The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Tempting of Tavernake, by E. Phillips Oppenheim
(#12 in our series by E. Phillips Oppenheim)

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.

Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****


Title: The Tempting of Tavernake

Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim

Release Date: February, 2004  [EBook #5091]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on April 24, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE ***




This eBook was produced by Polly Stratton.



THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM






BOOK ONE




CHAPTER I


DESPAIR AND INTEREST

They stood upon the roof of a London boarding-house in the
neighborhood of Russell Square--one of those grim shelters, the
refuge of Transatlantic curiosity and British penury.  The girl
--she represented the former race was leaning against the frail
palisading, with gloomy expression and eyes set as though in
fixed contemplation of the uninspiring panorama.  The young man
--unmistakably, uncompromisingly English--stood with his back to
the chimney a few feet away, watching his companion.  The silence
between them was as yet unbroken, had lasted, indeed, since she
had stolen away from the shabby drawingroom below, where a florid
lady with a raucous voice had been shouting a music-hall ditty.
Close upon her heels, but without speech of any sort, he had
followed.  They were almost strangers, except for the occasional
word or two of greeting which the etiquette of the establishment
demanded.  Yet she had accepted his espionage without any protest
of word or look.  He had followed her with a very definite
object.  Had she surmised it, he wondered?   She had not turned
her head or vouchsafed even a single question or remark to him
since he had pushed his way through the trap-door almost at her
heels and stepped out on to the leads.  Yet it seemed to him that
she must guess.

Below them, what seemed to be the phantasm of a painted city, a
wilderness of housetops, of smoke-wreathed spires and chimneys,
stretched away to a murky, blood-red horizon.  Even as they stood
there, a deeper color stained the sky, an angry sun began to sink
into the piled up masses of thick, vaporous clouds.  The girl
watched with an air of sullen yet absorbed interest.  Her
companion's eyes were still fixed wholly and critically upon her.
Who was she, he wondered?   Why had she left her own country to
come to a city where she seemed to have no friends, no manner of
interest?   In that caravansary of the world's stricken ones she
had been an almost unnoticed figure, silent, indisposed for
conversation, not in any obvious manner attractive.  Her clothes,
notwithstanding their air of having come from a first-class
dressmaker, were shabby and out of fashion, their extreme
neatness in itself pathetic.  She was thin, yet not without a
certain buoyant lightness of movement always at variance with her
tired eyes, her ceaseless air of dejection.  And withal she was a
rebel.  It was written in her attitude, it was evident in her
lowering, militant expression, the smouldering fire in her eyes
proclaimed it.  Her long, rather narrow face was gripped between
her hands; her elbows rested upon the brick parapet.  She gazed
at that world of blood-red mists, of unshapely, grotesque
buildings, of strange, tawdry colors; she listened to the medley
of sounds--crude, shrill, insistent, something like the groaning
of a world stripped naked--and she had all the time the air of
one who hates the thing she looks upon.

Tavernake, whose curiosity concerning his companion remained
unappeased, decided that the moment for speech had arrived.  He
took a step forward upon the soft, pulpy leads.  Even then he
hesitated before he finally committed himself.  About his
appearance little was remarkable save the general air of
determination which gave character to his undistinguished
features.  He was something above the medium height, broad-set,
and with rather more thick black hair than he knew how to arrange
advantageously.  He wore a shirt which was somewhat frayed, and
an indifferent tie; his boots were heavy and clumsy; he wore also
a suit of ready-made clothes with the air of one who knew that
they were ready-made and was satisfied with them.  People of a
nervous or sensitive disposition would, without doubt, have found
him irritating but for a certain nameless gift--an almost
Napoleonic concentration upon the things of the passing moment,
which was in itself impressive and which somehow disarmed
criticism.

"About that bracelet!" he said at last.

She moved her head and looked at him.  A young man of less
assurance would have turned and fled.  Not so Tavernake.  Once
sure of his ground he was immovable.  There was murder in her
eyes but he was not even disturbed.

"I saw you take it from the little table by the piano, you know,"
he continued.  "It was rather a rash thing to do.  Mrs.
Fitzgerald was looking for it before I reached the stairs.  I
expect she has called the police in by now."

Slowly her hand stole into the depths of her pocket and emerged.
Something flashed for a moment high over her head.  The young man
caught her wrist just in time, caught it in a veritable grip of
iron.  Then, indeed, the evil fires flashed from her eyes, her
teeth gleamed white, her bosom rose and fell in a storm of angry,
unuttered sobs.  She was dry-eyed and still speechless, but for
all that she was a tigress.  A strangely-cut silhouette they
formed there upon the housetops, with a background of empty sky,
their feet sinking in the warm leads.

"I think I had better take it," he said.  "Let go."

Her fingers yielded the bracelet--a tawdry, ill-designed affair
of rubies and diamonds.  He looked at it disapprovingly.

"That's an ugly thing to go to prison for," he remarked, slipping
it into his pocket.  "It was a stupid thing to do, anyhow, you
know.  You couldn't have got away with it--unless," he added,
looking over the parapet as though struck with a sudden idea,
"unless you had a confederate below."

He heard the rush of her skirts and he was only just in time.
Nothing, in fact, but a considerable amount of presence of mind
and the full exercise of a strength which was continually
providing surprises for his acquaintances, was sufficient to save
her.  Their struggles upon the very edge of the roof dislodged a
brick from the palisading, which went hurtling down into the
street.  They both paused to watch it, his arms still gripping
her and one foot pressed against an iron rod.  It was immediately
after they had seen it pitch harmlessly into the road that a new
sensation came to this phlegmatic young man.  For the first time
in his life, he realized that it was possible to feel a certain
pleasurable emotion in the close grasp of a being of the opposite
sex.  Consequently, although she had now ceased to struggle, he
kept his arms locked around her, looking into her face with an
interest intense enough, but more analytical than emotional, as
though seeking to discover the meaning of this curious throbbing
of his pulses.  She herself, as though exhausted, remained quite
passive, shivering a little in his grasp and breathing like a
hunted animal whose last hour has come.  Their eyes met; then she
tore herself away.

"You are a hateful person," she said deliberately, "a hateful,
interfering person.  I detest you."

"I think that we will go down now," he replied.

He raised the trap-door and glanced at her significantly.  She
held her skirts closely together and passed through it without
looking at him.  She stepped lightly down the ladder and without
hesitation descended also a flight of uncarpeted attic stairs.
Here, however, upon the landing, she awaited him with obvious
reluctance.

"Are you going to send for the police?" she asked without looking
at him.

"No," he answered.

"Why not?"

"If I had meant to give you away I should have told Mrs.
Fitzgerald at once that I had seen you take her bracelet, instead
of following you out on to the roof."

