggedly, “it may still be possible.”

“I will think of it,” she repeated. “I cannot say more.”

They talked for a while in somewhat dreamy fashion, Anna especially being more silent than usual. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet.

“Heavens, look at the time!” she exclaimed. “It is incredible. I shall barely be in time for the theatre. I must go and dress at once.”

He too rose.

“I will wait for you on the pavement, if you like,” he said, “but I am going to the ‘Unusual’ with you. Your maid would not be of the least protection.”

“But your dinner!” she protested. “You will be so late.”

He laughed.

“You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not.”

She laughed.

“Well, you certainly did very well at tea,” she remarked. “If you really are going to wait, make yourself as comfortable as you can. There are cigarettes and magazines in the corner there.”

Anna disappeared, but Ennison did not trouble either the cigarettes or the magazines. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire.

People spoke of him everywhere as a young man of great promise, a politician by instinct, a keen and careful judge of character. Yet he was in a state of hopeless bewilderment. He was absolutely unable to focus his ideas. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. And behind – there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. For the first time a definite doubt possessed him. A woman cannot change her soul. Then it was the woman herself who was changed. Anna was not “Alcide” of the “Ambassador’s,” whose subtly demure smile and piquant glances had called him to her side from the moment of their first meeting. It was impossible.

She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with common-sense, his own apprehension. He rose at once to his feet and turned a white face upon her.

“I am going to break a covenant,” he cried. “I cannot keep silence any longer.”

“You are going to speak to me of things which happened before we met in London?” she asked quietly.

“Yes! I must! The thing is becoming a torture to me. I must!”

She threw open the door and pointed to it.

“My word holds,” she said. “If you speak – farewell.”

He stood quite silent for a moment, his eyes fixed upon her face. Something he saw there had a curious effect upon him. He was suddenly calm.

“I shall not speak,” he said, “now or at any other time. Come!”

They went out together and he called a hansom. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them.

Chapter XX
ANNA’S SURRENDER

“This is indeed a gala night,” said Ennison, raising his glass, and watching for a moment the golden bubbles. “Was it really only this afternoon that I met you in St. James’ Park?”

Anna nodded, and made a careful selection from a dish of quails.

“It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. “I have had nothing since, and it seems a very long time.”

“An appetite like yours,” he said resignedly, “is fatal to all sentiment.”

“Not in the least,” she assured him. “I find the two inseparable.”

He sighed.

“I have noticed,” he said, “that you seem to delight in taking a topsy-turvy view of life. It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus Ward.”

“You do not understand me at all,” she declared. “I think that you are very dense. Besides, your remark is not in the least complimentary. I have always understood that men avoid like the plague a woman with a sense of humour.”

So they talked on whilst supper was served, falling easily into the spirit of the place, and yet both of them conscious of some new thing underlying the gaiety of their tongues and manner. Anna, in her strange striking way, was radiantly beautiful. Without a single ornament about her neck, or hair, wearing the plainest of black gowns, out of which her shoulders shone gleaming white, she was easily the most noticeable and the most distinguished-looking woman in the room. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. Perhaps, after all, the others were right. Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. Ennison too, always handsome and debonnair, seemed transported out of his calm self. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. He said daring things with a grace which made them irresistible, his eyes flashed back upon her some eloquent but silent appreciation of the change in her manner towards him.

And then there came for both of them at least a temporary awakening. It was he who saw them first coming down the room – Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear. He bent over to Anna at once.

“It is your sister and her husband,” he said. “They are coming past our table.”

Annabel saw Ennison first, and noticing his single companion calmly ignored him. Then making a pretence of stooping to rearrange her flowing train, she glanced at Anna, and half stopped in her progress down the room. Sir John followed her gaze, and also saw them. His face clouded with anger.

It was after all a momentary affair. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. They vanished through the doorway. Anna and her escort exchanged glances. Almost simultaneously they burst out laughing.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Limp,” he answered. “As a matter of fact, I deserve to. I was engaged to dine with your sister and her husband, and I sent a wire.”

