Tavernake, in response to a somewhat urgent message, walked into his solicitor's office almost as soon as they opened on the following morning. The junior partner of the firm, who took an interest in him, and was anxious, indeed, to invest a small amount in the Marston Rise Building Company, received him cordially but with some concern.
“Look here, Tavernake,” he said, “I thought I'd better write a line and ask you to come down. You haven't forgotten, have you, that our option of purchase lasts only three days longer?”
Tavernake nodded.
“Well, what of it?” he asked.
“It's just as well that you should understand the situation,” the lawyer continued. “Your old people are hard upon our heels in this matter, and there will be no chance of any extension—not even for an hour. Mr. Dowling has already put in an offer a thousand pounds better than yours; I heard that incidentally yesterday afternoon; so you may be sure that the second your option has legally expired, the thing will be off altogether so far as you're concerned.”
“That's all very well,” Tavernake remarked, “but what about the plots that already belong to me?”
“They have some sort of scheme for leaving those high and dry,” the solicitor explained. “You see, the drainage and lighting will be largely influenced by the purchaser of the whole estate. If Dowling gets it, he means to treat your plots so that they will become practically valueless. It's rather a mean sort of thing, but then he's a mean little man.”
Tavernake nodded.
“Well,” he announced, “I was coming to see you, anyhow, this morning, to talk to you about the money.”
“Your friend isn't backing out?” the lawyer asked, quickly.
“My friend has not said anything about backing out yet,” Tavernake replied, “but circumstances have arisen during the last few days which have altered my own views as to the expediency of business relations with this person. I haven't any reason to suppose that the money won't be forthcoming, but if I could get it from any other source, I should prefer it.”
The solicitor looked blank.
“Of course,” he said, “I'll do what I can, if you like, but I may as well tell you at once that I don't think I should have a ghost of a chance of raising the whole amount.”
“I suppose,” Tavernake inquired, thoughtfully, “your firm couldn't do anything?”
“We could do something, certainly,” the solicitor answered, “on account of our own clients. We might, perhaps, manage up to five thousand pounds. That would still leave us wanting seven, however, and I scarcely see where we could get it.”
Tavernake was silent for a few moments.
“You haven't quarreled with your friend, have you?” the solicitor asked.
“No, there has been no quarrel,” Tavernake replied. “I have another reason.”
“If I were you, I'd try and forget it,” his friend advised. “To tell you the truth, I have been feeling rather anxious about this affair. It's a big thing, you know, and the profit is as sure as the dividend on Consols. I should hate to have that little bounder Dowling get in and scoop it up.”
“It's a fine investment,” admitted Tavernake, “and, as you say, there isn't the slightest risk. That's why I was hoping you might have been able to manage it without my calling upon my friend.”
Mr. Martin shook his head.
“It isn't so easy to convince other people. All the same, I don't want to get left. If you'll take my advice, you'll go and call on your friend at once, and see exactly how matters stand. If everything's O.K. and you can induce him to part a few hours before it is absolutely necessary, I must confess that it would take a load off my mind. I don't like these affairs that have to be concluded at the last possible moment.”
“Well,” Tavernake agreed, “I must try what I can do, then. There is nothing else fresh, I suppose?”
“Nothing,” the solicitor answered. “Come back, if you can make any definite arrangement, or telephone. The matter is really bothering me a little. I don't want to have the other people slip in now.”...
Tavernake, instead of obeying his first impulse and making his way direct to the Milan Court, walked to the flat in Kingsway, climbed up the stone steps, and asked for Beatrice. She met him at her own door, fully dressed.
“My dear Leonard!” she exclaimed, in surprise. “What an early caller!”
“I want a few words with you,” he said. “Can you spare me five minutes?”
“You must walk with me to the theatre,” she replied, “I am just off to rehearsal.”
They descended the stairs together.
“I have something to tell you,” Tavernake began, “something to tell you which you won't like to hear.”
“Something which I won't like to hear,” she repeated, fearfully. “Go on, Leonard. It can't be worse than it sounds.”
“I don't know why I've come to tell you,” he went on. “I never meant to. It came into my mind all of a sudden and I felt that I must. It has to do with your sister and the Marston Rise affair.”
“My sister and the Marston Rise affair!” Beatrice exclaimed, incredulously.
Then a sudden light broke in upon her. She stopped short and clutched at his hand.
“You don't mean that it was Elizabeth who was going to find you the money?” she cried.