"Do you mind telling me what you do propose to do, then?" she
continued still without looking at him, still without the
slightest note of appeal in her tone.

He withdrew the bracelet from his pocket and balanced it upon his
finger.

"I am going to say that I took it for a joke," he declared.

She hesitated.

"Mrs. Fitzgerald's sense of humor is not elastic," she warned
him.

"She will be very angry, of course," he assented, "but she will
not believe that I meant to steal it."

The girl moved slowly a few steps away.

"I suppose that I ought to thank you," she said, still with
averted face and sullen manner.  "You have really been very
decent.  I am much obliged."

"Are you not coming down?" he asked.

"Not at present," she answered.  "I am going to my room."

He looked around the landing on which they stood, at the
miserable, uncarpeted floor, the ill-painted doors on which the
long-forgotten varnish stood out in blisters, the jumble of
dilapidated hot-water cans, a mop, and a medley of brooms and
rags all thrown down together in a corner.

"But these are the servants' quarters, surely," he remarked.

"They are good enough for me; my room is here," she told him,
turning the handle of one of the doors and disappearing.  The
prompt turning of the key sounded, he thought, a little
ungracious.

With the bracelet in his hand, Tavernake descended three more
flights of stairs and entered the drawing-room of the private
hotel conducted by Mrs. Raithby Lawrence, whose husband, one
learned from her frequent reiteration of the fact, had once
occupied a distinguished post in the Merchant Service of his
country.  The disturbance following upon the disappearance of the
bracelet was evidently at its height.  There were at least a
dozen people in the room, most of whom were standing up.  The
central figure of them all was Mrs. Fitzgerald, large and florid,
whose yellow hair with its varied shades frankly admitted its
indebtedness to peroxide; a lady of the dashing type, who had
once made her mark in the music-halls, but was now happily
married to a commercial traveler who was seldom visible.  Mrs.
Fitzgerald was talking.

"In respectable boarding-houses, Mrs. Lawrence," she declared
with great emphasis, "thefts may sometimes take place, I will
admit, in the servants' quarters, and with all their temptations,
poor things, it's not so much to be wondered at.  But no such
thing as this has ever happened to me before--to have jewelry
taken almost from my person in the drawing-room of what should be
a well-conducted establishment.  Not a servant in the room,
remember, from the moment I took it off until I got up from the
piano and found it missing.  It's your guests you've got to look
after, Mrs. Lawrence, sorry to say it though I am."

Mrs. Lawrence managed here, through sheer loss of breath on the
part of her assailant, to interpose a tearful protest.

"I am quite sure," she protested feebly, "that there is not a
person in this house who would dream of stealing anything,
however valuable it was.  I am most particular always about
references."

"Valuable, indeed!" Mrs. Fitzgerald continued with increased
volubility.  "I'd have you understand that I am not one of those
who wear trumpery jewelry.  Thirty-five guineas that bracelet
cost me if it cost a penny, and if my husband were only at home I
could show you the receipt."

Then there came an interruption of almost tragical interest.
Mrs. Fitzgerald, her mouth still open, her stream of eloquence
suddenly arrested, stood with her artificially darkened eyes
riveted upon the stolid, self-composed figure in the doorway.
Every one else was gazing in the same direction.  Tavernake was
holding the bracelet in the palm of his hand.

"Thirty-five guineas!" he repeated.  "If I had known that it was
worth as much as that, I do not think that I should have dared to
touch it."

"You--you took it!" Mrs. Fitzgerald gasped.

"I am afraid," he admitted, "that it was rather a clumsy joke.  I
apologize, Mrs. Fitzgerald.  I hope you did not really imagine
that it had been stolen."

One was conscious of the little thrill of emotion which marked
the termination of the episode.  Most of the people not directly
concerned were disappointed; they were being robbed of their
excitement, their hopes of a tragical denouement were frustrated.
Mrs. Lawrence's worn face plainly showed her relief.  The lady
with the yellow hair, on the other hand, who had now succeeded in
working herself up into a towering rage, snatched the bracelet
from the young man's fingers and with a purple flush in her
cheeks was obviously struggling with an intense desire to box his
ears.

"That's not good enough for a tale!" she exclaimed harshly.  "I
tell you I don't believe a word of it.  Took it for a joke,
indeed!  I only wish my husband were here; he'd know what to do."

"Your husband couldn't do much more than get your bracelet back,
ma'am," Mrs. Lawrence replied with acerbity.  "Such a fuss and
calling every one thieves, too!  I'd be ashamed to be so
suspicious."

Mrs. Fitzgerald glared haughtily at her hostess.

"It's all very well for those that don't possess any jewelry and
don't know the value of it, to talk," she declared, with her eyes
fixed upon a black jet ornament which hung from the other woman's
neck.  "What I say is this, and you may just as well hear it from
me now as later.  I don't believe this cock-and-bull story of Mr.
Tavernake's.  Them as took my bracelet from that table meant
keeping it, only they hadn't the courage.  And I'm not referring
to you, Mr. Tavernake," the lady continued vigorously, "because I
don't believe you took it, for all your talk about a joke.  And
whom you may be shielding it wouldn't take me two guesses to
name, and your motive must be clear to every one.  The common
hussy!"

"You are exciting yourself unnecessarily, Mrs. Fitzgerald,"
Tavernake remarked.  "Let me assure you that it was I who took
your bracelet from that table."

Mrs. Fitzgerald regarded him scornfully.

"Do you expect me to believe a tale like that?" she demanded.

"Why not?" Tavernake replied.  "It is the truth.  I am sorry that
you have been so upset--"

"It is not the truth!"

More sensation!  Another unexpected entrance!  Once more interest
in the affair was revived.  After all, the lookers-on felt that
they were not to be robbed of their tragedy.  An old lady with
yellow cheeks and jet black eyes leaned forward with her hand to
her ear, anxious not to miss a syllable of what was coming.
Tavernake bit his lip; it was the girl from the roof who had
entered the room.

"I have no doubt," she continued in a cool, clear tone, "that
Mrs. Fitzgerald's first guess would have been correct.  I took
the bracelet.  I did not take it for a joke, I did not take it
because I admire it--I think it is hideously ugly.  I took it
because I had no money."

She paused and looked around at them all, quietly, yet with
something in her face from which they all shrank.  She stood
where the light fell full upon her shabby black gown and
dejected-looking hat.  The hollows in her pale cheeks, and the
faint rims under her eyes, were clearly manifest; but
notwithstanding her fragile appearance, she held herself with
composure and even dignity.  Twenty--thirty seconds must have
passed whilst she stood there, slowly finishing the buttoning of
her gloves.  No one attempted to break the silence.  She
dominated them all--they felt that she had something more to say.
Even Mrs. Fitzgerald felt a weight upon her tongue.

