Tavernake was not sociably inclined and took no pains to conceal the fact. Mr. Pritchard, however, was not easily to be shaken off.
“So you've been palling up to the old man, eh?” he remarked, in friendly fashion.
“I came across the professor unexpectedly,” Tavernake answered, coldly. “What do you want with me, please? I am on my way home.”
Pritchard laughed softly to himself.
“Say, there's something about you Britishers I can't help admiring!” he declared. “You are downright, aren't you?”
“I suppose you think we are too clumsy to be anything else,” Tavernake replied. “This is my 'bus coming. Good-night!”
Pritchard's hand, however, tightened upon his companion's arm.
“Look here, young man,” he said, “don't you be foolish. I'm a valuable acquaintance for you, if you only realized it. Come along across the street with me. My club is on the Terrace, just below. Stroll along there with me and I'll tell you something about the professor, if you like.”
“Thank you,” Tavernake answered, “I don't think I care about hearing gossip. Besides, I think I know all there is to be known about him.”
“Did you give Miss Beatrice my message?” Pritchard asked suddenly.
“If I did,” Tavernake replied, “I have no answer for you.”
“Will you tell her this,” Pritchard began,—
“No, I will tell her nothing!” Tavernake interrupted. “You can look after your own affairs. I have no interest in them and I don't want to have. Good-night!”
Pritchard laughed again but he did not relax his grasp upon the other's arm.
“Now, Mr. Tavernake,” he said, “it won't do for you to quarrel with me. I shouldn't be surprised if you discovered that I am one of the most useful acquaintances you ever met in your life. You needn't come into the club unless you like, but walk as far as there with me. When we get on to the Terrace, with closed houses on one side and a palisade upon the other, I am going to say something to you.”
“Very well,” Tavernake decided, reluctantly. “I don't know what there is you can have to tell me, but I'll come as far as there, at any rate.”
They crossed the Strand and turned into Adam Street. As they neared the further corner, Pritchard stepped from the pavement into the middle of the street, and looked searchingly around.
“Say, you'll excuse my being a little careful,” he remarked. “This is rather a lonely part for the middle of London, and I have been followed for the last two days by people whose company I am not over keen about.”
“Followed? What for?” Tavernake demanded.
“Oh, the usual thing!” answered the detective, with a shrug of the shoulders. “That company of crooks I showed you last night don't fancy having me around. They've a good many grudges up against Sam Pritchard. I am not quite so safe over here as I should be in New York. Most of them are off to Paris tomorrow, thank Heavens!”
“And you?” Tavernake asked. “Are you going, too?”
Pritchard shook his head.
“If only those fools would believe it, I'm not over here on their business at all. I came over on a special commission this time, as you know. I have a word of warning for you, Mr. Tavernake. I guess you won't like to hear it, but you've got to.”
Tavernake stopped short.
“I don't want your warnings!” he said angrily. “I don't want you interfering in my affairs!”
The detective smiled quietly. Then a new expression suddenly tightened his lips.
“Never mind about that just now!” he exclaimed. “See here, take this police whistle from my left hand, quick, and blow it for all that you are worth!”
It was characteristic of Tavernake that he was prepared to obey without a second's hesitation. The opportunity, however, was denied him. The events which followed came and passed like a thought. A blow on his left wrist and the whistle fell into the road. A dark figure had sprung up, apparently from space; a long arm was twined around Pritchard's neck, bending him backwards; there was a gleam of steel within a few inches of his throat. And then Tavernake saw a wonderful thing. With a turn of his wrist, Pritchard suddenly seemed to lift the form of his assailant into the air. Tavernake caught a swift impression of a man's white face, the head pointing to the street, the legs twitching convulsively. Head over heels Pritchard seemed to throw him, while the knife clattered harmlessly into the roadway. The man lay crumpled up and moaning before the door of one of the houses. Pritchard sprang after him. The door had been cautiously opened and the man crawled through; Pritchard followed; then the door closed and Tavernake beat upon it in vain.
For several seconds—it seemed to Tavernake much longer—he stood gazing at the door, breathing heavily, absolutely unable to collect his thoughts. The whole affair had happened with such amazing celerity! He could not bring himself to realize it, to believe that it was Pritchard who had been with him only a few seconds ago, who in danger of his life had performed that marvelous trick of jiu-jutsu, had followed his unknown assailant into that dark, mysterious house, from no single window of which was a single gleam of light visible. Tavernake had led an uneventful life. Of the passions which breed murder and the desire to kill he knew nothing. He was dazed with the suddenness of it all. How could such a thing happen in the midst of London, in a thoroughfare only momentarily deserted, at the further end of which, indeed, were many signs of life! Then the thought of that knife made him shiver—blue glittering steel cutting the air like whipcord. He remembered the look in the assassin's face—horrible, an epitome of the passions, which seemed to reveal to him in that moment the existence of some other, some unknown world, about which he had neither read nor dreamed.
The sound of footsteps came as an immense relief. A man came round the corner, smoking a cigarette and humming softly to himself. The presence of another human being seemed suddenly to bring Tavernake's feet back upon the earth. He moved toward the pavement and addressed the newcomer.
“Can you tell me how to get inside that house?” he asked quickly.
The man removed the cigarette from his mouth and stared at his questioner.
“I should ring the bell,” he replied, “but surely it's unoccupied? What do you want to get in there for?”
“Less than a minute ago,” Tavernake told him, “I was walking here with a friend. A man came up behind us and tried deliberately to stab him. He bolted afterwards through that door, my friend followed him, the door was closed in my face.”
