Tavernake felt that he had indeed wandered into an alien world as he took his place the following evening among the little crowd of people who were waiting outside the stage-door of the Atlas Theatre. These were surroundings to which he was totally unaccustomed. Two very handsome motor-cars were drawn up against the curb, and behind them a string of electric broughams and taxicabs, proving conclusively that the young ladies of the Atlas Theatre were popular in other than purely theatrical circles.
The handful of young men by whom Tavernake was surrounded were of a genus unknown to him. They were all dressed exactly alike, they all seemed to breathe the same atmosphere, to exhibit the same indifference towards the other loungers. One or two more privileged passed in through the stage-door and disappeared. Tavernake contented himself with standing on the edge of the curbstone, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dark overcoat, his bowler hat, which was not quite the correct shape, slightly on the back of his head; his serious, stolid face illuminated by the gleam from a neighboring gas lamp.
Presently, people began to emerge from the door. First of all, the musicians and a little stream of stage hands.
Then a girl's hat appeared in the doorway, and the first of the Atlas young ladies came out, to be claimed at once by her escort. Very soon afterwards, Beatrice arrived. She recognized Tavernake at once and crossed over to him.
“Well?” she asked.
“You looked very nice,” he said, slowly, as he led the way down the street. “Of course, I knew about your singing, but everything else—seemed such a surprise.”
“For instance?”
“Why, I mean your dancing,” he went on, “and somehow or other you looked different on the stage.”
She shook her head.
“'Different' won't do for me,” she persisted. “I must have something more specific.”
“Well, then, you looked much prettier than I thought you were,” Tavernake declared, solemnly. “You looked exceedingly nice.”
“You really thought so?” she asked, a little doubtfully.
“I really thought so. I thought you looked much nicer than any of the others.”
She squeezed his arm affectionately.
“Dear Leonard,” she said, “it's so nice to have you think so. Do you know, Mr. Grier actually asked me out to supper.”
“What impertinence!” Tavernake muttered.
Beatrice threw her head back and laughed.
“My dear brother,” she protested, “it was a tremendous compliment. You must remember that it was entirely through him, too, that I got the engagement. Four pounds a week I am going to have. Just think of it!”
“Four pounds a week is all very well,” Tavernake admitted. “It seems a great deal of money to earn like that. But I don't think you ought to go out to supper with any one whom you know so slightly.”
“Dear prig! You know, you are a shocking prig, Leonard.”
“Am I?” he answered, without offence, and with the air of one seriously considering the subject.
“Of course you are. How could you help it, living the sort of life you've led all your days? Never mind, I like you for it. I don't know whether I want to go out to supper with anybody—I really haven't decided yet—but if I did, it would certainly be better for me to go with Mr. Grier, because he can do me no end of good at the theatre, if he likes.”
Tavernake was silent for several moments. He was conscious of feeling something which he did not altogether understand. He only knew that it involved a strong and unreasonable dislike to Mr. Grier. Then he remembered that he was her brother, that he had the right to speak with authority.
“I hope that you will not go out to supper with any one,” he said.
She began to laugh but checked herself.
“Well,” she remarked, “that sounds very terrible. Shall we take a 'bus? To tell you the truth, I am dying of hunger. We rehearsed for two hours before the performance, and I ate nothing but a sandwich—I was so excited.”
Tavernake hesitated a moment—he certainly was not himself this evening!
“Would you like to have some supper at a restaurant,” he asked, “before we go home?”
“I should love it,” she declared, taking his arm as they passed through a stream of people. “To tell you the truth, I was so hoping that you would propose it.”
“I think,” Tavernake said, deliberately, “that there is a place a little way along here.”
They pushed their way down the Strand and entered a restaurant which Tavernake knew only by name. A small table was found for them and Beatrice looked about with delight.
“Isn't this jolly!” she exclaimed, taking off her gloves. “Why, there are five or six of the girls from the theatre here already. There are two, see, at the corner table, and the fair-haired girl—she is just behind me in the chorus.”
Tavernake glanced around. The young women whom she pointed out were all escorted by men who were scrupulously attired in evening dress. She seemed to read his thoughts as she laughed at him.
“You stupid boy,” she said. “You don't suppose that I want to be like them, do you? There are lots of things it's delightful to look on at, and that's all. Isn't this fish good? I love this place.”