"It was a clumsy attempt," she went on.  "I should have had no
idea where to raise money upon the thing, but I apologize to you,
nevertheless, Mrs. Fitzgerald, for the anxiety which my removal
of your valuable property must have caused you," she added,
turning to the owner of the bracelet, whose cheeks were once more
hot with anger at the contempt in the girl's tone.  "I suppose I
ought to thank you, Mr. Tavernake, also, for your well-meant
effort to preserve my character.  In future, that shall be my
sole charge.  Has any one anything more to say to me before I
go?"

Somehow or other, no one had.  Mrs. Fitzgerald was irritated and
fuming, but she contented herself with a snort.  Her speech was
ready enough as a rule, but there was a look in this girl's eyes
from which she was glad enough to turn away.  Mrs. Lawrence made
a weak attempt at a farewell.

"I am sure," she began, "we are all sorry for what's occurred and
that you must go--not that perhaps it isn't better, under the
circumstances," she added hastily.  "As regards--"

"There is nothing owing to you," the girl interrupted calmly.
"You may congratulate yourself upon that, for if there were you
would not get it.  Nor have I stolen anything else."

"About your luggage?" Mrs. Lawrence asked.

"When I need it, I will send for it," the girl replied.

She turned her back upon them and before they realized it she was
gone.  She had, indeed, something of the grand manner.  She had
come to plead guilty to a theft and she had left them all feeling
a little like snubbed children.  Mrs. Fitzgerald, as soon as the
spell of the girl's presence was removed, was one of the first to
recover herself.  She felt herself beginning to grow hot with
renewed indignation.

"A thief!" she exclaimed looking around the room.  "Just an
ordinary self-convicted thief!  That's what I call her, and
nothing else.  And here we all stood like a lot of ninnies.  Why,
if I'd done my duty I'd have locked the door and sent for a
policeman."

"Too late now, anyway," Mrs. Lawrence declared.  "She's gone for
good, and no mistake.  Walked right out of the house.  I heard
her slam the front door."

"And a good job, too," Mrs. Fitzgerald armed.  "We don't want any
of her sort here--not those who've got things of value about
them.  I bet she didn't leave America for nothing."

A little gray-haired lady, who had not as yet spoken, and who
very seldom took part in any discussion at all, looked up from
her knitting.  She was desperately poor but she had charitable
instincts.

"I wonder what made her want to steal," she remarked quietly.

"A born thief," Mrs. Fitzgerald declared with conviction,--"a
real bad lot.  One of your sly-looking ones, I call her."

The little lady sighed.

"When I was better off," she continued, "I used to help at a soup
kitchen in Poplar.  I have never forgotten a certain look we used
to see occasionally in the faces of some of the men and women.  I
found out what it meant--it was hunger.  Once or twice lately I
have passed the girl who has just gone out, upon the stairs, and
she almost frightened me.  She had just the same look in her
eyes.  I noticed it yesterday--it was just before dinner, too
-- but she never came down."

"She paid so much for her room and extra for meals," Mrs.
Lawrence said thoughtfully.  "She never would have a meal unless
she paid for it at the time.  To tell you the truth, I was
feeling a bit uneasy about her.  She hasn't been in the
diningroom for two days, and from what they tell me there's no
signs of her having eaten anything in her room.  As for getting
anything out, why should she?   It would be cheaper for her here
than anywhere, if she'd got any money at all."

There was an uncomfortable silence.  The little old lady with the
knitting looked down the street into the sultry darkness which
had swallowed up the girl.

"I wonder whether Mr. Tavernake knows anything about her," some
one suggested.

But Tavernake was not in the room.




CHAPTER II

A TETE-A-TETE SUPPER

Tavernake caught her up in New Oxford Street and fell at once
into step with her.  He wasted no time whatever upon
preliminaries.

"I should be glad," he said, "if you would tell me your name."

Her first glance at him was fierce enough to have terrified a
different sort of man.  Upon Tavernake it had absolutely no
effect.

"You need not unless you like, of course," he went on, "but I
wish to talk to you for a few moments and I thought that it would
be more convenient if I addressed you by name.  I do not remember
to have heard it mentioned at Blenheim House, and Mrs. Lawrence,
as you know, does not introduce her guests."

By this time they had walked a score or so of paces together.
The girl, after her first furious glance, had taken absolutely no
notice of him except to quicken her pace a little.  Tavernake
remained by her side, however, showing not the slightest sense of
embarrassment or annoyance.  He seemed perfectly content to wait
and he had not in the least the appearance of a man who could be
easily shaken off.  From a fit of furious anger she passed
suddenly and without warning to a state of half hysterical
amusement.

"You are a foolish, absurd person," she declared.  "Please go
away.  I do not wish you to walk with me."

Tavernake remained imperturbable.  She remembered suddenly his
intervention on her behalf.

"If you insist upon knowing," she said, "my name at Blenheim
House was Beatrice Burnay.  I am much obliged to you for what you
did for me there, but that is finished.  I do not wish to have
any conversation with you, and I absolutely object to your
company.  Please leave me at once."

"I am sorry," he answered, "but that is not possible."

"Not possible?" she repeated, wonderingly.

He shook his head.

"You have no money, you have eaten no dinner, and I do not
believe that you have any idea where you are going," he declared,
deliberately.

Her face was once more dark with anger.

"Even if that were the truth," she insisted, "tell me what
concern it is of yours?   Your reminding me of these facts is
simply an impertinence."

"I am sorry that you look upon it in that light," he remarked,
still without the least sign of discomposure.  "We will, if you
do not mind, waive the discussion for the moment.  Do you prefer
a small restaurant or a corner in a big one?   There is music at
Frascati's but there are not so many people in the smaller ones."

She turned half around upon the pavement and looked at him
steadfastly.  His personality was at last beginning to interest
her.  His square jaw and measured speech were indices of a
character at least unusual.  She recognized certain invincible
qualities under an exterior absolutely commonplace.

"Are you as persistent about everything in life?" she asked him.

"Why not?" he replied.  "I try always to be consistent."

"What is your name?"

"Leonard Tavernake," he answered, promptly.

"Are you well off--I mean moderately well off?"

"I have a quite sufficient income."

"Have you any one dependent upon you?"

"Not a soul," he declared.  "I am my own master in every sense of
the word."

She laughed in an odd sort of way.

"Then you shall pay for your persistence," she said, ---"I mean
that I may as well rob you of a sovereign as the restaurant
people."

"You must tell me now where you would like to go to," he
insisted.  "It is getting late."

"I do not like these foreign places," she replied.  "I should
prefer to go to the grill-room of a good restaurant."