“It was exceedingly wrong of you,” Anna declared. “Before I came to England I was told that there were two things which an Englishman who was comme-il-faut never did. The first was to break a dinner engagement.”

“And the second?”

“Make love to a single woman.”

“Your knowledge of our ways,” he murmured “is profound. Yet, I suppose that at the present moment I am the most envied man in the room.”

Her eyes were lit with humour. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible.

“But you do not know,” she whispered, “whether I am a married woman or not. There is Mr. Montague Hill.”

The lights were lowered, and an attentive waiter hovered round Anna’s cloak. They left the room amongst the last, and Ennison had almost to elbow his way through a group of acquaintances who had all some pretext for detaining him, to which he absolutely refused to listen. They entered a hansom and turned on to the Embankment. The two great hotels on their right were still ablaze with lights. On their left the river, with its gloomy pile of buildings on the opposite side, and a huge revolving advertisement throwing its strange reflection upon the black water. A fresh cool breeze blew in their faces. Anna leaned back with half closed eyes.

“Delicious!” she murmured.

His fingers closed upon her hand. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. Not a word passed between them. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax.

He paid the cab, and turned to follow her. She passed inside and upstairs without a word. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully.

“Please search everywhere,” she said. “I am going through the other rooms. I shall not let you go till I am quite sure.”

“If he has a key,” Ennison said, “how are you to be safe?”

“I had bolts fitted on the doors yesterday,” she answered. “If he is not here now I can make myself safe.”

It was certain that he was not there. Anna came back into the sitting-room with a little sigh of relief.

“Indeed,” she said, “it was very fortunate that I should have met you this afternoon. Either Sydney or Mr. Brendon always comes home with me, and to-night both are away. Mary is very good, but she is too nervous to be the slightest protection.”

“I am very glad,” he answered, in a low tone. “It has been a delightful evening for me.”

“And for me,” Anna echoed.

A curious silence ensued. Anna was sitting before the fire a little distance from him – Ennison himself remained standing. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. She laughed nervously, but kept her eyes averted.

“It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. “I am afraid your broken dinner engagement will not be so easy to explain.”

He was very indifferent. In fact he was thinking of other things.

“I am going,” he said, “to be impertinent. I do not understand why you and your sister should not see more of one another. You must be lonely here with only a few men friends.”

She shook her head.

“Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. Besides – there is Sir John.”

“Sir John is an ass!” he declared.

“He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him.

“Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna.”

“Many other people,” she remarked, “have made the same mistake.”

“Again,” he said, “I am going to be impertinent. I never met your sister in Paris, but I heard about her more than once. She is not in the least like the descriptions of her.”

“She has changed a good deal,” Anna admitted.

“There is some mystery about you both,” he exclaimed, with sudden earnestness. “No, don’t interrupt me. Why may I not be your friend? Somehow or other I feel that you have been driven into a false position. You represent to me an enigma, the solution of which has become the one desire of my life. I want to give you warning that I have set myself to solve it. To-morrow I am going to Paris.”

She seemed unmoved, but she did not look at him.

“To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?”

“I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw.”

Then she looked up at him with frightened eyes.

“David Courtlaw!” she repeated. “What has he to do with it?”

“He was your sister’s master – her friend. A few days ago I saw him leave your house. He was like a man beside himself. He began to tell me something – and stopped. I am going to ask him to finish it.”

She rose up.

“I forbid it!” she said firmly.

They were standing face to face now upon the hearthrug. She was very pale, and there was a look of fear in her eyes.

“I will tell you as much as this,” she continued. “There is a secret. I admit it. Set yourself to find it out, if you will – but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again.”

“It is for your good – your good only I am thinking,” he declared.

“Then let me be the judge of what is best,” she answered.

He was silent. He felt his heart beat faster and faster – his self-restraint slipping away. After all, what did it matter? – it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. A quick flush stained her cheeks. She put out her hands to avoid his embrace.

“No!” she exclaimed. “You must not. It is impossible.”