Tavernake looked around him with an interest which he took no pains to conceal. Certainly the little groups of people by whom they were surrounded on every side had the air of finding some zest in life which up to the present, at any rate, had escaped him. They came streaming in, finding friends everywhere, laughing and talking, insisting upon tables in impossible places, calling out greetings to acquaintances across the room, chaffing the maitre d'hotel who was hastening from table to table. The gathering babel of voices was mingled every now and then with the popping of corks, and behind it all were the soft strains of a very seductive little band, perched up in the balcony. Tavernake felt the color mounting into his cheeks. It was true: there was something here which was new to him!
“Beatrice,” he asked her suddenly, “have you ever drunk champagne?”
She laughed at him.
“Often, my dear brother,” she answered. “Why?”
“I never have,” he confessed. “We are going to have some now.”
She would have checked him but he had summoned a waiter imperiously and given his order.
“My dear Leonard,” she protested, “this is shocking extravagance.”
“Is it?” he replied. “I don't care. Tell me about the theatre. Were they kind to you there? Will you be able to keep your place?”
“The girls were all much nicer than I expected,” she told him, “and the musical director said that my voice was much too good for the chorus. Oh, I do hope that they will keep me!”
“They would be idiots if they didn't,” he declared, vigorously. “You sing better and you dance more gracefully and to me you seemed much prettier than any one else there.”
She laughed into his eyes.
“My dear brother,” she exclaimed, “your education is progressing indeed! It is positively the first evening I have ever heard you attempt to make pretty speeches, and you are quite an adept already.”
“I don't know about that,” he protested. “I suppose it never occurred to me before that you were good-looking,” he added, examining her critically, “or I dare say I should have told you so. You see, one doesn't notice these things in an ordinary way. Lots of other people must have told you so, though.”
“I was never spoilt with compliments,” she said. “You see, I had a beautiful sister.”
The words seemed to have escaped her unconsciously. Almost as they passed her lips, her expression changed. She shivered, as though reminded of something unpleasant. Tavernake, however, noticed nothing. For the greater part of the day he had been sedulously fighting against a new and unaccustomed state of mind. He had found his thoughts slipping away, time after time, until he had had to set his teeth and use all his will power to keep his attention concentrated upon his work. And now once more they had escaped, again he felt the strange stir in his blood. The slight flush on his cheek grew suddenly deeper. He looked past the girl opposite to him, out of the restaurant, across the street, into that little sitting-room in the Milan Court. It was Elizabeth who was there in front of him. Again he heard her voice, saw the turn of her head, the slow, delightful curve of the lips, the eyes that looked into his and spoke to him the first strange whispers of a new language. His heart gave a quick throb. He was for the moment transformed, a prisoner no longer, a different person, indeed, from the stolid, well-behaved young man who found himself for the first time in his life in these unaccustomed surroundings. Then Beatrice leaned towards him, her voice brought him back to the present—not, alas, the voice which at that moment he would have given so much to have heard.
“To-night,” she murmured, “I feel as though we were at the beginning of new things. We must drink a toast.”
Tavernake filled her glass and his own.
“Luck to you in your new profession!” he said.
“And here is one after your own heart, you most curious of men!” she exclaimed, a few seconds later. “To the undiscovered in life!”
He drained his glass and set it down empty.
“The undiscovered,” he muttered, looking around. “It is a very good toast, Beatrice. There are many things of which one might remain ignorant all one's life if one relied wholly upon one's own perceptions.”
“I believe,” she agreed, “that if I had not appeared you were in great danger of becoming narrow.”
“I am sure of it,” he answered, “but you see you came.”
She was thoughtful for a moment.
“This reminds me just a little of that first dreary feast of ours,” she said. “You knew what it was like then to feed a genuinely starving girl. And I was miserable, Leonard. It didn't seem to me that there was any other end save one.”
“You've got over all that nonsense?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes, I suppose so,” she answered. “You see, I've started life again and one gets stronger. But there are times even now,” she added, “when I am afraid.”
The mirth had suddenly died from her face. She looked older, tired, and careworn. The shadows were back under her eyes; she glanced around almost timorously. He filled her glass.
“That is foolishness,” he said. “Nothing nor anybody can harm you now.”