The newcomer was a youngish man, a musician, who had just come from a concert and was on his way to the club at the end of the street. Probably, had he been a journalist, his curiosity would have been greater than his incredulity. As it was, however, he gazed at Tavernake, for a moment, blankly.
“Look here,” he said, “this doesn't sound a very likely story of yours, you know.”
“I don't care whether it's likely or not,” Tavernake answered hotly; “it's true! The knife's somewhere in the road there—it fell up against the railings.”
They crossed the road together and searched. There were no signs of the weapon. Tavernake peered over the railings.
“When my friend struck the other man and twisted him over,” he explained, “the knife seemed to fly up into the air; it might even have reached the gardens.”
His companion turned slowly away.
“Well, it's no use looking down there for it,” he remarked. “We might try the door, if you like.”
They leaned their weight against it, hammered at the panels, and waited. The door was fast closed and no reply came. The musician shrugged his shoulders and prepared to depart, after one more glance at Tavernake, half suspicious, half questioning.
“If you think it worth while,” he said, “you had better fetch the police, perhaps. If you take my advice, though, I think I should go home and forget all about it.”
He passed on, leaving Tavernake speechless. The idea that people might not believe his story had never seriously occurred to him. Yet all of a sudden he began to doubt it himself. He stepped back into the road and looked up at the windows of the house—dark, uncurtained, revealing no sign of life or habitation. Had he really taken that walk with Pritchard, stood on this spot with him only a minute or two ago? Then he picked up the police whistle and he had no longer any doubts. The whole scene was before him again, more vividly than ever. Even at this moment, Pritchard might be in need of help!
He turned and walked sharply to the corner of the Terrace, finding himself almost immediately face to face with a policeman.
“You must come into this house with me at once!” Tavernake exclaimed, pointing backwards. “A friend of mine was attacked here just now; a man tried to stab him. They are both in that house. The man ran away and my friend followed him. The door is closed and no one answers.”
The constable looked at Tavernake very much as the musician had done.
“Do either of them live there, sir?” he asked.
“How should I know!” Tavernake answered. “The man sprang upon my friend from behind. He had a knife in his hand—I saw it. My friend threw him over and he escaped into that house. They are both there now.
“Which house is it, sir?” the policeman inquired.
They were standing almost in front of it. The gate was open and Tavernake beat against the panels with the flat of his hand. Then, with a cry of triumph, he stooped down and picked something up from a crack in the flagged stones.
“The key!” he cried. “Come on, quick!”
He thrust it into the lock and turned it; the door swung smoothly open. The policeman laid his hand upon Tavernake's shoulder.
“Look here,” he said, “let's have that story of yours again, a little more clearly. Who is it that's in this house?”
“Five minutes ago,” Tavernake began, speaking rapidly, “I met a man in the Strand whom I know slightly—Pritchard, an American detective. He said that he had something to say to me and he asked me to walk round with him to a club in this Terrace. We were in the middle of the road there, talking, when a man sprang at him; he must have come up behind quite noiselessly. The man had a knife in his hand. My friend threw him head over heels—it was some trick of jiu-jutsu; I have seen it done at the Polytechnic. He fell in front of this door which must either have been ajar or else some one who was waiting must have let him in. He crawled through and my friend followed him. The door was slammed in my face.”
“How long ago was this?” the policeman asked.
“Not much more than five minutes,” Tavernake answered.
The policeman coughed.
“It's a very queer story, sir.”
“It's true!” Tavernake declared, fiercely. “You and I have got to search this house.”
The policeman nodded.
“There's no harm in that, sir, anyway.”
He flashed his lantern around the hall—unfurnished, with paper hanging from the walls. Then they began to enter the rooms, one by one. Nowhere was there any sign of occupation. From floor to floor they passed, in grim silence. In the front chamber of the attic was a camp bedstead, two or three humble articles of furniture, and a small stove.
“Caretaker's kit,” the policeman muttered. “Nothing seems to have been used for some time.”
They descended the stairs again.
“You say you saw the two men enter this house, sir?” the policeman remarked doubtfully.
“I did,” Tavernake declared. “There is no doubt about it.”
“The back entrances are all properly locked,” the policeman pointed out. “None of the windows by which any one could escape have been opened. We've been into every room. There's no one in the house now, sir, is there?”
“There doesn't seem to be,” Tavernake admitted.
The policeman looked him over once more; Tavernake certainly had not the appearance of one attempting a hoax.
“I am afraid there is nothing more we can do, sir,” the man said civilly. “You had better give me your name and address.”
“Can't we go over the place once more?” Tavernake suggested. “I tell you I saw them come in.”
“I have my beat outside to look after, sir,” the constable answered. “If it wasn't that you seem respectable, I should begin to think that you wanted me out of the way for a bit. Name and address, please.”
Tavernake gave them readily. They passed out together into the street.
“I shall report this matter,” the man said, closing his book. “Perhaps the sergeant will have the house searched again. If you take my advice, sir,” he added, “you'll go home.”
“I saw them both pass through that door,” Tavernake repeated, half to himself, still standing upon the pavement and staring at the unlit windows.
The constable made no reply but moved off. Soon he reached the corner of the Terrace and disappeared. Tavernake slowly crossed the road and with his back to the railings looked steadfastly at the dark front of gray stone houses. Big Ben struck one o'clock, several people passed backwards and forwards. Men were coming out from the club, and separating for the night; the roar of the city was growing fainter. Yet Tavernake felt indisposed to move. The look in that man's drawn white face and black eyes haunted him, There was tragedy there, the shadow of terrible things, fear, and the murderous desire to kill! Through that door they had passed, the two men, one in flight, the other in pursuit. Where were they now? Perhaps it had been a trap. Pritchard had spoken seriously enough of his enemies.
