"At last! I've found it. Look! there can be no mistake. It isn't
Ellerdale Street, but Ellerdale Road!"
And bending beside her I read where she pointed with her slim finger the
words, "16, Popejoy, Mrs"
"Is that your aunt's name?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied.
"And yours?" I asked.
But she pursed up her lips and did not seem inclined to impart this
knowledge to me.
"My name is really of no account," she said. "We shall not meet again."
"Not meet again?" I cried, for the thought of losing a friend so
beautiful and so charming was an exceedingly unhappy one. "Why shall we
not meet? You are going to live in London now, you say," and taking a
card from my cigarette-case I handed it to her.
With her clear, brilliant eyes fixed upon mine, she took the card almost
mechanically, then glanced at it.
"I'm greatly indebted to you, Mr Cleeve," she said. "But I don't see
there is any necessity for you to know my name. It is sufficient,
surely, for you to reflect that you one night befriended one who was in
distress."
"But I must know your name," I protested. "Come, do tell me."