"We will take a taxicab," he announced.  "You have no objection?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"If you have the money and don't mind spending it," she said, "I
will admit that I have had all the walking I want.  Besides, the
toe of my boot is worn through and I find it painful.  Yesterday
I tramped ten miles trying to find a man who was getting up a
concert party for the provinces."

"And did you find him?" he asked, hailing a cab.

"Yes, I found him," she answered, indifferently.  "We went
through the usual programme.  He heard me sing, tried to kiss me
and promised to let me know.  Nobody ever refuses anything in my
profession, you see.  They promise to let you know."

"Are you a singer, then, or an actress?"

"I am neither," she told him.  "I said 'my profession' because it
is the only one to which I have ever tried to belong.  I have
never succeeded in obtaining an engagement in this country.  I do
not suppose that even if I had persevered I should ever have had
one."

"You have given up the idea, then," he remarked.

"I have given it up," she admitted, a little curtly.  "Please do
not think, because I am allowing you to be my companion for a
short time, that you may ask me questions.  How fast these taxies
go!"

They drew up at their destination--a well-known restaurant in
Regent Street.  He paid the cabman and they descended a flight of
stairs into the grill-room.

"I hope that this place will suit you," he said.  "I have not
much experience of restaurants."

She looked around and nodded.

"Yes," she replied, "I think that it will do."

She was very shabbily dressed, and he, although his appearance
was by no means ordinary, was certainly not of the type which
inspires immediate respect in even the grill-room of a
fashionable restaurant.  Nevertheless, they received prompt and
almost ofcious service.  Tavernake, as he watched his companion's
air, her manner of seating herself and accepting the attentions
of the head waiter, felt that nameless impulse which was
responsible for his having followed her from Blenheim House and
which he could only call curiosity, becoming stronger.  An
exceedingly matter-of-fact person, he was also by instinct and
habit observant.  He never doubted but that she belonged to a
class of society from which the guests at the boarding-house
where they had both lived were seldom recruited, and of which he
himself knew little.  He was not in the least a snob, this young
man, but he found the fact interesting.  Life with him was
already very much the same as a ledger account--a matter of
debits and credits, and he had never failed to include among the
latter that curious gift of breeding for which he himself, denied
it by heritage, had somehow substituted a complete and
exceedingly rare naturalness.

"I should like," she announced, laying down the carte, "a fried
sole, some cutlets, an ice, and black coffee."

The waiter bowed.

"And for Monsieur?"

Tavernake glanced at his watch; it was already ten o'clock.

"I will take the same," he declared.

"And to drink?"

She seemed indifferent.

"Any light wine," she answered, carelessly, "white or red."

Tavernake took up the wine list and ordered sauterne.  They were
left alone in their corner for a few minutes, almost the only
occupants of the place.

"You are sure that you can afford this?" she asked, looking at
him critically.  "It may cost you a sovereign or thirty
shillings."

He studied the prices on the menu.

"I can afford it quite well and I have plenty of money with me,"
he assured her, "but I do not think that it will cost more than
eighteen shillings.  While we are waiting for the sole, shall we
talk?   I can tell you, if you choose to hear, why I followed you
from the boardinghouse."

"I don't mind listening to you," she told him, "or I will talk
with you about anything you like.  There is only one subject
which I cannot discuss; that subject is myself and my own
doings."

Tavernake was silent for a moment.

"That makes conversation a bit difficult," he remarked.  She
leaned back in her chair.

"After this evening," she said, "I go out of your life as
completely and finally as though I had never existed.  I have a
fancy to take my poor secrets with me.  If you wish to talk, tell
me about yourself.  You have gone out of your way to be kind to
me.  I wonder why.  It doesn't seem to be your role."

He smiled slowly.  His face was fashioned upon broad lines and
the relaxing of his lips lightened it wonderfully.  He had good
teeth, clear gray eyes, and coarse black hair which he wore a
trifle long; his forehead was too massive for good looks.

"No," he admitted, "I do not think that benevolence is one of my
characteristics."

Her dark eyes were turned full upon him; her red lips, redder
than ever they seemed against the pallor of her cheeks and her
deep brown hair, curled slightly.  There was something almost
insolent in her tone.

"You understand, I hope," she continued, "that you have nothing
whatever to look for from me in return for this sum which you
propose to expend for my entertainment?"

"I understand that," he replied.

"Not even gratitude," she persisted.  "I really do not feel
grateful to you.  You are probably doing this to gratify some
selfish interest or curiosity.  I warn you that I am quite
incapable of any of the proper sentiments of life."

"Your gratitude would be of no value to me whatever," he assured
her.

She was still not wholly satisfied.  His complete stolidity
frustrated every effort she made to penetrate beneath the
surface.

"If I believed," she went on, "that you were one of those men--
the world is full of them, you know--who will help a woman with a
reasonable appearance so long as it does not seriously interfere
with their own comfort--"

"Your sex has nothing whatever to do with it," he interrupted.
"As to your appearance, I have not even considered it.  I could
not tell you whether you are beautiful or ugly--I am no judge of
these matters.  What I have done, I have done because it pleased
me to do it."

"Do you always do what pleases you?" she asked.

"Nearly always."

She looked him over again attentively, with an interest obviously
impersonal, a trifle supercilious.

"I suppose," she remarked, "you consider yourself one of the
strong people of the world?"

"I do not know about that," he answered.  "I do not often think
about myself."

"I mean," she explained, "that you are one of those people who
struggle hard to get just what they want in life."

His jaw suddenly tightened and she saw the likeness to Napoleon.

"I do more than struggle," he affirmed, "I succeed.  If I make up
my mind to do a thing, I do it; if I make up my mind to get a
thing, I get it.  It means hard work sometimes, but that is all."

For the first time, a really natural interest shone out of her
eyes.  The half sulky contempt with which she had received his
advances passed away.  She became at that moment a human being,
self-forgetting, the heritage of her charms--for she really had a
curious but very poignant attractiveness--suddenly evident.  It
was only a momentary lapse and it was entirely wasted.  Not even
one of the waiters happened to be looking that way, and Tavernake
was thinking wholly of himself.

"It is a good deal to say--that," she remarked, reflectively.

"It is a good deal but it is not too much," he declared.  "Every
man who takes life seriously should say it."

Then she laughed--actually laughed--and he had a vision of
flashing white teeth, of a mouth breaking into pleasant curves,
of dark mirth-lit eyes, lustreless no longer, provocative,
inspiring.  A vague impression as of something pleasant warmed
his blood.  It was a rare thing for him to be so stirred, but
even then it was not sufficient to disturb the focus of his
thoughts.

"Tell me," she demanded, "what do you do?   What is your
profession or work?"

"I am with a firm of auctioneers and estate agents," he answered
readily,--"Messrs. Dowling, Spence & Company the name is.  Our
offices are in Waterloo Place."