“I do,” he answered. “She offered it of her own accord. I do not know why I talked to her of my own affairs, but she led me on to speak of them. Your sister is a wonderful person,” he continued, dropping his voice. “I don't know why, but she made me talk as no one else has ever made me talk before. I simply had to tell her things. Then, when I had finished, she showed me her bankbooks and suggested that she should invest some of her money in the Rise.”
“But do you mean to tell me,” Beatrice persisted, “that it is her money upon which you are relying for this purchase?”
Tavernake nodded.
“You see,” he explained, “Mr. Dowling dropped upon us before I was prepared. As soon as he found out, he went to the owners of the estate and made them a bid for it. The consequence was that they shortened my option and gave me very little chance indeed to find the money. When your sister offered it, it certainly seemed a wonderful stroke of fortune. I could give her eight or ten per cent, whereas she would only get four anywhere else, and I should make a profit for myself of over ten thousand pounds, which I cannot do unless I find the money to buy the estate.”
“But you mustn't touch that money, you mustn't have anything to do with it!” Beatrice exclaimed, walking very fast and looking straight ahead. “You don't understand. How should you?”
“Do you mean that the money was stolen?” Tavernake asked, after a moment's pause.
“No, not stolen,” Beatrice replied, “but it comes—oh! I can't tell you, only Elizabeth has no right to it. My own sister! It is all too awful!”
“Do you think that she has come by this money dishonestly?”
“I am not sure,” Beatrice murmured. “There are worse things, more terrible things even than theft.”
The practical side of Tavernake's nature was very much to the fore that morning. He began to wonder whether women, after all, strange and fascinating creatures though they were, possessed judgment which could be relied upon—whether they were not swayed too much by sentiment.
“Beatrice,” he said, “you must understand this. I have no time to raise the money elsewhere. If I don't get it from your sister, supposing she is still willing to let me have it, my chance has gone. I shall have to take a situation in some one else's office as a clerk—probably not so good a place as I held at Dowling & Spence's. On the other hand, the use of that money for a very short time would be the start of my career. All that you say is so vague. Why need I know anything about it? I met your sister in the ordinary way of business and she has made an ordinary business proposition to me, one by which she will be, incidentally, very greatly benefited. I never thought of telling you this at all, but when the time came I hated to go and draw that money from your sister without having said anything to you. So I came this morning, but I want you, if you possibly can, to look at the matter from my point of view.”
She was silent for several moments. Then she glanced at him curiously.
“Why on earth,” she asked, “should my sister make this offer to you? She isn't a fool. She doesn't usually trust strangers.”
“She trusted me, apparently,” Tavernake answered.
“Can you understand why?” Beatrice demanded.
“I think that I can,” he replied. “If one can rely upon one's perception, she is surrounded by people whom she might find agreeable companions but whom she is scarcely likely to have much confidence in. Perhaps she realized that I wasn't like them.”
“And you want very much to take this money?” she said, half to herself.
“I want to very much indeed,” Tavernake admitted. “I was on my way to see her this morning and to ask her to let me have it a day or two before the time, but I felt, somehow, that there seemed to be a certain amount of deceit in going to her and taking it without saying a word to you. I felt that I had to come here first. But Beatrice, don't ask me to give it up. It means such a long time before I can move again. It's the first step that's so difficult, and I must—I must make a start. It's such a chance, this. I have spent so many hours thinking about it. I have planned and worked and sketched it all out as no one else could do. I must have that money.”
They walked on in silence until they reached the stage door. Beatrice was thinking of her companion as she had seen him so often, poring over his plans, busy with ruler and india-rubber, absolutely absorbed in the interest of his task. She remembered the first time he had talked about this scheme of his, how his whole face had changed, the almost passionate interest with which he had worked the thing out even to its smallest details. She realized how great a part of his life the thing had become, what a terrible blow it would be to him to have to abandon it. She turned and faced him.
“Leonard,” she said, “perhaps, after all, you are right. Perhaps I give way too much to what, after all, is only a sentimental feeling. I am thankful that you came and told me; I shall always be thankful for that. Take the money, but pay it back as soon as you can.”
“I shall do that,” he answered. “I shall do that you may rely upon it.”
She laid her hand upon his arm.
“Leonard,” she begged, “I know that Elizabeth is very beautiful and very fascinating, and I don't wonder that you like to go and see her, but I want to ask you to promise me one thing.”
He felt as though he were suddenly turned into stone. It was not possible—it could not be possible that she had guessed his secret!
“Well?” he demanded.
