Annabel glanced at him. He was agreeing with Mellisande that she was beautiful? Annabel found herself inexplicably flushing with pleasure.
"And she needs some clothes," Cole went on hurriedly. "Several outfits. Her bags were lost, you see, in an accident." He smiled, clearly pleased with himself for the story he had just fabricated.
"Of course," Mellisande murmured. She began walking slowly around Annabel, eyeing her critically. "You're a rather tall girl, darling. That may present something of a problem. But perhaps not. I have the best seamstresses in the city working for me." She completed her circuit of Annabel, then clapped her hands lightly together. "All right. You, Mr. Brady, may hie yourself off to your club or some such establishment and drink brandy and smoke cigars for the next two hours. When you return, the lovely Miss Lowell will be even lovelier."
Annabel felt a twinge of panic at the thought of being separated from Cole, even though she had only known him for a little over an hour. He didn't appear as if he cared much for the idea of abandoning her, either. They looked at each other worriedly . . .
"Oh, shoo," Mellisande Dupree said impatiently. "I won't drug the young lady and sell her into white slavery. You have my word on that. Run along now like a good boy, and come back in two hours like I told you."
"I . . . I suppose I should," Cole said. "I need to call the station anyway."
"I assume you will be responsible for the bill, Mr. Brady?"
"Of course," Cole said, at the same moment as Annabel said, "But it's only a loan."
Mellisande smiled and said, "I'll leave that for the two of you to work out." She took Annabel's arm. "Come along, dear. The fitting room awaits."
Annabel was bigger and stronger than the older woman. She could have pulled away easily. But she had decided to try and blend in here in 1906 San Francisco, at least for the time being, and she couldn't do that without the right clothes. She allowed Mellisande to steer her toward the back of the shop, but not without throwing one last glance over her shoulder at Cole.
He stood there, his hat in his hands, looking torn about what he should do.
Then Mellisande swept a curtain aside, marched her through it, and let it fall closed behind them, hiding Cole from Annabel's vision.
****
As he walked back down Montgomery Street toward Market, Cole hoped he had done the right thing by leaving Annabel at Miss Mellisande's. Despite what the woman had said, he had no memory of her being a friend of his mother's, but it was certainly possible. No young child knew everything about his or her parents.
It was just that Annabel seemed so . . . lost, somehow. As if she were totally out of place. And it wasn't just the strange clothes she wore. The way she looked around, the questions she asked told Cole that something had happened recently which had disturbed the young woman greatly. So far, though, Annabel hadn't seemed inclined to go into specifics about what the incident had been.
It was none of his business, Cole told himself as he turned and headed a block west to Kearny Street. He went up a short flight of steps to the front entrance of a two-story brick building. A pair of stucco columns supported a shallow portico over the doorway. The door itself was mahogany, elaborately carved and elegantly stained. It opened just before Cole reached it, and a man in butler's livery said, "Good evening, Mr. Brady."
"Good evening, Frank," Cole replied as he took off his derby and handed it to the man.
"Will you be dining with us this evening, sir?"
"No, I don't believe so. I would, however, like to use the telephone, and then perhaps I'll have a brandy in the salon."
"As you wish, sir," Frank murmured. He closed the door behind Cole with only the barest whisper of sound.
Quiet permeated the entire Olympia Club, in fact. It was one of San Francisco's oldest and most exclusive clubs for gentlemen, dating from the days of the Comstock Lode and the Silver Kings. Cole's father had been a member, and so Cole was a member, though he didn't come here frequently.
Business deals of national import were conducted almost daily in the salon, the bar, the sitting room, the card room, and the library, but Cole seldom took part in them.