"You find it interesting?"

"Of course," he answered.  "Interesting?  Why not?  I work at
it."

"Are you a partner?"

"No," he admitted.  "Six years ago I was a carpenter; then I
became an errand boy in Mr. Dowling's office I had to learn the
business, you see.  To-day I am a sort of manager.  In eighteen
months' time--perhaps before that if they do not offer me a
partnership--I shall start for myself."

Once more the subtlest of smiles flickered at the corners of her
lips.

"Do they know yet?" she asked, with faint irony.

"Not yet," he replied, with absolute seriousness.  "They might
tell me to go, and I have a few things to learn yet.  I would
rather make experiments for some one else than for myself.  I can
use the results later; they will help me to make money."

She laughed softly and wiped the tears out of her eyes.  They
were really very beautiful eyes notwithstanding the dark rims
encircling them.

"If only I had met you before!" she murmured.

"Why?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Don't ask me," she begged.  "It would not be good for your
conceit, if you have any, to tell you."

"I have no conceit and I am not inquisitive," he said, "but I do
not see why you laughed."

Their period of waiting came to an end at this point.  The fish
was brought and their conversation became disjointed.  In the
silence which followed, the old shadow crept over her face.  Once
only it lifted.  It was while they were waiting for the cutlets.
She leaned towards him, her elbows upon the tablecloth, her face
supported by her fingers.

"I think that it is time we left these generalities," she
insisted, "and you told me something rather more personal,
something which I am very anxious to know.  Tell me exactly why
so self-centered a person as yourself should interest himself in
a fellow-creature at all.  It seems odd to me."

"It is odd," he admitted, frankly.  "I will try to explain it to
you but it will sound very bald, and I do not think that you will
understand.  I watched you a few nights ago out on the roof at
Blenheim House.  You were looking across the house-tops and you
didn't seem to be seeing anything at all really, and yet all the
time I knew that you were seeing things I couldn't, you were
understanding and appreciating something which I knew nothing of,
and it worried me.  I tried to talk to you that evening, but you
were rude."

"You really are a curious person," she remarked.  "Are you always
worried, then, if you find that some one else is seeing things or
understanding things which are outside your comprehension?"

"Always," he replied promptly.

"You are too far-reaching," she affirmed.  "You want to gather
everything into your life.  You cannot.  You will only be unhappy
if you try.  No man can do it.  You must learn your limitations
or suffer all your days."

"Limitations!" He repeated the words with measureless scorn.  "If
I learn them at all," he declared, with unexpected force, "it
will be with scars and bruises, for nothing else will content
me."

"We are, I should say, almost the same age," she remarked slowly.

"I am twenty-five," he told her.

"I am twenty-two," she said.  "It seems strange that two people
whose ideas of life are as far apart as the Poles should have
come together like this even for a moment.  I do not understand
it at all.  Did you expect that I should tell you just what I saw
in the clouds that night?"

"No," he answered, "not exactly.  I have spoken of my first
interest in you only.  There are other things.  I told a lie
about the bracelet and I followed you out of the boarding-house
and I brought you here, for some other for quite a different
reason."

"Tell me what it was," she demanded.

"I do not know it myself," he declared solemnly.  "I really and
honestly do not know it.  It is because I hoped that it might
come to me while we were together, that I am here with you at
this moment.  I do not like impulses which I do not understand."

She laughed at him a little scornfully.

"After all," she said, "although it may not have dawned upon you
yet, it is probably the same wretched reason.  You are a man and
you have the poison somewhere in your blood.  I am really not
bad-looking, you know."

He looked at her critically.  She was a little over-slim,
perhaps, but she was certainly wonderfully graceful.  Even the
poise of her head, the manner in which she leaned back in her
chair, had its individuality.  Her features, too, were good,
though her mouth had grown a trifle hard.  For the first time the
dead pallor of her cheeks was relieved by a touch of color.  Even
Tavernake realized that there were great possibilities about her.
Nevertheless, he shook his head.

"I do not agree with you in the least," he asserted firmly.
"Your looks have nothing to do with it.  I am sure that it is not
that."

"Let me cross-examine you," she suggested.  "Think carefully now.
Does it give you no pleasure at all to be sitting here alone with
me?"

He answered her deliberately; it was obvious that he was speaking
the truth.

"I am not conscious that it does," he declared.  "The only
feeling I am aware of at the present moment in connection with
you, is the curiosity of which I have already spoken."

She leaned a little towards him, extending her very shapely
fingers.  Once more the smile at her lips transformed her face.

"Look at my hand," she said.  "Tell me--wouldn't you like to hold
it just for a minute, if I gave it you?"

Her eyes challenged his, softly and yet imperiously.  His whole
attention, however, seemed to be absorbed by her finger-nails.
It seemed strange to him that a girl in her straits should have
devoted so much care to her hands.

"No," he answered deliberately, "I have no wish to hold your
hand.  Why should I?"

"Look at me," she insisted.

He did so without embarrassment or hesitation,--it was more than
ever apparent that he was entirely truthful.  She leaned back in
her chair, laughing softly to herself.

"Oh, my friend Mr. Leonard Tavernake," she exclaimed, "if you
were not so crudely, so adorably, so miraculously truthful, what
a prig, prig, prig, you would be!  The cutlets at last, thank
goodness!  Your cross-examination is over.  I pronounce you 'Not
Guilty!"'

During the progress of the rest of the meal, they talked very
little.  At its conclusion, Tavernake discharged the bill, having
carefully checked each item and tipped the waiter the exact
amount which the man had the right to expect.  They ascended the
stairs together to the street, the girl lingering a few steps
behind.  On the pavement her fingers touched his arm.

"I wonder, would you mind driving me down to the Embankment?" she
asked almost humbly.  "It was so close down there and I want some
air."

This was an extravagance which he had scarcely contemplated, but
he did not hesitate.  He called a taxicab and seated himself by
her side.  Her manner seemed to have grown quieter and more
subdued, her tone was no longer semi-belligerent.

"I will not keep you much longer," she promised.  "I suppose I am
not so strong as I used to be.  I have had scarcely anything to
eat for two days and conversation has become an unknown luxury.
I think--it seems absurd--but I think that I am feeling a little
faint."

"The air will soon revive you," he said.  "As to our
conversation, I am disappointed.  I think that you are very
foolish not to tell me more about yourself."

She closed her eyes, ignoring his remark.  They turned presently
into a narrower thoroughfare.  She leaned towards him.

"You have been very good to me," she admitted almost timidly,
"and I am afraid that I have not been very gracious.  We shall
not see one another again after this evening.  I wonder--would
you care to kiss me?"

He opened his lips and closed them again.  He sat quite still,
his eyes fixed upon the road ahead, until he had strangled
something absolutely absurd, something unrecognizable.