“Don't let her introduce you to her friends; don't spend too much time there,” she continued. “Elizabeth is my sister and I don't—really I don't want to say anything that doesn't sound kind, but her friends are not fit people for you to know, and Elizabeth—well she hasn't very much heart.”
He was silent for several moments.
“How did you know I liked going to see your sister?” he asked, abruptly.
She smiled.
“My dear Leonard,” she said, “you are not very clever at hiding your feelings. When you came to see me the other day, do you imagine I believed for a single moment that you asked me to marry you simply because you cared? I think, Leonard, that it was because you were afraid, you were afraid of something coming into your life so big, so terrifying, that you were ready to clutch at the easiest chance of safety.”
“Beatrice, this is absurd!” he exclaimed.
She shook her head.
“No, it isn't that,” she declared. “Do you know, my dear Leonard, what there was about you from the very first which attracted me?”
“No,” he answered.
“It was your honesty,” she continued. “You remember that night upon the roof at Blenheim House? You were going to tell a lie for me, and I know how you hated it. You love the truth, you are truthful naturally; I would rely upon you wherever I was. I know that you would keep your word, I know that you would be honest. A woman loves to feel that about a man—she loves it—and I don't want you to be brought near the people who sneer at honesty and all good things. I don't want you to hear their point of view. You may be simple and commonplace in some respects; I want you to stay just as you are. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Tavernake replied gravely.
A call boy shouted her name down the stone passage. She patted him on the shoulder and turned away.
“Run along now and get the money,” she said. “Come and see me when it's all over.”
Tavernake left her with a long breath of relief and made his way towards the Strand. At the corner of Wellington Street he came face to face with Pritchard. They stopped at once. There seemed to be something embarrassing about this meeting. Pritchard patted him familiarly on the shoulder.
“How goes it, old man?” he asked.
“I am all right,” Tavernake answered, somewhat awkwardly. “How are you?”
“I guess I'd be the better for a drink,” Pritchard declared. “Come along. Pretty well done up the other night, weren't we? We'll step into the American Bar here and try a gin fizz.”
They found themselves presently perched upon two high stools in a deserted corner of the bar to which Pritchard had led the way. Tavernake sipped his drink tentatively.
“I should like,” he said, “to ask you a question or two about Wednesday night.”
Pritchard nodded.
“Go right ahead,” he invited.
“You seem to take the whole affair as a sort of joke,” Tavernake remarked.
“Well, isn't that what it was?” the detective asked, smiling.
Tavernake shrugged his shoulders.
“There didn't seem to me to be much joke about it!” he exclaimed.
Pritchard laughed gayly.
“You are not used to Americans, my young friend,” he said. “Over on this side you are all so fearfully literal. You are not seriously supposing that they meant to dose me with that stuff the other night, eh?”
“I never thought that there was any doubt about it at all,” Tavernake declared deliberately.
Pritchard stroked his moustache meditatively.
“Well,” he remarked, “you are certainly green, and yet I don't know why you shouldn't be. Americans are always up to games of that sort. I am not saying that they didn't mean to give me a scare, if they could, or that they wouldn't have been glad to get a few words of information out of me, or a paper or two that I keep pretty safely locked up. It would have been a better joke on me then. But as for the rest, as for really trying to make me take that stuff, of course, that was all bunkum.”
Tavernake sat quite still in his chair for several minutes.
“Will you take another gin fizz, Mr. Pritchard?” he asked.
“Why not?”
Tavernake gave the order. He sat on his stool whistling softly to himself.
“Then I suppose,” he said at last, “I must have looked a pretty sort of an ass coming through the wall like a madman.”
Pritchard shook his head.
“You looked just about what you were,” he answered, “a d——d good sort. I'm not playing up to you that it was all pretense. You can never trust that gang. The blackguard outside was in earnest, anyway. After all, you know, they wouldn't miss me if I were to drop quietly out. There 's no one else they 're quite so much afraid of. There 's no one else knows quite as much about them.”
“Well, we'll let it go at that,” Tavernake declared. “You know so much of all these people, though, that I rather wish you 'd tell me something I want very much to know.”
“It's by telling nothing,” the detective replied quickly, “that I know as much as I do. Just one cocktail, eh?”
Tavernake shook his head.
“I drank my first cocktail last night,” he remarked. “I had supper with the professor and his daughter.”
“Not Elizabeth?” Pritchard asked swiftly.
Tavernake shook his head.
“With Miss Beatrice,” he answered.
Pritchard set down his glass.
“Say, Tavernake,” he inquired, “you are friendly with that young lady, Miss Beatrice, aren't you?”