Some note in his voice attracted her attention. Strong and square, with hard, forceful face, he sat wholly at his ease among these unfamiliar surroundings, a very tower of refuge, she felt, to the weak. His face was not strikingly intellectual—she was not sure now about his mouth—but one seemed to feel that dogged nature, the tireless pains by which he would pursue any aim dear to him. The shadows passed away from her mind. What was dead was gone! It was not reasonable that she should be haunted all her days by the ghosts of other people's sins. The atmosphere of the place, the atmosphere of the last few hours, found its way again into her blood. After all, she was young, the music was sweet, her pulses were throbbing to the tune of this new life. She drank her wine and laughed, her head beating time to the music.
“We have been sad long enough,” she declared. “You and I, my dear serious brother, will embark in earnest now upon the paths of frivolity. Tell me, how did things go to-day?”
It flashed into his mind that he had great news, but that it was not for her. About that matter there was still doubt in his mind, but he could not speak of it.
“I have had an offer,” he said guardedly. “I cannot say much about it at present, for nothing is certain, but I am sure that I shall be able to raise the money somehow.”
His tone was calm and confident. There was no self-assurance or bluster about it, and yet it was convincing. She looked at him curiously.
“You are a very positive person, Leonard,” she remarked. “You must have great faith in yourself, I think.”
He considered the question for a moment.
“Perhaps I have,” he admitted. “I do not think that there is any other way to succeed.”
The atmosphere of the place was becoming now almost languorous. The band had ceased to play; little parties of men and women were standing about, bidding one another goodnight. The lamps had been lowered, and in the gloom the voices and laughter seemed to have become lower and more insinuating; the lights in the eyes of the women, as they passed down the room on their way out, softer and more irresistible.
“I suppose we must go,” she said reluctantly.
Tavernake paid his bill and they turned into the street. She took his arm and they turned westward. Even out here, the atmosphere of the restaurant appeared to have found its way. The soberness of life, its harder and more practical side, was for the moment obscured. It was not the daytime crowd, this, whose footsteps pressed the pavements. The careworn faces of the money-seekers had vanished. The men and women to whom life was something of a struggle had sought their homes—resting, perhaps, before they took up their labors again. Every moment taxicabs and motor-cars whirled by, flashing upon the night a momentary impression of men in evening dress, of women in soft garments with jewels in their hair. The spirit of pleasure seemed to have crept into the atmosphere. Even the poorer people whom they passed in the street, were laughing or singing.
Tavernake stopped short.
“To-night,” he declared, “is not the night for omnibuses. We are going to have a taxicab. I know that you are tired.”
“I should love it,” she admitted.
They hailed one and drove off. Beatrice leaned back among the cushions and closed her eyes, her ungloved hand rested almost caressingly upon his. He leaned forward. There were new things in the world—he was sure of it now, sure though they were coming to him through the mists, coming to him so vaguely that even while he obeyed he did not understand. Her full, soft lips were slightly parted; her heavily-fringed eyelids closed; her deep brown hair, which had escaped bounds a little, drooping over her ear. His fingers suddenly clasped hers tightly.
“Beatrice!” he whispered.
She sat up with a start, her eyes questioning his, the breath coming quickly through her parted lips.
“Once you asked me to kiss you, Beatrice,” he said. “To-night—I am going to.”
She made no attempt to repulse him. He took her in his arms and kissed her. Even in that moment he knew that he had made a mistake. Nevertheless, he kissed her again and again, crushing her lips against his.
“Please let me go, Leonard,” she begged at last.
He obeyed at once. He understood quite well that some strange thing had happened. It seemed to him during those next few minutes that everything which had passed that night was a dream, that this vivid picture of a life more intense, making larger demands upon the senses than anything he had yet experienced, was a mirage, a thing which would live only in his memory, a life in which he could never take any part. He had blundered; he had come into a new world and he had blundered. A sense of guilt was upon him. He had a sudden wild desire to cry out that it was Elizabeth whom he had kissed. Beatrice was sitting upright in her place, her head turned a little away from him. He felt that she was expecting him to speak—that there were inevitable words which he should say. His silence was a confession. He would have lied but the seal was upon his lips. So the moment passed, and Tavernake had taken another step forward towards his destiny! ...
As he helped her out of the cab, her fingers tightened for a moment upon his hand. She patted it gently as she passed out before him into the house, leaving the door open. When he had paid the cabman and followed, she had disappeared. He looked into the sitting-room; it was empty. Overhead, he could hear her footsteps as she ascended to her room.