Then, as he stood there, he saw for the first time a thin line of light through the closely-drawn curtains of a room on the ground floor of the adjoining house. Without a moment's hesitation, he crossed the road and rang the bell. The door was opened, after a trifling delay, by a man in plain clothes, who might, however, have been a servant in mufti. He looked at Tavernake suspiciously.
“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” Tavernake explained, “but I saw some one go in the house next to you, a little time ago. Can you tell me if you have heard any noises or voices during the last half-hour?”
The man shook his head.
“We have heard nothing, sir,” he said.
“Who lives here?” Tavernake asked.
“Did you call me up at one o'clock in the morning to ask silly questions?” the man replied insolently. “Every one's in bed here and I was just going.”
“There's a light in your ground floor room,” Tavernake remarked. “There's some one talking there now—I can hear voices.”
The man closed the door in his face. For some time Tavernake wandered restlessly about, starting at last reluctantly homewards. He had reached the Strand and was crossing Trafalgar Square when a sudden thought held him. He stood still for a moment in the middle of the street. Then he turned abruptly round. In less than five minutes he was once more on the Terrace.
Tavernake had the feelings of a man suddenly sobered as he turned once more into the Adelphi Terrace. Waiting until no one was in sight, he opened the door of the empty house with the Yale key which he had kept, and carefully closed it. He struck a match and listened for several minutes intently; not a sound from anywhere. He moved a few yards further to the bottom of the stairs, and listened again; still silence. He turned the handle of the ground floor apartment and commenced a fresh search. Room by room he examined by the light of his rapidly dwindling matches. This time he meant to leave behind him no possibility of any mistake. He even measured the depths of the walls for any secret hiding place. From room to room he passed, leisurely, always on the alert, always listening. Once, as he opened a door on the third floor there was a soft scurrying as though of a skirt across the floor. He struck a match quickly, to find a great rat sitting up and looking at him with black, beady eyes. It was the only sign of life he found in the whole building.
When he had finished his search, he came down to the ground floor and entered the room corresponding with the one from which he had heard voices in the adjoining house. He crouched here upon the dusty boards for some time, listening. Now and then he fancied that he could still hear voices on the other side of the wall, but he was never absolutely certain.
At last he rose to stretch himself, and almost as he did so a fresh sound from outside attracted his notice. A motor-car had turned into the Terrace. He walked to the uncurtained window and stood there, sure of being himself unseen. Then his heart gave a great leap. Unemotional though he was, this was a happening which might well have excited a more phlegmatic individual. A motor-car which he remembered very well, although it was driven now by a man in dark livery, had stopped at the next house. A woman and two men had descended. Tavernake never glanced at the latter; his eyes were fastened upon their companion. She was wrapped in a long cloak, but she lifted her skirts as she crossed the pavement, and he saw the flash of her silver buckles. Her carriage, her figure, were unmistakable. It was Elizabeth who was paying this early morning visit next door! Already the little party had disappeared. They did not even ring the bell. The door must have been opened silently at their coming. The motor-car glided off. Once more the Terrace was deserted.
Tavernake felt sure that he knew now the solution,—there was a way from this house into the next one. He struck another match and, standing back a few yards, looked critically at the dividing wall. In ancient days this had evidently been a dwelling-house of importance, elaborately decorated, as the fresco work upon the ceiling still indicated. The wall had been divided into three panels, with a high wainscoting. Inch by inch he examined it from one end to the other; he started from the back and came toward the front. About three-quarters of the way there, he paused. It was very simple, after all. The solid wall for a couple of feet suddenly ceased, and the design was continued with an expanse of stretched canvas, which yielded easily to his finger. He leaned his ear against it; he could hear now distinctly the sound of voices—he heard even the woman's laughter. For the height of about four feet the wall had been bodily removed. He made a small hole in the canvas—there was still darkness. He enlarged the hole until he could thrust his hand through—there was nothing but canvas the other side. He knew now where he was. There was only that single thickness of canvas between him and the room. He had but to make the smallest hole in it and he would be able to see through. Even now, with the removal of the barrier on his side, the voices were more distinct. A complete section of the wall had evidently been taken out and replaced by a detachable framework of wood covered with stretched canvas. He stood back for a moment and felt with his finger; he could almost trace the spot where the woodwork fitted upon hinges. Then he went on his hands and knees again, and with his penknife in his hand he paused to listen. He could hear the man Crease talking—a slow, nasal drawl. Then he heard Pritchard's voice, followed by what seemed to be a groan. There was a silence, then Elizabeth seemed to ask a question. He heard her low laugh and some note in it sent a shiver through his body. Pritchard was speaking fiercely now. Then, in the middle of his sentence, there was silence once more, followed by another groan. He could almost feel the people in that room holding their breaths.
Tavernake was rapidly forgetting all caution. The point of his knife was through the canvas. Slowly he worked it round until a small piece, the size of a half-crown, was partially cut through. With infinite pains he got his head and shoulders into the small recess and for the first time looked into the room. Pritchard was sitting almost in the middle of the apartment; his arms seemed to be bound to the chair and his legs were tied together. A few yards away, Elizabeth, her fur coat laid aside, was lounging back in an easy-chair, her dress all glittering with sequins, a curious light in her eyes, a cruel smile parting her lips. By her side—sitting, in fact, on the arm of her chair—was Crease, his long, worn face paler, even, than usual; his lips curled in a smile of cynical amusement. Major Post was there, carefully dressed as though he had been attending some social gathering, standing upon the hearth-rug with his coat-tails under his arms. The professor, in whose face seemed written the most abject terror, was talking. Tavernake now could hear every word distinctly.
