The man was
tall, dark, lean, square-jawed, handsome in just that thrilling way which
magazine illustrators and women love; the ideal story-hero to look at,
even to the clothes which any female serial writer would certainly have
described as "immaculate evening dress."
It was too good--oh, far too wonderfully good!--to be true that this
man should be Mr. Smith. Yet if he were not Mr. Smith why should
he----Annesley got no farther in the thought, though it flashed through
her mind quick as light. Before she had time to seek an answer for her
question the man--who was young, or youngish, not more than thirty-three
or four--had bent over her as if greeting a friend, and had begun to
speak in a low voice blurred by haste or some excitement.
"You will do me an immense service," he said, "if you'll pretend to know
me and let me sit down here. You sha'n't regret it, and it may save my
life."
"Sit down," answered something in Annesley that was newly awake. She
found her hand being warmly shaken. Then the man took the chair reserved
for Mr. Smith, just as she realized fully that he wasn't Mr. Smith.
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