In the morning, when he left for the city, she was not down. When he came home in the evening, she was gone. Without removing his hat or overcoat, he took the letter which he found propped up on the mantelpiece and addressed to him to the window and read it.
DEAR BROTHER LEONARD,—It wasn't your fault and I don't think it was mine. If either of us is to blame, it is certainly I, for though you are such a clever and ambitious young person, you really know very little indeed of the world,—not so much, I think, as I do. I am going to stay for a few nights, at any rate, with one of the girls at the theatre, who I know wants some one to share her tiny flat with her. Afterwards, I shall see.
Don't throw this letter in the fire and don't think me ungrateful. I shall never forget what you did for me. How could I?
I will send you my address as soon as I am sure of it, or you can always write me to the theatre.
Good-bye, dear Leonard,YOUR SISTER BEATRICE.
Tavernake looked from the sheet of notepaper out across the gray square. He knew that he was very angry, angry though he deliberately folded the letter up and placed it in his pocket, angry though he took off his overcoat and hung it up with his usual care; but his anger was with himself. He had blundered badly. This episode of his life was one which he had better forget. It was absolutely out of harmony with all his ideas. He told himself that he was glad Beatrice was gone. Housekeeping with an imaginary sister in this practical world was an absurdity. Sooner or later it must have come to an end. Better now, before it had gone too far—better now, much better! All the same, he knew that he was going to be very lonely.
He rang the bell for the woman who waited upon them, and whom he seldom saw, for Beatrice herself had supplied their immediate wants. He found some dinner ready, which he ate with absolute unconsciousness. Then he threw himself fiercely into his work. It was all very well for the first hour or so, but as ten o'clock grew near he began to find a curious difficulty in keeping his attention fixed upon those calculations. The matter of average rentals, percentage upon capital—things which but yesterday he had found fascinating—seemed suddenly irksome. He could fix his attention upon nothing. At last he pushed his papers away, put on his hat and coat, and walked into the street.
At the Milan Court, the hall-porter received his inquiry for Elizabeth with an air of faint but well-bred surprise. Tavernake, in those days, was a person exceedingly difficult to place. His clothes so obviously denoted the station in life which he really occupied, while the slight imperiousness of his manner, his absolute freedom from any sort of nervousness or awkwardness, seemed to bespeak a consideration which those who had to deal with him as a stranger found sometimes a little puzzling.
“Mrs. Wenham Gardner is in her rooms, I believe, sir,” the man said. “If you will wait for a moment, I will inquire.”
He disappeared into his office, thrusting his head out, a moment or two later, with the telephone receiver still in his hand.
“Mrs. Gardner would like the name again, sir, please,” he remarked.
Tavernake repeated it firmly.
“You might say,” he added, “that I shall not detain her for more than a few minutes.”
The man disappeared once more. When he returned, he indicated the lift to Tavernake.
“If you will go up to the fifth floor, sir,” he said, “Mrs. Gardner will see you.”
Tavernake found his courage almost leaving him as he knocked at the door of her rooms. Her French maid ushered him into the little sitting-room, where, to his dismay, he found three men, one sitting on the table, the other two in easy-chairs. Elizabeth, in a dress of pale blue satin, was standing before the mirror. She turned round as Tavernake entered.
“Mr. Tavernake shall decide!” she exclaimed, waving her hand to him. “Mr. Tavernake, there is a difference of opinion about my earrings. Major Post here,”—she indicated a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman, with carefully trimmed beard and moustache, and an eyeglass attached to a thin band of black ribbon—“Major Post wants me to wear turquoises. I prefer my pearls. Mr. Crease half agrees with me, but as he never agrees with any one, on principle, he hates to say so. Mr. Faulkes is wavering. You shall decide; you, I know, are one of those people who never waver.”
“I should wear the pearls,” Tavernake said.
Elizabeth made them a little courtesy.
“You see, my dear friends,” she declared, “you have to come to England, after all, to find a man who knows his own mind and speaks it without fear. The pearls it shall be.”
“It may be decision,” Crease drawled, speaking with a slight American accent, “or it may be gallantry. Mr. Tavernake knew your own choice.”
“The last word, as usual,” she sighed. “Now, if you good people will kindly go on downstairs, I will join you in a few minutes. Mr. Tavernake is my man of business and I am sure he has something to say to me.”
She dismissed them all pleasantly. As soon as the door was closed she turned to Tavernake. Her manner seemed to become a shade less gracious.