"I would rather not," he decided quietly.  "I know you mean to be
kind but that sort of thing--well, I don't think I understand it.
Besides," he added with a sudden na‹ve relief, as he clutched at
a fugitive but plausible thought, "if I did you would not believe
the things which I have been telling you."

He had a curious idea that she was disappointed as she turned her
head away, but she said nothing.  Arrived at the Embankment, the
cab came slowly to a standstill.  The girl descended.  There was
something new in her manner; she looked away from him when she
spoke.

"You had better leave me here," she said.  "I am going to sit
upon that seat."

Then came those few seconds' hesitation which were to count for a
great deal in his life.  The impulse which bade him stay with her
was unaccountable but it conquered.

"If you do not object," he remarked with some stiffness, "I
should like to sit here with you for a little time.  There is
certainly a breeze."

She made no comment but walked on.  He paid the man and followed
her to the empty seat.  Opposite, some illuminated advertisements
blazed their unsightly message across the murky sky.  Between the
two curving rows of yellow lights the river flowed--black,
turgid, hopeless.  Even here, though they had escaped from its
absolute thrall, the far-away roar of the city beat upon their
ears.  She listened to it for a moment and then pressed her hands
to the side of her head.

"Oh, how I hate it!" she moaned.  "The voices, always the voices,
calling, threatening, beating you away!  Take my hands, Leonard
Tavernake,--hold me."

He did as she bade him, clumsily, as yet without comprehension.

"You are not well," he muttered.

Her eyes opened and a flash of her old manner returned.  She
smiled at him, feebly but derisively.

"You foolish boy!" she cried.  "Can't you see that I am dying?
Hold my hands tightly and watch--watch!  Here is one more thing
you can see--that you cannot understand."

He saw the empty phial slip from her sleeve and fall on to the
pavement.  With a cry he sprang up and, carrying her in his arms,
rushed out into the road.




CHAPTER III

AN UNPLEASANT MEETING

It was a quarter past eleven and the theatres were disgorging
their usual nightly crowds.  The most human thoroughfare in any
of the world's great cities was at its best and brightest.
Everywhere commissionaires were blowing their whistles, the
streets were thronged with slowly-moving vehicles, the pavements
were stirring with life.  The little crowd which had gathered in
front of the chemist's shop was swept away.  After all, none of
them knew exactly what they had been waiting for.  There was a
rumor that a woman had fainted or had met with an accident.
Certainly she had been carried into the shop and into the inner
room, the door of which was still closed.  A few passers-by had
gathered together and stared and waited for a few minutes, but
had finally lost interest and melted away.  A human thoroughfare,
this, indeed, one of the pulses of the great city beating time
night and day to the tragedies of life.  The chemist's assistant,
with impassive features, was serving a couple of casual customers
from behind the counter.  Only a few yards away, beyond the
closed door, the chemist himself and a hastily summoned doctor
fought with Death for the body of the girl who lay upon the
floor, faint moans coming every now and then from her blue lips.

Tavernake, whose forced inaction during that terrible struggle
had become a burden to him, slipped softly from the room as soon
as the doctor had whispered that the acute crisis was over, and
passed through the shop out into the street, a solemn, dazed
figure among the light-hearted crowd.  Even in those grim
moments, the man's individualism spoke up to him.  He was puzzled
at his own action, He asked himself a question--not, indeed, with
regret, but with something more than curiosity and actual
selfprobing--as though, by concentrating his mind upon his recent
course of action, he would be able to understand the motives
which had influenced him.  Why had he chosen to burden himself
with the care of this desperate young woman?  Supposing she
lived, what was to become of her?  He had acquired a certain
definite responsibility with regard to her future, for whatever
the doctor and his assistant might do, it was his own promptitude
and presence of mind which had given her the first chance of
life.  Without a doubt, he had behaved foolishly.  Why not vanish
into the crowd and have done with it?  What was it to him, after
all, whether this girl lived or died?  He had done his duty
-- more than his duty.  Why not disappear now and let her take
her chance?  His common sense spoke to him loudly; such thoughts
as these beat upon his brain.

Just for once in his life, however, his common sense exercised an
altogether subordinate position.  He knew very well, even while
he listened to these voices, that he was only counting the
minutes until he could return.  Having absolutely decided that
the only reasonable course left for him to pursue was to return
home and leave the girl to her fate, he found himself back inside
the shop within a quarter of an hour.  The chemist had just come
out from the inner room, and looked up at his entrance.

"She'll do now," he announced.

Tavernake nodded.  He was amazed at his own sense of relief.

"I am glad," he declared.

The doctor joined them, his black bag in his hand, prepared for
departure.  He addressed himself to Tavernake as the responsible
person.

"The young lady will be all right now," he said, "but she may be
rather queer for a day or two.  Fortunately, she made the usual
mistake of people who are ignorant of medicine and its effects --
she took enough poison to kill a whole household.  You had better
take care of her, young man," he added dryly.  "She'll be getting
into trouble if she tries this sort of thing again."

"Will she need any special attention during the next few days?"
Tavernake asked.  "The circumstances under which I brought her
here are a little unusual, and I am not quite sure--"

"Take her home to bed," the doctor interrupted, "and you'll find
she'll sleep it off.  She seems to have a splendid constitution,
although she has let herself run down.  If you need any further
advice and your own medical man is not available, I will come and
see her if you send for me.  Camden, my name is; telephone number
734 Gerrard."

"I should be glad to know the amount of your fee, if you please,"
Tavernake said.

"My fee is two guineas," the doctor answered.

Tavernake paid him and he went away.  Already the shadow of the
tragedy was passing.  The chemist had joined his assistant and
was busy dispensing drugs behind his counter.

"You can go in to the young lady, if you like," he remarked to
Tavernake.  "I dare say she'll feel better to have some one with
her."

Tavernake passed slowly into the inner room, closing the door
behind him.  He was scarcely prepared for so piteous a sight.
The girl's face was white and drawn as she lay upon the couch to
which they had lifted her.  The fighting spirit was dead; she was
in a state of absolute and complete collapse.  She opened her
eyes at his coning, but closed them again almost immediately
-- less, it seemed, from any consciousness of his presence than
from sheer exhaustion.

"I am glad that you are better," he whispered crossing the room
to her side.

"Thank you," she murmured almost inaudibly.

Tavernake stood looking down upon her, and his sense of
perplexity increased.  Stretched on the hard horsehair couch she
seemed, indeed, pitifully thin and younger than her years.  The
scowl, which had passed from her face, had served in some measure
as a disguise.

"We shall have to leave here in a few minutes," he said, softly.
"They will want to close the shop."

