His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. “For your own sake, let me beg of you not to stay for a moment. “What’s that young lady’s name—girl in dark brown, stranger here?” Mr. Jackson’s. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. I die happy—quite happy in beholding you. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. She has also been afflicted with occasional returns of her terrible malady. Before you have lived—” He became darkly prophetic.
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