“Well?”
“I don't know why I came,” Tavernake confessed bluntly. “I was restless and I wanted to see you.”
She looked at him for a moment and then she laughed. Tavernake felt a sense of relief; at least she was not angry.
“Oh, you strangest of mortals!” she exclaimed, holding out her hands. “Well, you see me—in one of my most becoming gowns, too. What do you think of the fit?”
She swept round and faced him again with an expectant look. Tavernake, who knew nothing of women's fashions, still realized the superbness of that one unbroken line.
“I can't think how you can move a step in it,” he said, “but you look—”
He paused. It was as though he had lost his breath. Then he set his teeth and finished.
“You look beautiful,” he declared. “I suppose you know that. I suppose they've all been telling you so.”
She shook her head.
“They haven't all your courage, dear Briton,” she remarked, “and if they did tell me so, I am not sure that I should be convinced. You see, most of my friends have lived so long and lived so quickly that they have learned to play with words until one never knows whether the things they speak come from their hearts. With you it is different.”
“Yes,” Tavernake admitted, “with me it is different!”
She glanced at the clock.
“Well,” she said, “you have seen me and I am glad to have seen you, and you may kiss my fingers if you like, and then you must run away. I am engaged to have supper with my friends downstairs.”
He raised her fingers clumsily enough to his lips and kept them there for a moment. When he let them go, she wrung them as though in pain, and looked at him. She turned abruptly away. In a sense she was disappointed. After all, he was an easy victim!
“Elise,” she called out, “my cloak.”
Her maid came hurrying from the next room. Elizabeth turned towards her, holding out her shoulders. She nodded to Tavernake.
“You know the way down, Mr. Tavernake? I shall see you again soon, sha'n't I? Good-night!”
She scarcely glanced at him as she sent him away, yet Tavernake walked on air.
Tavernake hesitated for a moment under the portico of the Milan Court, looking out at the rain which had suddenly commenced to descend. He scarcely noticed that he had a companion until the man who was standing by his side addressed him.
“Say, your name is Tavernake, isn't it?”
Tavernake, who had been on the point of striding away, turned sharply around. The man who had spoken to him was wearing morning clothes of dark gray tweed and a soft Homburg hat. His complexion was a little sallow and he was clean-shaven except for a slight black moustache. He was smoking a black cigar and his accent was transatlantic. Something about his appearance struck Tavernake as being vaguely familiar, but he could not at first recall where he had seen him before.
“That is my name, certainly,” Tavernake admitted.
“I am going to ask you a somewhat impertinent question,” his neighbor remarked.
“I suppose you can ask it,” Tavernake rejoined. “I am not obliged to answer, am I?”
The man smiled.
“Come,” he said, “that's honest, at any rate. Are you in a hurry for a few minutes?”
“I am in no particular hurry,” Tavernake answered. “What do you want?”
“A few nights ago,” the stranger continued, lowering his voice a little, “I met you with a young lady whose appearance, for some reason which we needn't go into, interested me. To-night I happened to overhear you inquiring, only a few minutes ago, for the sister of the same young lady.”
“What you heard doesn't concern me in the least,” Tavernake retorted. “I should say that you had no business to listen.”
His companion smiled.
“Well,” he declared, “I have always heard a good deal about British frankness, and it seems to me that I'm getting some. Anyway, I'll tell you where I come in. I am interested in Mrs. Wenham Gardner. I am interested, also, in her sister, whom I think you know—Miss Beatrice Franklin, not Miss Tavernake!”
Tavernake made no immediate reply. The man was an American, without a doubt. Perhaps he knew something of Beatrice. Perhaps this was one of the friends of that former life concerning which she had told him nothing.
“You are not, by any chance, proposing,” Tavernake said at last, “to discuss either of these ladies with me? I do not know you or what your business may be. In any case, I am going now.”
The other laid his hand on Tavernake's shoulder.
“You'll be soaked to the skin,” he protested. “I want you to come into the smoking-room here with me for a few minutes. We will have a drink together and a little conversation, if you don't mind.”
“But I do mind,” Tavernake declared. “I don't know who you are and I don't want to know you, and I am not going to talk about Mrs. Gardner, or any other lady of my acquaintance, with strangers. Good-night!”
“One moment, please, Mr. Tavernake.”
Tavernake hesitated. There was something curiously compelling in the other's smooth, distinct voice.
