He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. The young lady with whom I was dining last night was Miss Anna Pellissier. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. This was in Tennessee. Suddenly he burst into wild laughter; but equally as suddenly something strangled the sound in his throat. Anna raised her eyes.
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