“I certainly am,” Tavernake answered. “I have a very great regard for her.”
“Then I can tell you how to do her a good turn,” Pritchard continued, earnestly. “Keep her away from that old blackguard. Keep her away from all the gang. Believe me, she is looking for trouble by even speaking to them.”
“But the man's her father,” Tavernake objected, “and he seems fond of her.”
“Don't you believe it,” Pritchard went on. “He's fond of nothing and nobody but himself and easy living. He's soft, mind you, he's got plenty of sentiment, he 'll squeeze a tear out of his eye, and all that sort of thing, but he'd sell his soul, or his daughter's soul, for a little extra comfort. Now Elizabeth doesn't know exactly where her sister is, and she daren't seem anxious, or go around making inquiries. Beatrice has her chance to keep away, and I can tell you it will be a thundering sight better for her if she does.”
“Well, I don't understand it at all,” Tavernake declared. “I hate mysteries.”
Pritchard set down his empty glass.
“Look here,” he remarked, “this affair is too serious, after all, for us to talk round like a couple of gossips. I have given you your warning, and if you're wise you 'll remember it.”
“Tell me this one thing,” Tavernake persisted. “Tell me what is the cause of the quarrel between the two? Can't something be done to bring them together again?”
Pritchard shook his head.
“Nothing,” he answered. “As things are at present, they are better apart. Coming my way?”
Tavernake followed him out of the place. Pritchard took his arm as he turned down toward the Strand.
“My young friend,” he said, “here is a word of advice for you. The Scriptures say that you cannot serve God and mammon. Paraphrase that to the present situation and remember that you cannot serve Elizabeth and Beatrice.”
“What then?” Tavernake demanded.
The detective waited until he had lit the long black cigar between his teeth.
“I guess you'd better confine your attentions to Beatrice,” he concluded.
The rest of that day was for Tavernake a period of feverish anxieties. He received two telegrams from Mr. Martin, his solicitor, and he himself was more uneasy than he cared to admit. At three o'clock in the afternoon, at eight in the evening, and again at eleven o'clock at night, he presented himself at the Milan Court, always with the same inquiry. On the last occasion, the hall porter had cheering news for him.
“Mrs. Wenham Gardner returned from the country an hour ago, sir,” he announced. “I can send your name up now, if you wish to see her.”
Tavernake was conscious of a sense of immense relief. Of course, he had known that she had not really gone away for good, but all the same her absence, especially after the event of the night before last, was a little disquieting.
“My name is Tavernake,” he said. “I do not wish to intrude at such an hour, but if she could see me for a moment, I should be glad.”
He sat down and waited patiently. Soon a message came that Mr. Tavernake was to go up. He ascended in the lift and knocked at the door of her suite. Her maid opened it grudgingly. She scarcely took the pains to conceal her disapproval of this young man—so ordinary, so gauche. Why Madame should waste her time upon such a one, she could not imagine!
“Mrs. Gardner will see you directly,” she told him. “Madame is dressing now to go out for supper. She will be able to spare you only a few seconds.”
Tavernake remained alone in the luxurious little sitting-room for nearly ten minutes. Then the door of the inner room was opened and Elizabeth appeared. Tavernake, rising slowly to his feet, looked at her for a moment in reluctant but wondering admiration. She was wearing an ivory satin gown, without trimming or lace of any sort, a gown the fit of which seemed to him almost a miracle. Her only jewelry was a long rope of pearls and a small tiara. Tavernake had never been brought into close contact with any one quite like this.
She was putting on her gloves as she entered and she gave him her left hand.
“What an extraordinary person you are, Mr. Tavernake!” she exclaimed. “You really do seem to turn up at the most astonishing times.”
“I am very sorry to have intruded upon you to-night,” he said. “As regards the last occasion, however, upon which I made an unexpected appearance, I make no apologies whatever,” he added coolly.
She laughed softly. She was looking full into his eyes and yet he could not tell whether she was angry with him or only amused.
“You were by way of being a little melodramatic, were you not?” she remarked. “Still, you were very much in earnest, and one forgives a great deal to any one who is really in earnest. What do you want with me now? I am just going downstairs to supper.”
“It is a matter of business,” Tavernake replied. “I have a friend who is a partner with me in the Marston Rise building speculation, and he is worried because there is some one else in the field wanting to buy the property, and the day after to-morrow is our last chance of paying over the money.”
She looked at him as though puzzled.
“What money?”
“The money which you agreed to lend me, or rather to invest in our building company,” he reminded her.
She nodded.