“My dear Elizabeth! My dear Crease! You are both too precipitate! I tell you that I protest—I protest most strongly. Mr. Pritchard, I am sure, with a little persuasion, will listen to reason. I will not be a party to any such proceeding as—as this. You understand, Crease? We have gone quite far enough as it is. I will not have it.”
Elizabeth laughed softly.
“My dear father,” she said, “you will really have to take something for your nerves. Nothing need happen to Mr. Pritchard at all unless he asks for it. He has his chance—. no one should expect more.”
“You are right, my dear Elizabeth,” declared Crease, speaking very slowly and with his usual drawl. “This question of his health for the future—at any rate, for the immediate future—is entirely in Pritchard's own hands. There is no one who has received so many warnings as he. Bramley was cautioned twice; Mallison was warned three times and burned to death; Forsith had word from us only once, and he was shot in a drunken brawl. This man Pritchard has been warned a dozen times, he has escaped death twice. The time has come to show him that we are in earnest. Threats are useless; the time has come for deeds. I say that if Pritchard refuses this trifling request of ours, let us see that he leaves this house in such a state that he will not be able to do us any harm for some time at least.”
“But he will give his word!” the professor cried excitedly. “I am quite sure that if you allow me to talk to him reasonably, he will pledge his word to go back to the States and interfere no longer with your affairs.”
Pritchard turned his head slightly. He was a little pale, and the blood was dropping slowly on to the floor from a wound in his temple, but his tone was contemptuous.
“I will give you my word, Professor, and you, Elizabeth Gardner, and you, Jim Post, and you, Walter Crease, that crippled, or straight, in evil or good health, from the very jaws of death I will hang on to life until you have paid your just debts. You understand that, all of you? I don't know what sort of a show this is. You may be in earnest, or you may be trying a rag. In any case, let me assure you of this. You won't get me to beg for mercy. If you force me to drink that stuff you are talking about, I'll find the antidote, and as sure as there's a prison in America, so surely I'll make you suffer for it! If you take my advice,” he went on slowly, “and I know what I'm talking about, you'll cut these ropes and set open your front door. You 'll live longer, all of you.”
“An idiot,” Elizabeth remarked pleasantly, “can do but little harm in the world. The word of a person of weak intellect is not to be relied upon. For my part, I am very tired of our friend, Mr. Pritchard. If you others had been disposed to go to much greater lengths, if you had said 'Hang him from the ceiling,' I should have been well pleased.”
Pritchard made a slight movement in his chair—it was certainly not a movement of fear.
“Madam,” he said, “I admire your candor. Let me return it. I don't believe there's one of you here has the pluck to attempt to do me any serious injury. If there is, get on with it. You hear, Mr. Walter Crease? Bring out that bottle of yours.”
Crease removed his cigar from his lips and rose slowly to his feet. From his waistcoat pocket he produced a small phial, from which he drew the cork.
“Seems to me it's up to us to do the trick,” he remarked languidly. “Catch hold of his forehead, Jimmy.”
The man known as Major Post threw away his cigarette, and coming round behind Pritchard's chair, suddenly bent the man's head backward. Crease advanced, phial in hand. Then all Hell seemed to be let loose in Tavernake. He stepped back in his place and marked the extent of that wooden partition. Then, setting his teeth, he sprang at it, throwing the great weight of his massive shoulder against the framework door. Scratched and bleeding, but still upon his feet, he burst into the room, with the noise of bricks falling behind,—an apparition so unexpected that the little company gathered there seemed turned into some waxwork group from the Chamber of Horrors—motionless, without even the power of movement.
Tavernake, in those few moments, was like a giant among a company of degenerates. He was strong, his muscles were like whipcord, and his condition was perfect. Walter Crease went over like a log before his fist; Major Post felt the revolver at which he had snatched struck from his hand, and he himself remembered nothing more till he came to his senses some time afterwards. A slash and a cut and Pritchard was free. The professor stood wringing his hands. Elizabeth had risen to her feet. She was pale, but she was still more nearly composed than any other person in the room. Tavernake and Pritchard were masters of the situation. Pritchard leaned toward the mirror and straightened his tie.
“I am afraid,” he said looking down at Walter Crease's groaning figure, “that our hosts are scarcely in fit condition to take leave of us. Never mind, Mrs. Gardner, we excuse ourselves to you. I cannot pretend to be sorry that my friend's somewhat impetuous entrance has disturbed your plans for the evening, but I do hope that you will realize now the fatuousness of such methods in these days. Good-night! It is time we finished our stroll together, Tavernake.”
They moved towards the door—there was no one to stop them. Only the professor tried to say a few words.
“My dear Mr. Pritchard—my dear Pritchard, if you will allow me to call you so,” he exclaimed, “let me beg of you, before you leave us, not to take this trifling adventure too seriously! I can assure you that it was simply an attempt to coerce you, not in the least an affair to be taken seriously!”
Pritchard smiled.
“Professor,” he said, “and you, Walter Crease, and you, Jimmy Post, if you're able to listen, listen to me. You have played the part of children to-night. So surely as men and women exist who live as you do, so surely must the law wait upon their heels. You cannot cheat justice. It is as inexorable as Time itself. When you try these little tricks, you simply give another turn to the wheel, add another danger to life. You had better learn to look upon me as necessary, all of you, for I am certainly inevitable.”