His arms were around her. He only laughed his defiance.

“I will make it possible,” he cried. “I will make all things possible.”

Anna was bewildered. She did not know herself. Only she was conscious of an unfamiliar and wonderful emotion. She gave her lips to his without resistance. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. With a little sigh of happiness she accepted this new thing.

Chapter XXI
HER SISTER’S SECRET

“I think,” Lady Ferringhall said, “that you are talking very foolishly. I was quite as much annoyed as you were to see Mr. Ennison with my sister last night. But apart from that, you have no particular objection to him, I suppose?”

“The occurrence of last night is quite sufficient in itself,” Sir John answered, “to make me wish to discontinue Mr. Ennison’s acquaintance. I should think, Anna, that your own sense – er – of propriety would enable you to see this. It is not possible for us to be on friendly terms with a young man who has been seen in a public place, having supper alone with your sister after midnight. The fact itself is regrettable enough – regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. To receive him here afterwards would be most repugnant to me.”

“He probably does not know of the relationship,” Annabel remarked.

“I imagine,” Sir John said, “that your sister would acquaint him with it. In any case, he is liable to discover it at any time. My own impression is that he already knows.”

“Why do you think so?” she asked.

“I noticed him call her attention to us as we passed down the room,” he answered. “Of course he may merely have been telling her who we were, but I think it improbable.”

“Apart from the fact of his acquaintance with Anna – Annabel,” Lady Ferringhall said quickly, “may I ask if you have any other objection to Mr. Ennison?”

Sir John hesitated.

“To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence.”

“How absurd!” Annabel declared. “How could he call except in your absence, as you are never at home in the afternoon. And if I cared to have him come every day, why shouldn’t he? I find him very amusing and very useful as well. He brought his mother to call, and as you know the Countess goes scarcely anywhere. Hers is quite the most exclusive set in London.”

“My feeling in the matter,” Sir John said, “is as I have stated. Further, I do not care for you to accept social obligations from Mr. Ennison, or any other young man.”

“You are jealous,” she declared contemptuously.

“If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. You will forgive my remarking, Anna, that I consider there is a great change in your manner towards me and your general deportment since our marriage.”

Annabel laughed gaily.

“My dear man,” she exclaimed, “wasn’t that a foregone conclusion?”

“You treat the matter lightly,” he continued. “To me it seems serious enough. I have fulfilled my part of our marriage contract. Can you wonder that I expect you to fulfil yours?”

“I am not aware,” she answered, “that I have ever failed in doing so.”

“You are at least aware,” he said, “that you have on several recent occasions acted in direct opposition to my wishes.”

“For example?”

“Your dyed hair. I was perfectly satisfied with your appearance. I consider even now that the present colour is far less becoming. Then you have altered not only that, but your manner of dressing it. You have darkened your eyebrows, you have even changed your style of dress. You have shown an almost feverish anxiety to eliminate from your personal appearance all that reminded me of you – when we first met.”

“Well,” she said, “has there not been some reason for this? The likeness to Annabel could scarcely have escaped remark. You forget that every one is going to the ‘Unusual’ to see her.”

He frowned heavily.

“I wish that I could forget it,” he said. “Fortunately I believe that the relationship is not generally known. I trust that no unpleasant rumours will be circulated before the election, at any rate.”

Annabel yawned.

“They might do you good,” she remarked. “‘Alcide’ is very popular.”

Sir John turned towards the door.

“It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests.”

Annabel laughed derisively and took up her book. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. Then she threw the volume away with a little impatient exclamation. She rose from her chair, and began walking up and down the room restlessly. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully.

“I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!”

Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. A few minutes later she left the house on foot, and taking a hansom at the corner of the Square, drove to Anna’s flat.

Anna was having tea by herself when she entered. She rose at once with a little exclamation, half of surprise, half of pleasure.

“My dear Annabel,” she said, “this is delightful, but I thought that it was forbidden.”

“It is,” Annabel answered shortly. “But I wanted to see you.”

Anna wheeled an easy chair to the fire.

