“It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. The skipper, Van Galgebrok, affirmed to me,—nay, gave me the additional testimony of two of his crew,—that he was thrown overboard. “One hardly knows—all the time. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. And she had been doubting since that walk in the Zoological Gardens whether, indeed, he did simply care for her. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested. I do not wish to return to Paris. Think! Had you not better hurry back before Sir John discovers? You are his wife right enough.
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