“I'd like you to take this card,” he said. “I told you my name before but I expect you've forgotten it,—Pritchard—Sam Pritchard. Ever heard of me before?”
“Never!”
“Not to have heard of me in the United States,” the other continued, with a grim smile, “would be a tribute to your respectability. Most of the crooks who find their way over here know of Sam Pritchard. I am a detective and I come from New York.”
Tavernake turned and looked the man over. There was something convincing about his tone and appearance. It did not occur to him to doubt for a moment a word of this stranger's story.
“You haven't anything against her—against either of them?” he asked, quickly.
“Nothing directly,” the detective answered. “All the same, you have been calling upon Mrs. Wenham Gardner this evening, and if you are a friend of hers I think that you had better come along with me and have that talk.”
“I will come,” Tavernake agreed, “but I come as a listener. Remember that I have nothing to tell you. So far as you are concerned, I do not know either of those ladies.”
Pritchard smiled.
“Well,” he said, “I guess we'll let it go at that. All the same, if you don't mind, we'll talk. Come this way and we'll get to the smoking-room through the hotel. It's under cover.”
Tavernake moved restlessly in his chair.
“What the devil is all this talk about crooks!” he exclaimed impatiently. “I didn't come here to listen to this sort of thing. I am not sure that I believe a word of what you say.”
“Why should you,” Pritchard remarked, “without proof? Look here.”
He drew a leather case from his pocket and spread it out. There were a dozen photographs there of men in prison attire. The detective pointed to one, and with a little shiver Tavernake recognized the face of the man who had been sitting at the right hand of Elizabeth.
“You don't mean to say,” he faltered, “that Mrs. Gardner—”
The detective folded up his case and replaced it in his pocket.
“No,” he said, “we haven't any photographs of your lady friend there, nor of her sister. And yet, it may not be so far off.”
“If you are trying to fasten anything upon those ladies,—” Tavernake began, threateningly.
The detective laughed and patted him on the shoulder.
“It isn't my business to try and fasten things upon any one,” he interrupted. “At the same time, you seem to be a friend of Mrs. Wenham Gardner, and it is just as well that some one should warn her.”
“Warn her of what?” Tavernake asked.
The detective looked at his cigar meditatively.
“Make her understand that there is trouble ahead,” he replied.
Tavernake sipped his whiskey and soda and lit a cigarette. Then he turned in his chair and looked thoughtfully at his companion. Pritchard was a striking-looking man, with hard, clean-cut features—a man of determination.
“Mr. Pritchard, I am a clerk in an estate office. My people were work-people and I am trying to better myself in the world. I haven't learned how to beat about a subject, but I have learned a little of the world, and I know that people such as you are not in the habit of doing things without a reason. Why the devil have you brought me in here to talk about Mrs. Gardner and her sister? If you've anything to say, why don't you go to Mrs. Gardner herself and say it? Why do you come and talk to strangers about their affairs? I am here listening to you, but I tell you straight I don't like it.”
Pritchard nodded.
“Say, I am not sure that I don't like that sort of talk,” he declared. “I know all about you, young man. You're in Dowling & Spence's office and you've got to quit. You've got an estate you want financing. Miss Beatrice Franklin was living under your roof—as your sister, I understand—until yesterday, and Mrs. Gardner, for some reason of her own, seems to be doing her best to add you to the list of her admirers. I am not sure what it all means but I could make a pretty good guess. Here's my point, though. You're right. I didn't bring you here for your health. I brought you here because you can do me a service and yourself one at the same time, and you'll be doing no one any harm, nobody you care about, anyway. I have no grudge against Miss Beatrice. I'd just as soon she kept out of the trouble that's coming.”
“What is this service?” Tavernake asked.
Pritchard for the moment evaded the point.
“I dare say you can understand, Mr. Tavernake,” he said, “that in my profession one has to sometimes go a long way round to get a man or a woman just where you want them. Now we merely glanced at that table as we came in, and I can tell you this for gospel truth—there isn't one of that crowd that I couldn't, if I liked, haul back to New York on some charge or another. You wonder why I don't do it. I'll tell you. It's because I am waiting—waiting until I can bring home something more serious, something that will keep them out of the way for just as long as possible. Do you follow me, Mr. Tavernake?”
“I suppose I do,” Tavernake answered, doubtfully. “You are only talking of the men, of course?”