“Of course! Why, I had forgotten all about it for the moment. You are going to give me ten per cent interest or something splendid, aren't you? Well, what about it? You don't want to take it away with you now, I suppose?”
“No,” he answered, “it isn't that. To be honest with you, I came to make sure that you hadn't changed your mind.”
“And why should I change my mind?”
“You might be angry with me,” he said, “for interfering in your concerns the night before last.”
“Perhaps I am,” she remarked, indifferently.
“Do you wish to withdraw from your promise?” he asked.
“I really haven't thought much about it,” she replied, carelessly. “By-the-bye, have you seen Beatrice lately?”
“We agreed, I think,” he reminded her, “that we would not talk about your sister.”
She looked at him over her shoulder.
“I do not remember that I agreed to anything of the sort,” she declared. “I think it was you who laid down the law about that. As a matter of fact, I think that your silence about her is very unkind. I suppose you have seen her?”
“Yes, I have seen her,” Tavernake admitted.
“She continues to be tragic,” Elizabeth asked, “whenever my name is mentioned?”
“I should not call it tragic,” Tavernake answered, reluctantly. “One gathers, however, that something transpired between you before she left, of a serious nature.”
She looked at him earnestly.
“Really,” she said, “you are a strange, stolid young man. I wonder,” she went on, smiling into his face, “are you in love with my sister?”
Tavernake made no immediate response, only something flashed for a moment in his eyes which puzzled her.
“Why do you look at me like that?” she demanded. “You are not angry with me for asking?”
“No, I am not angry,” he replied. “It isn't that. But you must know—you must see!”
Then she indeed did see that he was laboring under a very great emotion. She leaned towards him, laughing softly.
“Now you are really becoming interesting,” she murmured. “Tell me—tell me all about it.”
“I don't know what love is!” Tavernake declared fiercely. “I don't know what it means to be in love!”
Again she laughed in his face.
“Are you so sure?” she whispered.
She saw the veins stand out upon his temples, watched the passion which kept him at first tongue-tied.
“Sure!” he muttered. “Who can be sure when you look like that!”
He held out his arms. With a swift little backward movement she flitted away and leaned against the table.
“What a brother-in-law you would make!” she laughed. “So steady, so respectable, alas! so serious! Dear Mr. Tavernake, I wish you joy. As a matter of fact, you and Beatrice are very well suited for one another.”
The telephone bell rang. She moved over and held the receiver to her ear. Her face changed. After the first few words to which she listened, it grew dark with anger.
“You mean to say that Professor Franklin has not been in since lunch-time?” she exclaimed. “I left word particularly that I should require him to-night. Is Major Post there, then? No? Mr. Crease—no? Nor Mr. Faulkes? Not one of them! Very well, ring me up directly the professor comes in, or any of them.”
She replaced the receiver with a gesture of annoyance. Tavernake was astonished at the alteration in her expression. The smile had gone, and with its passing away lines had come under her eyes and about her mouth. Without a word to him she strode away into her bedroom. Tavernake was just wondering whether he should retire, when she came back.
“Listen, Mr. Tavernake,” she said, “how far away are your rooms?”
“Down at Chelsea,” he answered, “about two miles and a half.”
“Take a taxi and drive there,” she commanded, “or stop. You will find my car outside. I will telephone down to say that you are to use it. Change into your evening clothes and come back for me. I want you to take me out to supper.”
He looked at her in amazement. She stamped her foot.
“Don't stand there hesitating!” she ordered. “Do as I say! You don't expect I am going to help you to buy your wretched property if you refuse me the simplest of favors? Hurry, I say! Hurry!”
“I am really very sorry,” Tavernake interposed, “but I do not possess a dress suit. I would go, with pleasure, but I haven't got such a thing.”
She looked at him for a moment incredulously. Then she broke into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. She sat down upon the edge of a couch and wiped the tears from her eyes.
“Oh, you strange, you wonderful person!” she exclaimed. “You want to buy an estate and you want to borrow twelve thousand pounds, and you know where Beatrice is and you won't tell me, and you are fully convinced, because you burst into a house through the wall, that you saved poor Pritchard from being poisoned, and you don't possess a dress suit! Never mind, as it happens it doesn't matter about the dress suit. You shall take me out as you are.”
Tavernake felt in his pockets and remembered that he had only thirty shillings with him.
“Here, carry my purse,” she said carelessly. “We are going downstairs to the smaller restaurant. I have been traveling since six o'clock, and I am starving.”
“But how about my clothes?” Tavernake objected. “Will they be all right?”