"I am so sorry," she faltered, "to have given you all this
trouble.  You must send me to a hospital or the workhouse
-- anywhere."

"You are sure that there are no friends to whom I can send?" he
asked.

"There is no one!"

She closed her eyes and Tavernake sat quite still on the end of
her couch, his elbow upon his knee, his head resting upon his
hand.  Presently, the rush of customers having ceased, the
chemist came in.

"I think, if I were you, I should take her home now," he
remarked.  "She'll probably drop off to sleep very soon and wake
up much stronger.  I have made up a prescription here in case of
exhaustion."

Tavernake stared at the man.  Take her home!  His sense of humor
was faint enough but he found himself trying to imagine the faces
of Mrs. Lawrence or Mrs. Fitzgerald if he should return with her
to the boardinghouse at such an hour.

"I suppose you know where she lives?" the chemist inquired
curiously.

"Of course," Tavernake assented.  "You are quite right.  I dare
say she is strong enough now to walk as far as the pavement."

He paid the bill for the medicines, and they lifted her from the
couch.  Between them she walked slowly into the outer shop.  Then
she began to drag on their arms and she looked up at the chemist
a little piteously.

"May I sit down for a moment?" she begged.  "I feel faint."

They placed her in one of the cane chairs facing the door.  The
chemist mixed her some sal volatile.

"I am sorry," she murmured, "so sorry.  In a few minutes--I shall
be better."

Outside, the throng of pedestrians had grown less, but from the
great restaurant opposite a constant stream of motor-cars and
carriages was slowly bringing away the supper guests.  Tavernake
stood at the door, watching them idly.  The traffic was
momentarily blocked and almost opposite to him a motor-car, the
simple magnificence of which filled him with wonder, had come to
a standstill.  The chauffeur and footman both wore livery which
was almost white.  Inside a swinging vase of flowers was
suspended from the roof.  A man and a woman leaned back in
luxurious easy-chairs.  The man was dark and had the look of a
foreigner.  The woman was very fair.  She wore a long ermine
cloak and a tiara of pearls.

Tavernake, whose interest in the passing throngs was entirely
superficial, found himself for some reason curiously attracted by
this glimpse into a world of luxury of which he knew nothing;
attracted, too, by the woman's delicate face with its uncommon
type of beauty.  Their eyes met as he stood there, stolid and
motionless, framed in the doorway.  Tavernake continued to stare,
unmindful, perhaps unconscious, of the rudeness of his action.
The woman, after a moment, glanced away at the shopwindow.  A
sudden thought seemed to strike her.  She spoke through the tube
at her side and turned to her companion.  Meanwhile, the footman,
leaning from his place, held out his arm in warning and the car
was slowly backed to the side of the pavement.  The lady felt for
a moment in a bag of white satin which lay upon the round table
in front of her, and handed a slip of paper through the open
window to the servant who had already descended and was standing
waiting.  He came at once towards the shop, passing Tavernake,
who remained in the door-way.

"Will you make this up at once, please?" he directed, handing the
paper across to the chemist.

The chemist took it in his hand and turned away mechanically
toward the dispensing room.  Suddenly he paused, and, looking
back, shook his head.

"For whom is this prescription required?" he asked.

"For my mistress," the man answered.  "Her name is there."

"Where is she?"

"Outside; she is waiting for it."

"If she really wants this made up to-night," the chemist
declared, "she must come in and sign the book."

The footman looked across the counter, for a moment, a little
blankly.

"Am I to tell her that?" he inquired.  "It's only a sleeping
draught.  Her regular chemist makes it up all right."

"That may be," the man behind the counter replied, "but, you see,
I am not her regular chemist.  You had better go and tell her
so."

The footman departed upon his errand without a glance at the girl
who was sitting within a few feet of him.

"I am very sorry, madam," he announced to his mistress, "that the
chemist declines to make up the prescription unless you sign the
book."

"Very well, then, I will come," she declared.

The woman, handed from the automobile by her servant, lifted her
white satin skirts in both hands and stepped lightly across the
pavement.  Tavernake stood on one side to let her pass.  She
seemed to him to be, indeed, a creature of that other world of
which he knew nothing.  Her slow, graceful movements, the shimmer
of her skirt, her silk stockings, the flashing of the diamond
buckles upon her shoes, the faint perfume from her clothes, the
soft touch of her ermine as she swept by--all these things were
indeed strange to him.  His eyes followed her with rapt interest
as she approached the counter.

"You wish me to sign for my prescription?" she asked the chemist.
"I will do so, with pleasure, if it is necessary, only you must
not keep me waiting long."

Her voice was very low and very musical; the slight smile which
had parted her tired lips, was almost pathetic.  Even the chemist
felt himself to be a human being.  He turned at once to his
shelves and began to prepare the drug.

"I am sorry, madam, that it should have been necessary to fetch
you in," he said, apologetically.  "My assistant will give you
the book if you will kindly sign it."

The assistant dived beneath the counter, reappearing almost
immediately with a black volume and a pen and ink.  The chemist
was engrossed upon his task; Tavernake's eyes were still riveted
upon this woman, who seemed to him the most beautiful thing he
had ever seen in life.  No one was watching the girl.  The
chemist was the first to see her face, and that only in a looking
glass.  He stopped in the act of mixing his drug and turned
slowly round.  His expression was such that they all followed his
eyes.  The girl was sitting up in her chair, with a sudden spot
of color burning in her cheeks, her fingers gripping the counter
as though for support, her eyes dilated, unnatural, burning in
their white setting with an unholy fire.  The lady was the last
to turn her head, and the bottle of eau-de-cologne which she had
taken up from the counter, slipped with a crash to the floor.
All expression seemed to pass from her face; the very life seemed
drawn from it.  Those who were watching her saw suddenly an old
woman looking at something of which she was afraid.

The girl seemed to find an unnatural strength.  She dragged
herself up and turned wildly to Tavernake.

"Take me away," she cried, in a low voice.  "Take me away at
once."

The woman at the counter did not speak.  Tavernake stepped
quickly forward and then hesitated.  The girl was on her feet now
and she clutched at his arms.  Her eyes besought him.

"You must take me away, please," she begged, hoarsely.  "I am
well now--quite well.  I can walk."

Tavernake's lack of imagination stood him in good stead then.  He
simply did what he was told, did it in perfectly mechanical
fashion, without asking any questions.  With the girl leaning
heavily upon his arm, he stepped into the street and almost
immediately into a passing taxicab which he had hailed from the
threshold of the shop.  As he closed the door, he glanced behind
him.  The woman was standing there, half turned towards him,
still with that strange, stony look upon her lifeless face.  The
chemist was bending across the counter towards her, wondering,
perhaps, if another incident were to be drawn into his night's
work.  The eau-de-cologne was running in a little stream across
the floor.