Pritchard smiled.
“My young friend,” he agreed, “I am only talking of the men. At the same time, I guess I'm not betraying any confidence, or telling you anything that Mrs. Wenham Gardner doesn't know herself, when I say that she's doing her best to qualify for a similar position.”
“You mean that she is doing something against the law!” Tavernake exclaimed, indignantly. “I don't believe it for a moment. If she is associating with these people, it's because she doesn't know who they are.”
Pritchard flicked the ash from his cigar.
“Well,” he said, “every man has a right to his own opinions, and for my part I like to hear any one stick up for his friends. It makes no odds to me. However, here are a few facts I am going to bring before you. Four months ago, one of the turns at a vaudeville show down Broadway consisted of a performance by a Professor Franklin and his two daughters, Elizabeth and Beatrice. The professor hypnotized, told fortunes, felt heads, and the usual rigmarole. Beatrice sang, Elizabeth danced. People came to see the show, not because it was any good but because the girls, even in New York, were beautiful.”
“A music-hall in New York!” Tavernake muttered.
The detective nodded.
“Among the young bloods of the city,” he continued, “were two brothers, as much alike as twins, although they aren't twins, whose names were Wenham and Jerry Gardner. There's nothing in fast life which those young men haven't tried. Between them, I should say they represented everything that was known of debauchery and dissipation. The eldest can't be more than twenty-seven to-day, but if you were to see them in the morning, either of them, before they had been massaged and galvanized into life, you'd think they were little old men, with just strength enough left to crawl about. Well, to cut a long story short, both of them fell in love with Elizabeth.”
“Brutes!” Tavernake interjected.
“I guess they found Miss Elizabeth a pretty tough nut to crack,” the detective went on. “Anyhow, you know what her price was from her name, which is hers right enough. Wenham, who was a year younger than his brother, was the first to bid it. Three months ago, Mr. and Mrs. Wenham Gardner, Miss Beatrice, and the devoted father left New York in the Lusitania and came to London.”
“Where is this Wenham Gardner, then?” Tavernake demanded.
Pritchard took his cigar case from his pocket and selected another cigar.
“Say, that's where you strike the nail right on the head,” he remarked. “Where is this Wenham Gardner?”
“I don't mind telling you, Mr. Tavernake, that to discover his whereabouts is exactly what I am over on this side for. I have a commission from the family to find out, and a blank cheque to do it with.”
“Do you mean that he has disappeared, then?” asked Tavernake.
“Off the face of the earth, sir,” Pritchard replied. “Something like two months ago, the young married couple, with Miss Beatrice, started for a holiday tour somewhere down in the west of England. A few days after they started, Miss Beatrice comes back to London alone. She goes to a boarding-house, is practically penniless, but she has shaken her sister—has, I believe, never spoken with her since. A little later, Elizabeth alone turns up in London. She has plenty of money, more money than she has ever had the control of before in her life, but no husband.”
“So far, I don't see anything remarkable about that,” Tavernake interposed.
“That may or may not be,” Pritchard answered, drily. “This creature, Wenham Gardner—I hate to call him a man—was her abject slave—up till the time they reached London, at any rate. He would never have quit of his own accord. He stopped quite suddenly communicating with all his friends. None of their cables, even, were answered.”
“Why don't you go and ask Mrs. Gardner where he is?” Tavernake demanded bluntly.
“I have already,” Pritchard declared, “taken that liberty. With tears in her eyes, she assured me that after some slight quarrel, in which she admits that she was the one to blame, her husband walked out of the house where they were staying, and she has not seen him since. She was quite ready with all the particulars, and even implored me to help find him.”
“I cannot imagine,” Tavernake said, “why any one should disbelieve her.”
The detective smiled.
“There are a few little outside circumstances,” he remarked, looking at the ash of his cigar. “In the first place, how do you suppose that this young Wenham Gardner spent the last week of his stay in New York?”
“How should I know?” Tavernake replied, impatiently.
“By realizing every cent of his property on which he could lay his hands,” the detective continued. “It isn't at any time an easy business, and the Gardner interest is spread out in many directions, but he must have sailed with something like forty thousand pounds in hard cash. A suspicious person might presume that that forty thousand pounds has found its way to the stronger of the combination.”
“Anything else?” Tavernake asked.
“I won't worry you much more,” the detective answered. “There are a few other circumstances which seem to need explanation, but they can wait. There is one serious one, however, and that is where you come in.”