They passed backwards through the door, then they went down the silent hall and out into the street. Even as they did so, the clock struck a quarter to two.
“My friend Tavernake,” Pritchard declared, lighting a cigarette with steady fingers, “you are a man. Come into the club with me while I bathe my forehead. After all, we'll have that drink together before we say goodnight.”
Tavernake awoke some hours later with a puzzled sense of having lost his own identity, of having taken up another man's life, stepped into another man's shoes. From the day of his first arrival in London, a raw country youth, till the night when he had spoken to Beatrice on the roof of Blenheim House, nothing that could properly be called an adventure had ever happened to him. He had never for a moment felt the want of it; he had not even indulged in the reading of books of romance. The thing which had happened last night, as in the cold morning sunlight he sat up in his bed, seemed to him a thing grotesque, inconceivable. It was not really possible that those people—those well-bred, well-looking people—had seriously contemplated an enormity which seemed to belong to the back pages of history, or that he, Tavernake, had burst through a wall with no weapons in his hand, and had dominated the situation! He sat there steadily thinking. It was incredible, but it was true! There existed still in his mind some faint doubt as to whether they would really have proceeded to extremities. Pritchard himself had made light of the whole affair, afterwards had treated it, indeed, as a huge practical joke. Tavernake, remembering that little group as he had first seen it, remained doubtful.
By degrees, his own personal characteristics began to assert themselves. He began to wonder how his action would affect his commercial interests. He had probably made an enemy of this wonderful sister of Beatrice's, the woman who had so completely filled his thoughts during the last few days, the woman, too, who was to have found the money by means of which he was to set his feet upon the first rung of the ladder. This was a thing, he decided, which must be settled at once. He must see her and know exactly what terms they were on, whether or not she meant to be off with her bargain. The thought of action of any sort was stimulating. He rose and dressed, had his breakfast, and set out on his pilgrimage.
Soon after eleven o'clock, he presented himself at the Milan Court and asked for Mrs. Wenham Gardner. For several minutes he waited about in nervous anticipation, then he was told that she was not at home. More than a little disappointed, he pressed for news of her. The hall porter thought that she had gone down into the country, and if so it was doubtful when she would be back. Tavernake was now seriously disconcerted.
“I want particularly to wire to her,” he insisted. “Please find out from her maid how I shall direct a telegram.”
The hall porter, who was a most superior person, regarded him blandly.
“We do not give addresses, sir,” he explained, “unless at the expressed wish of our clients. If you leave a telegram here, I will send it up to Mrs. Gardner's rooms to be forwarded.”
Tavernake scribbled one out, begging for news of her return, added his address and left the place. Then he wandered aimlessly about the streets. There seemed something flat about the morning, some aftermath of the excitement of the previous night was still stirring in his blood. Nevertheless, he pulled himself together with an effort, called for a young surveyor whom he had engaged to assist him, and spent the rest of the day out upon the hill. Religiously he kept his thoughts turned upon his work until the twilight came. Then he hurried home to meet the disappointment which he had more than half anticipated. There was no telegram for him! He ate his dinner and sat with folded arms, looking out into the street. Still no telegram! The restlessness came back once more. Soon after ten o'clock it became unbearable. He found himself longing for company, the loneliness of his little room since the departure of Beatrice had never seemed so real a thing. He stood it as long as he could and then, catching up his hat and stick, he set his face eastwards, walking vigorously, and with frequent glances at the clocks he passed.
A few minutes past eleven o'clock, he found himself once more in that dark thoroughfare at the back of the theatre. The lamp over the stage-door was flickering in the same uncertain manner, the same motor-cars were there, the same crowd of young men, except that each night they seemed to grow larger. This time he had a few minutes only to wait. Beatrice came out among the earliest. At the sight of her he was suddenly conscious that he had, after all, no excuse for coming, that she would probably cross-examine him about Elizabeth, would probably guess the secret of his torments. He shrank back, but he was a moment too late for she had seen him. With a few words of excuse to the others with whom she was talking, she picked up her skirts and came swiftly across the muddy street. Tavernake had no time to escape. He remained there until she came, but his cheeks were hot, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that his presence, that their meeting like this, was an embarrassment to both of them.
“My dear Leonard,” she exclaimed, “why do you hide over there?”
“I don't know,” he answered simply.
She laughed.
“It looks as though you didn't want to see me,” she remarked. “If you didn't, why are you here?”
“I suppose I did want to see you,” he replied. “Anyhow, I was lonely. I wanted to talk to some one. I walked all the way up here from Chelsea.”
“You have something to tell me?” she suggested.
“There was something,” he admitted. “I thought perhaps you ought to know. I had supper with your father last night. We talked about you.”
She started as though he had struck her; her face was suddenly pale and anxious.
“Are you serious, Leonard?” she asked. “My father?”
He nodded.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I ought not to have blundered it out like that. I forgot that you—you were not seeing anything of him.”
“How did you meet him?”
“By accident,” he answered. “I was sitting alone up in the balcony at Imano's, and he wanted my table because he could see you from there, so we shared it, and then we began talking. I knew who he was, of course; I had seen him in your sister's room. He told me that he had engaged the table for every night this week.”
She looked across the road.
“I can't go out with those people now,” she declared. “Wait here for me.”
She went back to her friends and talked to them for a moment or two. Tavernake could hear Grier's protesting voice and Beatrice's light laugh. Evidently they were trying uselessly to persuade her to change her mind. Soon she came back to him.
“I am sorry,” he said reluctantly. “I am afraid that I have spoiled your evening.”