“It doesn't matter where we are going,” she answered. “You look very well as you are. Come and let me put your tie straight.”
She came close to him and her fingers played for a moment with his tie. She was very near to him and she laughed deliberately into his face. Tavernake held himself quite stiff and felt foolish. He also felt absurdly happy.
“There,” she remarked, when she had arranged it to her satisfaction, “you look all right now. I wonder,” she added, half to herself, “what you do look like. Something Colonial and forceful, I think. Never mind, help me on with my cloak and come along. You are a most respectable-looking escort, and a very useful one.”
Although Tavernake was nominally the host, it was Elizabeth who selected the table and ordered the supper. There were very few other guests in the room, the majority being down in the larger restaurant, but among these few Tavernake noticed two of the girls from the chorus at the Atlas. Elizabeth had chosen a table from which she had a view of the door, and she took the seat facing it. From the first Tavernake felt certain that she was watching for some one.
“Talk to me now, please, about this speculation,” she insisted. “I should like to know all about it, and whether you are sure that I shall get ten per cent for my money.”
Tavernake was in no way reluctant. It was a safe topic for conversation, and one concerning which he had plenty to say. But after a time she stopped him.
“Well,” she said, “I have discovered at any rate one subject on which you can be fluent. Now I have had enough of building properties, please, and house building. I should like to hear a little about Beatrice.”
Tavernake was dumb.
“I do not wish to talk about Beatrice,” he declared, “until I understand the cause of this estrangement between you.”
Her eyes flashed angrily and her laugh sounded forced.
“Not even talk of her! My dear friend,” she protested, “you scarcely repay the confidence I am placing in you!”
“You mean the money?”
“Precisely,” she continued. “I trust you, why I do not know—I suppose because I am something of a physiognomist—with twelve thousand pounds of my hard-earned savings. You refuse to trust me with even a few simple particulars about the life of my own sister. Come, I don't think that things are quite as they should be between us.”
“Do you know where I first met your sister?” Tavernake asked.
She shook her head pettishly.
“How should I? You told me nothing.”
“She was staying in a boarding-house where I lived,” Tavernake went on. “I think I told you that but nothing else. It was a cheap boarding-house but she had not enough money to pay for her meals. She was tired of life. She was in a desperate state altogether.”
“Are you trying to tell me, or rather trying not to tell me, that Beatrice was mad enough to think of committing suicide?” Elizabeth inquired.
“She was in the frame of mind when such a step was possible,” he answered, gravely. “You remember that night when I first saw you in the chemist's shop across the street? She had been very ill that evening, very ill indeed. You could see for yourself the effect meeting you had upon her.”
Elizabeth nodded, and crumbled a little piece of roll between her fingers. Then she leaned over the table towards Tavernake.
“She seemed terrified, didn't she? She hurried you away—she seemed afraid.”
“It was very noticeable,” he admitted. “She was terrified. She dragged me out of the place. A few minutes later she fainted in the cab.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Beatrice was always over-sensitive,” she remarked. “Any sudden shock unnerved her altogether. Are you terrified of me, too, Mr. Tavernake?”
“I don't know,” he answered, frankly. “Sometimes I think that I am.”
She laughed softly.
“Why?” she whispered.
He looked into her eyes and he felt abject. How was it possible to sit within a few feet of her and remain sane!
“You are so wonderful,” he said, in a low tone, “so different from any one else in the world!”
“You are glad that you met me, then—that you are here?” she asked.
He raised his eyes once more.
“I don't know,” he answered simply. “If I really believed—if you were always kind like this—but, you see, you make two men of me. When I am with you I am a fool, your fool, to do as you will with. When I am away, some glimmerings of common sense come back, and I know.”
“You know what?” she murmured.
“That you are not honest,” he added.
“Mr. Tavernake!” she exclaimed, lifting her head a little.
“Oh, I don t mean dishonest in the ordinary way!” he protested, eagerly. “What I mean is that you look things which you don't feel, that you are willing for any one who can't help admiring you very much to believe for a moment that you, too, feel more kindly than you really do. This is so clumsy,” he broke off, despairingly, “but you understand what I mean!”
“You have an adorable way of making yourself understood,” she laughed. “Come, do let us talk sense for a minute or two. You say that when you are with me you are my slave. Then why is it that you do not bring Beatrice here when I beg you to?”
“I am your slave,” he answered, “in everything that has to do with myself and my own actions. In that other matter it is for your sister to decide.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose I shall be able to endure life without her. At any rate, we will talk of something else. Tell me, are you not curious to know why I insisted upon bringing you here?”