“Indeed!” Tavernake remarked. “I was hoping you would come to that soon.”
“The two sisters, Beatrice and Elizabeth, have been together ever since we can learn anything of their history. Those people who don't understand the disappearance of Wenham Gardner would like to know why they quarreled and parted, why Beatrice is keeping away from her sister in this strange manner. I personally, too, should like to know from Miss Beatrice when she last saw Wenham Gardner alive.”
“You want me to ask Miss Beatrice these things?” Tavernake demanded.
“It might come better from you,” Pritchard admitted. “I have written her to the theatre but naturally she has not replied.”
Tavernake looked curiously at his companion.
“Do you really suppose,” he asked, “that, even granted there were any unusual circumstances in connection with that quarrel—do you seriously suppose that Beatrice would give her sister away?”
The detective sighed.
“No doubt, Mr. Tavernake,” he said, “these young ladies are friends of yours, and perhaps for that reason you are a little prejudiced in their favor. Their whole bringing-up and associations, however, have certainly not been of a strict order. I cannot help thinking that persuasion might be brought to bear upon Miss Beatrice, that it might be pointed out to her that a true story is the safest.”
“Well, if you've finished,” Tavernake declared, “I'd like to tell you what I think of your story. I think it's all d—d silly nonsense! This Wenham Gardner, by your own saying, was half mad. There was a quarrel and he's gone off to Paris or somewhere. As to your suggestions about Mrs. Gardner, I think they're infamous.”
Pritchard was unmoved by his companion's warmth.
“Why, that's all right, Mr. Tavernake,” he affirmed. “I can quite understand your feeling like that just at first. You see, I've been among crime and criminals all my days, and I learn to look for a certain set of motives when a thing of this sort happens. You've been brought up among honest folk, who go the straightforward way about life, and naturally you look at the same matter from a different point of view. But you and I have got to talk this out. I want you to understand that those very charming young ladies are not quite the class of young women whom you know anything about. Mind you, I haven't a word to say against Miss Beatrice. I dare say she's as straight as they make 'em. But—you must take another whiskey and soda, Mr. Tavernake. Now, I insist upon it. Tim, come right over here.”
Mr. Pritchard seemed to have forgotten what he was talking about. The room had been suddenly invaded. The whole of the little supper party, whose individual members he had pointed out to his companion, came trooping into the room. They were all apparently on the best of terms with themselves, and they all seemed to make a point of absolutely ignoring Pritchard's presence. Elizabeth was the one exception. She was carrying a tiny Chinese spaniel under one arm; with the fingers of her other hand she held a tortoise-shell mounted monocle to her eye, and stared directly at the two men. Presently she came languidly across the room to them.
“Dear me,” she said, “I had no idea that even your wide circle of acquaintances, Mr. Pritchard, included my friend, Mr. Tavernake.”
The two men rose to their feet. Tavernake felt confused and angry. It was as though he had been playing the traitor in listening, even for a moment, to these stories.
“Mr. Pritchard introduced himself to me only a few minutes ago,” he declared. “He brought me in here and I have been listening to a lot of rubbish from him of which I don't believe a single word.”
She flashed a wonderful smile upon him.
“Mr. Pritchard is so very censorious,” she murmured. “He takes such a very low view of human nature. After all, though, I suppose we must not blame him. I think that as men and women we do not exist to him. We are simply the pegs by means of which he can climb a little higher in the esteem of his employers.”
Pritchard took up his soft hat and stick.
“Mrs. Gardner,” he said, “I will confess that I have been wasting my time with this young man. You are a trifle severe upon me. You may find, and before long, that I am your best friend.”
She laughed delightfully.
“Dear Mr. Pritchard,” she exclaimed, “it is a strange thought, that! If only I dared hope that some day it might come true!”
“More unlikely things, madam, are happening every hour,” the detective remarked. “The world—our little corner of it, at any rate—is full of anomalies. There might even come a time to any one of us three when liberty was more dangerous than the prison cell itself.”
He nodded carelessly to Tavernake, and with a bow to Elizabeth turned and left the room. Elizabeth remained as though turned to stone, looking after him as he descended the stairs.
“The man is a fool!” Tavernake cried, roughly.
Elizabeth shook her head and sighed.
“He is something far more ineffective,” she said. “He is just a little too clever.”