I seized her hands with both of mine.

"Frances!" I cried, chokingly. "Oh, Frances!"

She withdrew her hands. When she spoke her tone was quiet but very firm.

"Why did you come here?" she asked.

"Why did I come? Why--"

"Yes. Why did you come? Was it to find me? Did you know I was here?"

"I did not know. I had heard--"

"Did Doctor Bayliss tell you?"

I hesitated. So she HAD seen Bayliss and spoken with him.

"No," I answered, after a moment, "he did not tell me, exactly. But I had heard that someone who resembled you was singing here in Paris."

"And you followed me. In spite of my letter begging you, for my sake, not to try to find me. Did you get that letter?"

"Yes, I got it."

"Then why did you do it? Oh, WHY did you?"

For the first time there was a break in her voice. We were standing before the door. The street, it was little more than an alley, was almost deserted, but I felt it was not the place for explanations. I wanted to get her away from there, as far from that dreadful "Abbey" as possible. I took her arm.

"Come," I said, "I will tell you as we go. Come with me now."

She freed her arm.

"I am not coming with you," she said. "Why did you come here?"

"I came--I came--Why did YOU come? Why did you leave us as you did?

Without a word!"

She turned and faced me.

"You know why I left you," she said. "You know. You knew all the time. And yet you let me believe--You let me think--I lived upon your money--I--I--Oh, don't speak of it! Go away! please go away and leave me."

"I am not going away--without you. I came to get you to go back with me.

You don't understand. Your aunt and I want you to come with us. We want you to come and live with us again. We--"

She interrupted. I doubt if she had comprehended more than the first few words of what I was saying.

"Please go away," she begged. "I know I owe you money, so much money.

I shall pay it. I mean to pay it all. At first I could not. I could not earn it. I tried. Oh, I tried SO hard! In London I tried and tried, but all the companies were filled, it was late in the season and I--no one would have me. Then I got this chance through an agency. I am succeeding here. I am earning the money at last. I am saving--I have saved--And now you come to--Oh, PLEASE go and leave me!"

Her firmness had gone. She was on the verge of tears. I tried to take her hands again, but she would not permit it.

"I shall not go," I persisted, as gently as I could. "Or when I go you must go with me. You don't understand."

"But I do understand. My aunt--Miss Cahoon told me. I understand it all.

Oh, if I had only understood at first."

"But you don't understand--now. Your aunt and I knew the truth from the beginning. That made no difference. We were glad to have you with us. We want you to come back. You are our relative--"

"I am not. I am not really related to you in any way. You know I am not."

"You are related to Miss Cahoon. You are her sister's daughter. She wants you to come. She wants you to live with us again, just as you did before."

"She wants that! She--But it was your money that paid for the very clothes I wore. Your money--not hers; she said so."

"That doesn't make any difference. She wants you and--"

I was about to add "and so do I," but she did not permit me to finish the sentence. She interrupted again, and there was a change in her tone.

"Stop! Oh, stop!" she cried. "She wanted me and--and so you--Did you think I would consent? To live upon your charity?"

"There is no charity about it."

"There is. You know there is. And you believed that I--knowing what I know--that my father--my own father--"

"Hush! hush! That is all past and done with."

"It may be for you, but not for me. Mr. Knowles, your opinion of me must be a very poor one. Or your desire to please your aunt as great as your--your charity to me. I thank you both, but I shall stay here. You must go and you must not try to see me again."

There was firmness enough in this speech; altogether too much. But I was as firm as she was.

"I shall not go," I reiterated. "I shall not leave you--in a place like this. It isn't a fit place for you to be in. You know it is not. Good heavens! you MUST know it?"

"I know what the place is," she said quietly.

"You know! And yet you stay here! Why? You can't like it!"

It was a foolish speech, and I blurted it without thought. She did not answer. Instead she began to walk toward the corner. I followed her.

"I beg your pardon," I stammered, contritely. "I did not mean that, of course. But I cannot think of your singing night after night in such a place--before those men and women. It isn't right; it isn't--you shall not do it."

She answered without halting in her walk.

"I shall do it," she said. "They pay me well, very well, and I--I need the money. When I have earned and saved what I need I shall give it up, of course. As for liking the work--Like it! Oh, how can you!"

"I beg your pardon. Forgive me. I ought to be shot for saying that. I know you can't like it. But you must not stay here. You must come with me."

"No, Mr. Knowles, I am not coming with you. And you must leave me and never come back. My sole reason for seeing you to-night was to tell you that. But--" she hesitated and then said, with quiet emphasis, "you may tell my aunt not to worry about me. In spite of my singing in a cafe chantant I shall keep my self-respect. I shall not be--like those others. And when I have paid my debt--I can't pay my father's; I wish I could--I shall send you the money. When I do that you will know that I have resigned my present position and am trying to find a more respectable one. Good-by."

We had reached the corner. Beyond was the square, with its lights and its crowds of people and vehicles. I seized her arm.