“Don't be foolish, please,” she replied taking his arm. “Do you believe that my father will be up in the balcony at Imano's to-night?”
Tavernake nodded.
“He told me so.”
“We will go and sit up there,” she decided. “He knows where I am to be found now so it doesn't matter. I should like to see him.”
They walked off together. Though she was evidently absent and distressed, Tavernake felt once more that sense of pleasant companionship which her near presence always brought him.
“There is something else I must ask you,” she began presently. “I want to know if you have seen Pritchard lately.”
“I was with him last night,” Tavernake answered.
She shivered.
“He was asking questions?”
“Not about you,” Tavernake assured her quickly. “It is your sister in whom he is interested.”
Beatrice nodded, but she seemed very little relieved. Tavernake could see that the old look of fear was back in her face.
“I am sorry, Beatrice,” he said, regretfully. “I seem just now to be always bringing you reminiscences of the people whom it terrifies you to hear about.”
She shook her head.
“It isn't your fault, Leonard,” she declared, “only it is rather strange that you should be mixed up with them in any way, isn't it? I suppose some day you'll find out everything about me. Perhaps you'll be sorry then that you ever even called yourself my brother.”
“Don't be foolish,” he answered, brusquely.
She patted his hand.
“Is the speculation going all right?” she asked.
“I am hoping to get the money together this week,” he replied. “If I get it, I shall be well off in a year, rich in five years.”
“There is just a doubt about your getting it, then?” she inquired.
“Just a doubt,” he admitted. “I have a solicitor who is doing his best to raise a loan, but I have not heard from him for two days. Then I have also a friend who has promised it to me, a friend upon whom I am not quite sure if I can rely.”
They turned into the Strand.
“Tell me about my father, Leonard,” she begged.
He hesitated; it was hard to know exactly how to speak of the professor.
“Perhaps if you have talked with him at all,” she went on, “it will help you to understand one of the difficulties I had to face in life.”
“He is, I should imagine, a little weak,” Tavernake suggested, hesitatingly.
“Very,” she answered. “My mother left him in my charge, but I cannot keep him.”
“Your sister—” he began.
She nodded.
“My sister has more influence than I. She makes life easier for him.”
They reached the restaurant and made their way upstairs. Tavernake appropriated the same table and once more the head waiter protested.
“If the gentleman comes again to-night,” Tavernake said, “you will find that he will be only too glad to have supper with us.”
Then the professor came. He made his usual somewhat theatrical entrance, carrying his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, brandishing his silver-topped cane. When he saw Tavernake and Beatrice, he stopped short. Then he held out both hands, which Beatrice immediately seized. There were tears in his eyes, tears running down his cheeks. He sat down heavily in the chair which Tavernake was holding for him.
“Beatrice,” he exclaimed, “why, this is most affecting! You have come here to have supper with your old father. You trust me, then?”
“Absolutely,” she replied, still clasping his hands. “If you give me away to Elizabeth, it will be the end. The next time I shall never be found.”
“For some days,” he assured her, “I have known exactly where you were to be found. I have never spoken of it. You are safe. My meals up here,” he added, with a little sigh, “have been sad feasts. To-night we will be cheerful. Some quails, I think, quails and some Clicquot for you, my dear. You need it. Ah, this is a happiness indeed!”
“You know Mr. Tavernake, father,” she remarked, after he had given a somewhat lengthy order to the waiter.
“I met and talked with Mr. Tavernake here the other night,” the professor admitted, with condescension.
“Mr. Tavernake was very good to me at a time when I needed help,” Beatrice told him.
The professor grasped Tavernake's hands.
“You were good to my child,” he said, “you were good to me. Waiter, three cocktails immediately,” he ordered, turning round. “I must drink your health, Mr. Tavernake—I must drink your health at once.”
Tavernake leaned forward towards Beatrice.
“I wonder,” he suggested, “whether you would not rather be alone with your father.”
She shook her head.
“You know so much,” she replied, “and it really doesn't seem to matter. Tell me, father, how do you spend your time?”
“I must confess, dear,” the professor said, “that I have little to do. Your sister Elizabeth is quite generous.”
Beatrice sat back in her chair as though she had been struck.
“Father,” she exclaimed, “listen! You are living on that money! Doesn't it seem terrible to you? Oh, how can you do it!”
The professor looked at his daughter with an expression of pained surprise.
“My dear,” he explained, “your sister Elizabeth has always been the moneyed one of the family. She has brains and I trust her. It is not for me to inquire as to the source of the comforts she provides for me. I feel myself entitled to receive them, and so I accept.”
“But, father,” she went on, “can't you see—don't you know that it's his money—Wenham's?”
“It is not a matter, this, my child,” the professor observed, sharply, “which we can discuss before strangers. Some day we will speak of it, you and I.”
“Has he—been heard of?” she asked, in a whisper.
The professor frowned.
“A hot-tempered young man, my dear,” he declared uneasily, “a hot tempered young man, indeed. Elizabeth gives me to understand that it was just an ordinary quarrel and away he went.”
Beatrice was white to the lips.
“An ordinary quarrel!” she muttered.
She sat quite still. Tavernake unconsciously found himself watching her. There were things in her eyes which frightened him. It seemed as though she were looking out of the gay little restaurant, with its lights and music and air of comfort, out into some distant quarter of the world, some other and very different place. She was living through something which chilled her heart, something terrifying. Tavernake saw those things in her face and his eyes spelt them out mercilessly.
“Father,” she whispered, leaning towards him, “do you believe what you have just been saying to me?”