“Yes,” he admitted, “I am.”
“Spoken with your usual candor, my dear Briton!” she exclaimed. “Well, I will gratify your curiosity. This, as you see, is not a popular supping place. A few people come in—mostly those who for some reason or other don't feel smart enough for the big restaurants. The people from the theatres come in here who have not time to change their clothes. As you perceive; the place has a distinctly Bohemian flavor.”
Tavernake looked around.
“They seem to come in all sorts of clothes,” he remarked. “I am glad.”
“There is a man now in London,” Elizabeth continued, “whom I am just as anxious to see as I am to find my sister. I believe that this is the most likely place to find him. That is why I have come. My father was to have been here to take me, but as you heard he has gone out somewhere and not returned. None of my other friends were available. You happened to come in just in time.”
“And this man whom you want to see,” Tavernake asked, “is he here?”
“Not yet,” she answered.
There were, indeed, only a few scattered groups in the place, and most of these were obviously theatrical. But even at that moment a man came in alone through the circular doors, and stood just inside, looking around him. He was a man of medium height, thin, and of undistinguished appearance. His hair was light-colored and plastered a little in front over his forehead. His face was thin and he walked with a slight stoop. Something about his clothes and his manner of wearing them stamped him as an American. Tavernake glanced at his companion, wondering whether this, perhaps, might not be the person for whom she was watching. His first glance was careless enough, then he felt his heart thump against his ribs. A tragedy had come into the room! The woman at his side sat as though turned to stone. There was a look in her face as of one who sees Death. The small patch of rouge, invisible before, was now a staring daub of color in an oasis of ashen white. Her eyes were as hard as stones; her lips were twitching as though, indeed, she had been stricken with some disease. No longer was he sitting with this most beautiful lady at whose coming all heads were turned in admiration. It was as though an image of Death sat there, a frozen presentment of horror itself!
The seconds passed; the woman beside him showed no sign of life. Tavernake felt a fear run cold in his blood, such as in all his days he had never known. This, indeed, was something belonging to a world of which he knew nothing. What was it? Illness? Pain? Surprise? There was only his instinct to tell him. It was terror, the terror of one who looks beyond the grave.
“Mrs. Gardner!” he exclaimed. “Elizabeth!”
The sound of his voice seemed to break the spell. A half-choked sob came through her teeth; the struggle for composure commenced.
“I am ill,” she murmured. “Give me my glass. Give it to me.”
Her fingers were feeling for it but it seemed as though she dared not move her head. He filled it with wine and placed the stem in her hand. Even then she spilled some of it upon the tablecloth. As she raised it to her lips, the man who stood still upon the threshold of the restaurant looked into her face. Slowly, as though his quest were over, he came down the room.
“Go away,” she said to Tavernake. “Go away, please. He is coming to speak to me. I want to be alone with him.”
Strangely enough, at that moment Tavernake saw nothing out of the common in her request. He rose at once, without any formal leave-taking, and made his way toward the other end of the cafe. As he turned the corner towards the smoking-room, he glanced once behind. The man had approached quite close to Elizabeth; he was standing before her table, they seemed to be exchanging greetings.
Tavernake went on into the smoking-room and threw himself into an easy-chair. He had been there perhaps for ten minutes when Pritchard entered. Certainly it was a night of surprises! Even Pritchard, cool, deliberate, slow in his movements and speech, seemed temporarily flurried. He came into the room walking quickly. As the door swung back, he turned round as though to assure himself that he was not being followed. He did not at first see Tavernake. He sat on the arm of an easy-chair, his hands in his pockets, his eternal cigar in the corner of his mouth, his eyes fixed upon the doors through which he had issued. Without a doubt, something had disturbed him. He had the look of a man who had received a blow, a surprise of some sort over which he was still ruminating. Then he glanced around the room and saw Tavernake.
“Hullo, young man!” he exclaimed. “So this is the way you follow my advice!”
“I never promised to follow it,” Tavernake reminded him.
Pritchard wheeled an easy-chair across the room and called to the waiter.
“Come,” he said, “you shall stand me a drink. Two whiskies and sodas, Tim. And now, Mr. Leonard Tavernake, you are going to answer me a question.”
“Am I?” Tavernake muttered.
“You came down in the lift with Mrs. Wenham Gardner half an hour ago, you went into the restaurant and ordered supper. She is there still and you are here. Have you quarreled?”