“You will have some tea?” she asked.

Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. The little room was fragrant with flowers, Anna herself bright, and with all the evidences of well being. Annabel was conscious then of the slow anger which had been burning within her since the night of her visit to the “Unusual.” Her voice trembled with suppressed passion.

“I have come for an explanation,” she said. “You are an impostor. How dare you use my name and sing my songs?”

Anna looked at her sister in blank amazement.

“Annabel!” she exclaimed. “Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?”

Annabel laughed scornfully.

“Oh, you know,” she said. “Don’t be a hypocrite. You are not ‘Alcide.’ You have no right to call yourself ‘Alcide.’ You used to declare that you hated the name. You used to beg me for hours at a time to give it all up, never to go near the ‘Ambassador’s’ again. And yet the moment I am safely out of the way you are content to dress yourself in my rags, to go and get yourself popular and admired and successful, all on my reputation.”

“Annabel! Annabel!”

Annabel stamped her foot. Her tone was hoarse with passion.

“Oh, you can act!” she cried. “You can look as innocent and shocked as you please. I want to know who sent you those.”

She pointed with shaking fingers to a great bunch of dark red carnations, thrust carelessly into a deep china bowl, to which the card was still attached. Anna followed her finger, and looked back into her sister’s face.

“They were sent to me by Mr. Nigel Ennison, Annabel. How on earth does it concern you?”

Annabel laughed hardly.

“Concern me!” she repeated fiercely. “You are not content then with stealing from me my name. You would steal from me then the only man I ever cared a snap of the fingers about. They are not your flowers. They are mine! They were sent to ‘Alcide’ not to you.”

Anna rose to her feet. At last she was roused. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright.

“Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. But behind these things which you have said to me there must be others of which I know nothing. You speak as one injured – as though I had been the one to take your name – as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. In your heart you know very well that this is absurd. It is you who took my name, not I yours. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferringhall. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband.”

Annabel shivered a little and looked around her.

“He does not come here,” she exclaimed, quickly.

“He spends hours of every day on the pavement below,” Anna answered calmly. “I have been bearing this – for your sake. Shall I send him to Sir John?”

Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent.

“It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. “He would never have found you out if you had not personated me.”

“On the contrary,” Anna whispered quietly, “we met in a small boarding-house where I was stopping.”

“You have not told me yet,” Annabel said, “how it is that you have dared to personate me. To call yourself ‘Alcide’! Your hair, your gestures, your voice, all mine! Oh, how dared you do it?”

“You must not forget,” Anna said calmly, “that it is necessary for me also – to live. I arrived here with something less than five pounds in my pocket. My reception at West Kensington you know of. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way. You did not complain then that I personated you – no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied.”

“You did not – ”

“Wait, Annabel! When I arrived in London I went to live in the cheapest place I could find. I set myself to find employment. I offered myself as a clerk, as a milliner, as a shop girl. I would even have taken a place as waitress in a tea shop. I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. I ate only enough to keep body and soul together.”

“There was no need for such heroism,” Annabel said coldly. “You had only to ask – ”

“Do you think,” Anna interrupted, with a note of passion trembling also in her tone, “that I would have taken alms from Sir John, the man to whom I had lied for your sake. It was not possible. I went at last when I had barely a shilling in my purse to a dramatic agent. By chance I went to one who had known you in Paris.”

“Well!”

“He greeted me effusively. He offered me at once an engagement. I told him that I was not ‘Alcide.’ He only laughed. He had seen the announcement of your marriage in the papers, and he imagined that I simply wanted to remain unknown because of your husband’s puritanism. I sang to him, and he was satisfied. I did not appear, I have never announced myself as ‘Alcide.’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me.”

“They were my posters,” Annabel said. “The ones Cariolus did for me.”

“The posters at least,” Anna answered quietly, “I have some claim to. You know very well that you took from my easel David Courtlaw’s study of me, and sent it to Cariolus. You denied it at the time – but unfortunately I have proof. Mr. Courtlaw found the study in Cariolus’ studio.”