It was the professor's turn to be disturbed. He concealed his discomfiture, however, with a gesture of annoyance.
“That is scarcely a proper question, Beatrice,” he answered sharply. “Ah,” he added, with more geniality, “the cocktails! My young friend Tavernake, I drink to our better acquaintance! You are English, as I can see, a real Britisher. Some day you must come out to our own great country—my daughter, of course, has told you that we are Americans. A great country, sir,—the greatest I have ever lived in—room to breathe, room to grow, room for a young man like you to plant his ambitions and watch them blossom. To our better acquaintance, Mr. Tavernake, and may we meet some day in the United States!”
Tavernake drank the first cocktail in his life and wiped the tears from his eyes. The professor found safety in conversation.
“You know,” he went on, “that I am a man of science. Physiognomy delights me. Men and women as I meet them represent to me varying types of humanity, all interesting, all appealing to my peculiar love of the science of psychology. You, my dear Mr. Tavernake, if I may venture to be so personal, represent to me, as you sit there, the exact prototype of the young working Englishman. You are, I should judge, thorough, dogmatic, narrow, persistent, industrious, and bound to be successful according to the scope and nature of your ambitions. In this country you will never develop. In my country, sir, we should make a colossus of you. We should teach you not to be content with small things; we should raise your hand which you yourself kept to your side, and we should point your finger to the skies. Waiter,” he added, turning abruptly round, “if the quails are not yet ready I will take another of these excellent cocktails.”
Tavernake was embarrassed. He saw that Beatrice was anxious to talk to her father; he saw, also, that her father was determined not to talk to her. With a little sigh, however, she resigned herself to the inevitable.
“I have lectured, sir,” the professor continued, “in most of the cities of the United States, upon the human race. The tendencies of every unit of the human race are my peculiar study. When I speak to you of phrenology, sir, you smile, and you think, perhaps, of a man who sits in a back room and takes your shilling for feeling the bumps of your head. I am not of this order of scientific men, sir. I have diplomas from every university worth mentioning. I blend the sciences which treat with the human race. I know something of all of them. Character reading to me is at once a passion and a science. Leave me alone with a man or a woman for five minutes, paint me a map of Life, and I will set the signposts along which that person will travel, and I shall not miss one.”
“You are doing no work over here, father, are you?” Beatrice asked.
“None, my dear,” he answered, with a faint note of regret in his tone. “Your sister Elizabeth seemed scarcely to desire it. Her movements are very uncertain and she likes to have me constantly at hand. My daughter Elizabeth,” he continued, turning to Tavernake, “is a very beautiful young woman, left in my charge under peculiar circumstances. I feel it my duty, therefore, to be constantly at hand.”
Again there was a flash of that strange look in the girl's face. She leaned forward, but her father declined to meet her gaze.
“May I ask one or two personal questions?” she faltered. “Remember, I have not seen or heard anything from either of you for seven months.”
“By all means, my dear,” the professor declared. “Your sister, I am glad to say, is well. I myself am as you see me. We have had a pleasant time and we have met some dear old friends from the other side. Our greatest trouble is that you are temporarily lost to us.”
“Elizabeth doesn't guess—”
“My child,” the professor interrupted, “I have been loyal to you. If Elizabeth knew that I could tell her at any moment your exact whereabouts, I think that she would be more angry with me than ever she has been in her life, and, my dear,” he added, “you know, when Elizabeth is angry, things are apt to be unpleasant. But I have been dumb. I have not spoken, nor shall I. Yet,” the professor went on, “you must not think, Beatrice, that because I yield to your whim in this matter I recognize any sufficient cause why you should voluntarily estrange yourself from those whose right and privilege it is to look after you. You are able, I am glad to see, to make your way in the world. I have attended the Atlas Theatre, and I am glad to see that you have lost none of your old skill in the song and dance. You are deservedly popular there. Soon, I have no doubt, you will aspire to more important parts. Still, my dear child,” the professor continued, disposing of his second cocktail, “I see no reason why your very laudable desire to remain independent should be incompatible with a life under your sister's roof and my protection. Mr. Tavernake here, with his British instincts, will, I am sure, agree with me that it is not well for a young lady—my own daughter, sir, but I may say it—of considerable personal attractions, to live alone or under the chaperonage merely of these other young ladies of the theatre.”
“I think,”, Tavernake said, “that your daughter must have very strong reasons for preferring to live alone.”
“Imaginary ones, my dear sir,” the professor assured him,—“altogether imaginary. The quails at last! And the Clicquot! Now this is really a delightful little meeting. I drink to its repetition. This is indeed a treat for me. Beatrice, my love to you! Mr. Tavernake, my best respects! The only vintage, sir,” he concluded, setting down his empty glass appreciatively.
“To go back to what you were saying just now,” Tavernake remarked, “I quite agree with you about Beatrice's living alone. I am very anxious for her to marry me.”
The professor set down his knife and fork. His appearance was one of ponderous theatricality.
“Sir,” he declared, “this is indeed a most momentous statement. Am I to take it as a serious offer for my daughter's hand?”
Beatrice leaned over and laid her fingers upon his.
“Father,” she said, “it doesn't matter please. I am not willing to marry Mr. Tavernake.”
The professor looked from one to the other and coughed.
“Are Mr. Tavernake's means,” he asked, “of sufficient importance to warrant his entering into matrimony?”
“I have no money at all to speak of,” Tavernake answered. “That really isn't important. I shall very soon make all that your daughter can spend.”