“No, we did not quarrel,” Tavernake answered. “She explained that she was supping in the cafe only for the sake of meeting one man. She wanted an escort. I filled that post until the man came.”
“He is there now?” Pritchard asked.
“He is there now,” Tavernake assented.
Pritchard withdrew the cigar from his mouth and watched it for a moment.
“Say, Tavernake,” he went on, “is that man who is now having supper with Mrs. Wenham Gardner the man whom she expected?”
“I imagine so,” Tavernake replied.
“Didn't she seem in any way scared or disturbed when he first turned up?”
“She looked as I have seen no one else on earth look before,” Tavernake admitted. “She seemed simply terrified to death. I do not know why—she didn't explain—but that is how she looked.”
“Yet she sent you away!”
“She sent me away. She didn't care what became of me. She was watching the door all the time before he came. Who is he, Pritchard?”
“That sounds a simple question,” Pritchard answered gravely, “but it means a good deal. There's mischief afoot to-night, Tavernake.”
“You seem to thrive on it,” Tavernake retorted, drily. “Any more bunkum?”
Pritchard smiled.
“Come,” he said, “you're a sensible chap. Take these things for what they're worth. Believe me when I tell you now that there is a great deal more in the coming of this man than Mrs. Wenham Gardner ever bargained for.”
“I wish you'd tell me who he is,” Tavernake begged. “All this mystery about Beatrice and her sister, and that lazy old hulk of a father, is most irritating.”
Pritchard nodded sympathetically.
“You'll have to put up with it a little longer, I'm afraid, my young friend,” he declared. “You've done me a good turn; I'll do you one. I'll give you some good advice. Keep out of this place so long as the old man and his daughter are hanging out here. The girl 's clever—oh, she's as clever as they make them—but she's gone wrong from the start. They ain't your sort, Tavernake. You don't fit in anywhere. Take my advice and hook it altogether.”
Tavernake shook his head.
“I can't do that just now,” he said. “Good-night! I'm off for the present, at any rate.”
Pritchard, too, rose to his feet. He passed his arm through Tavernake's.
“Young man,” he remarked, “there are not many in this country whom I can trust. You're one of them. There's a sort of solidity about you that I rather admire. You are not likely to break out and do silly things. Do you care for adventures?”
“I detest them,” Tavernake answered, “especially the sort I tumbled into the other night.”
Pritchard laughed softly. They had left the room now and were walking along the open space at the end of the restaurant, leading to the main exit.
“That's the difference between us,” he declared thoughtfully. “Now adventures to me are the salt of my life. I hang about here and watch these few respectable-looking men and women, and there doesn't seem to be much in it to an outsider, but, gee whiz! there's sometimes things underneath which you fellows don't tumble to. A man asks another in there to have a drink. They make a cheerful appointment to meet for lunch, to motor to Brighton. It all sounds so harmless, and yet there are the seeds of a conspiracy already sown. They hate me here, but they know very well that wherever they went I should be around. I suppose some day they'll get rid of me.”
“More bunkum!” Tavernake muttered.
They stood in front of the door and passed through into the courtyard. On their right, the interior of the smaller restaurant was shielded from view by a lattice-work, covered with flowers and shrubs. Pritchard came to a standstill at a certain point, and stooping down looked through. He remained there without moving for what seemed to Tavernake an extraordinarily long time. When he stood up again, there was a distinct change in his face. He was looking more serious than Tavernake had ever seen him. But for the improbability of the thing, Tavernake would have thought that he had turned pale.
“My young friend,” he said, “you've got to see me through this. You 've a sort of fancy for Mrs. Wenham Gardner, I know. To-night you shall be on her side.”
“I don't want any more mysteries,” Tavernake protested. “I'd rather go home.”
“It can't be done,” Pritchard declared, taking his arm once more. “You've got to see me through this. Come up to my rooms for a minute.”
They entered the Court and ascended to the eighth floor. Pritchard turned on the lights in his room, a plainly furnished and somewhat bare apartment. From a cupboard he took out a pair of rubber-soled shoes and threw them to Tavernake.
“Put those on,” he directed.
“What are we going to do?” Tavernake asked.
“You are going to help me,” Pritchard answered. “Take my word for it, Tavernake, it's all right. I could tackle the job alone, but I'd rather not. Now drink this whiskey and soda and light a cigarette. I shall be ready in five minutes.”
“But where are we going?” Tavernake demanded.
“You are going,” Pritchard replied, “on an errand of chivalry. You are going to become once more a rescuer of woman in distress. You are going to save the life of your beautiful friend Elizabeth.”