He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. I went at last when I had barely a shilling in my purse to a dramatic agent. I am engaged to sing every evening at the ‘Unusual’ music hall. Her little white hand stole across the table. Once he had managed to stake his claim, she would have all to do to prove her identity and win it back. The day had become suddenly overcast.
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