“I agree with my daughter, sir,” the professor declared. “The subject might well be left until such time as you have improved your position. We will dismiss it, therefore,—dismiss it at once. We will talk—”
“Father,” Beatrice interrupted, “let us talk about yourself. Don't you think you would be more contented, happier, if you were to try to arrange for a few—a few demonstrations or lectures over here, as you at first intended? I know that you must find having nothing to do such a strain upon you,” she added.
It was perhaps by accident that her eyes were fixed upon the glass which the professor was carrying to his lips. He set it down at once.
“My child,” he said, in a low tone, “I understand you.”
“No, no,” she insisted, “I didn't mean that, but you are always better when you are working. A man like you,” she went on, a little wistfully, “should not waste his talents.”
He sighed.
“You are perhaps right, my child,” he admitted. “I will go and see my agents to-morrow. Up till now,” he went on, “I have refused all offers. I have felt that Elizabeth, the care of Elizabeth in her peculiar position, demanded my whole attention. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have over-estimated the necessity of being constantly at her right hand. She is a very clever woman Elizabeth,” he concluded, “very clever indeed.”
“Where is she now, father?” Beatrice asked.
“She motored into the country early this morning with some friends,” the professor said. “They went to a party last night with Walter Crease, London correspondent to the New York Gazette,” he explained, turning a little away from Tavernake. “They were all home very late, I understand, and Elizabeth complained of a headache this morning. Personally, I regret to say that I was not up when they left.”
Beatrice leaned quite close to her father.
“Do you see anything of the man Pritchard?” she inquired.
The professor was suddenly flabby. He set down his glass, spilling half its contents. He stole a quick glance at Tavernake.
“My child,” he exclaimed, “you ought to consider my nerves! You know very well that the sudden mention of any one whom I dislike so intensely is bad for me. I am surprised at you, Beatrice. You show a culpable lack of consideration for my infirmities.”
“I am sorry, father,” she whispered, “but is he here?”
“He is,” the professor admitted. “Between ourselves,” he added, a white, scared look upon his pale face, “he is spoiling my whole peace of mind. My enjoyment of the comforts which Elizabeth is able to provide for me is interfered with by that man's constant presence. He seldom speaks, and yet he seems always to be watching. I do not trust him, Beatrice. I am a judge of men and I tell you that I do not trust him.”
“I wish that Elizabeth would go away,” Beatrice said in a low tone. “Of course, I have no right—to say things. Nothing serious has perhaps ever happened. And yet—and yet, for her own sake, I do not think that she should stay here in London with Pritchard close at hand.”
The professor raised his glass with shaking fingers.
“Elizabeth knows what is best,” he declared, “I am sure that Elizabeth knows what is best, but I, too, am beginning to wish that she would go away. Last night we met him at Walter Crease's.”
Once more he turned a little nervously towards Tavernake, who was looking down into the body of the restaurant with immovable face.
“We tried to persuade him then to go away. He is really in rather a dangerous position here. Jimmy Post has sworn that he will not be taken back to New York, and there are one or two others—a pretty desperate crew. We tried last night to reason with Pritchard.”
“It was no good?” she whispered.
“No good at all,” the professor answered, drily. “Perhaps, if we had not been interrupted, we might have convinced him.”
“Tell me about it,” she begged.
The professor shook his head. Tavernake still had that air of paying no attention whatever to their conversation.
“It is not for you to know about, my dear,” he concluded. “You have chosen very wisely to keep out of these matters. Elizabeth has such wonderful courage. My own nerve, I regret to say, is not quite what it was. Waiter, I will take a liqueur of the old brandy in a large glass.”
The brandy was brought, but the professor seemed haunted by memories and his spirits never wholly returned. Not until the lights were turned down and Tavernake had paid the bill, did he partially recover his former manner.
“Dear child,” he said, as they stood up together, “I cannot tell you what the pleasure has been of this brief reunion.”
She rested her fingers upon his shoulders and looked up into his face.
“Father,” she begged, softly, “come to me. I can keep you, if you don't mind for a short time being poor. You shall have all my salary except just enough for my clothes, and anything will do for me to wear. I will try so hard to make you comfortable.”
He looked at her with an air of offended dignity.
“My child,” he replied, “you must not talk to me like that. If I did not feel that my duty lay with Elizabeth, I should insist upon your coming to me, and under those conditions it would be I who should provide, not you. But for the moment I cannot leave your elder sister altogether. She needs me.”
Beatrice turned away a little sadly. They all three descended the stairs.
“I shall leave our young friend, Mr. Tavernake, to escort you to your home,” the professor announced. “I myself shall telephone to see if Elizabeth has returned. If she is still away, I shall spend an hour or two, I think, with my friends at the Blue Room Club. Beatrice, this has been a joy to me, a joy soon, I hope, to be repeated.”
He took both her hands. She smiled at him with an attempt at cheerfulness.
“Good-night, father!” she said.
“And to you, sir, also, good-night!” the professor added, taking Tavernake's hand and holding it for a minute in his, while he looked impressively in his face. “I will not say too much, but I will say this: so much as I have seen of you, I like. Good-night!”
He turned and strode away. Both Beatrice and Tavernake watched him until he disappeared. Then, with a sigh, she picked up her skirts with her right hand, and took Tavernake's arm.
“Do you mind walking home?” she asked. “My head aches.”
Tavernake looked for a moment wistfully across the road toward the Milan Court. Beatrice's hand, however, only held his arm the tighter.
“I am going to make you come with me every step of the way,” she declared, “so you can just as well make the best of it. Afterwards—”
“What about afterwards?” he interrupted.
“Afterwards,” she continued, with decision, “you are to go straight home!”