"Where to, sir?" the taxicab driver asked Tavernake.

"Where to?" Tavernake repeated.

The girl was clinging to his arm.

"Tell him to drive away from here," she whispered, "to drive
anywhere, but away from here."

"Drive straight on," Tavernake directed, "along Fleet Street and
up Holborn.  I will give you the address later on."

The man changed his speed and their pace increased.  Tavernake
sat quite still, dumfounded by these amazing happenings.  The
girl by his side was clutching his arm, sobbing a little
hysterically, holding him all the time as though in terror.




CHAPTER IV

BREAKFAST WITH BEATRICE


The girl, awakened, perhaps, by the passing of some heavy cart
along the street below, or by the touch of the sunbeam which lay
across her pillow, first opened her eyes and then, after a
preliminary stare around, sat up in bed.  The events of the
previous night slowly shaped themselves in her mind.  She
remembered everything up to the commencement of that drive in the
taxicab.  Sometime after that she must have fainted.  And now
-- what had become of her?  Where was she?

She looked around her in ever-increasing surprise.  Certainly it
was the strangest room she had ever been in.  The floor was dusty
and innocent of any carpet; the window was bare and uncurtained.
The walls were unpapered but covered here and there with strange-
looking plans, one of them taking up nearly the whole side of the
room--a very rough piece of work with little dabs of blue paint
here and there, and shadings and diagrams which were absolutely
unintelligible.  She herself was lying upon a battered iron
bedstead, and she was wearing a very coarse nightdress.  Her own
clothes were folded up and lay upon a piece of brown paper on the
floor by the side of the bed.  To all appearance, the room was
entirely unfurnished, except that in the middle of it was a
hideous papier mache screen.

After her first bewildered inspection of her surroundings, it was
upon this screen that her attention was naturally directed.
Obviously it must be there to conceal something.  Very carefully
she leaned out of bed until she was able to see around the corner
of it.  Then her heart gave a little jump and she was only just
able to stifle an exclamation of fear.  Some one was sitting
there--a man--sitting on a battered cane chair, bending over a
roll of papers which were stretched upon a rude deal table.  She
felt her cheeks grow hot.  It must be Tavernake!  Where had he
brought her?  What did his presence in the room mean?

The bed creaked heavily as she regained her former position.  A
voice came to her from behind the screen.  She knew it at once.
It was Tavernake's.

"Are you awake?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered,--"yes, I am awake.  Is that Mr. Tavernake?
Where am I, please?"

"First of all, are you better?" he inquired.

"I am better," she assured him, sitting up in bed and pulling the
clothes to her chin.  "I am quite well now.  Tell me at once
where I am and what you are doing over there."

"There is nothing to be terrified about," Tavernake answered.
"To all effects and purposes, I am in another room.  When I move
to the door, as I shall do directly, I shall drag the screen with
me.  I can promise you--"

"Please explain everything," she begged, "quickly.  I am most
-- uncomfortable."

"At half-past twelve this morning," Tavernake said, "I found
myself alone in a taxicab with you, without any luggage or any
idea where to go to.  To make matters worse, you fainted.  I
tried two hotels but they refused to take you in; they were
probably afraid that you were going to be ill.  Then I thought of
this room.  I am employed, as you know, by a firm of estate
agents.  I do a great deal of work on my own account, however,
which I prefer to do in secret, and unknown to any one.  For that
reason, I hired this room a year ago and I come here most
evenings to work.  Sometimes I stay late, so last month I bought
a small bedstead and had it fixed up here.  There is a woman who
comes in to clean the room.  I went to her house last night and
persuaded her to come here.  She undressed you and put you to
bed.  I am sorry that my presence here distresses you, but it is
a large building and quite empty at night-time.  I thought you
might wake up and be frightened, so I borrowed this screen from
the woman and have been sitting here."

"What, all night?" she gasped.

"Certainly," he answered.  "The woman could not stop herself and
this is not a residential building at all.  All the lower floors
are let for offices and warehouses, and there is no one else in
the place until eight o'clock."

She put her hands to her head and sat quite still for a moment or
two.  It was really hard to take everything in.

"Aren't you very sleepy?" she asked, irrelevantly.

"Not very," he replied.  I dozed for an hour, a little time ago.
Since then I have been looking through some plans which interest
me very much."

"Can I get up?" she inquired, timidly.

"If you feel strong enough, please do," he answered, with
manifest relief.  "I shall move towards the door, dragging the
screen in front of me.  You will find a brush and comb and some
hairpins on your clothes.  I could not think of anything else to
get for you, but, if you will dress, we will walk to London
Bridge Station, which is just across the way, and while I order
some breakfast you can go into the ladies' room and do your hair
properly.  I did my best to get hold of a looking-glass, but it
was quite impossible."

The girl's sense of humor was suddenly awake.  She had hard work
not to scream.  He had evidently thought out all these details in
painstaking fashion, one by one.

"Thank you," she said.  "I will get up immediately, if you will
do as you say."

He clutched the screen from the inside and dragged it towards the
door.  On the threshold, he spoke to her once more.

"I shall sit upon the stairs just outside," he announced.

"I sha'n't be more than five minutes," she assured him.

She sprang out of bed and dressed quickly.  There was nothing
beyond where the screen had been except a table covered with
plans, and a particularly hard cane chair which she dragged over
for her own use.  As she dressed, she began to realize how much
this matter-of-fact, unimpressionable young man had done for her
during the last few hours.  The reflection affected her in a
curious manner.  She became afflicted with a shyness which she
bad not felt when he was in the room.  When at last she had
finished her toilette and opened the door, she was almost
tongue-tied.  He was sitting on the top step, with his back
against the landing, and his eyes were closed.  He opened them
with a little start, however, as soon as he heard her approach.

"I am glad you have not been long," he remarked.  "I want to be
at my office at nine o'clock and I must go and have a bath
somewhere.  These stairs are rather steep.  Please walk
carefully."

She followed him in silence down three flights of stone steps.
On each landing there were names upon the doors--two firms of hop
merchants, a solicitor, and a commission agent.  The ground floor
was some sort of warehouse, from which came a strong smell of
leather.

Tavernake opened the outside door with a small key and they
passed into the street.

"London Bridge Station is just across the way," he said.  "The
refreshment room will be open and we can get some breakfast at
once."

"What time is it?" she asked.

"About half-past seven."

She walked by his side quite meekly, and although there were many
things which she was longing to say, she remained absolutely
without the power of speech.  Except that he was looking a little
crumpled, there was nothing whatever in his appearance to
indicate that he had been up all night.  He looked exactly as he
had done on the previous day, he seemed even quite unconscious
that there was anything unusual in their relations.  As soon as
they arrived at the station, he pointed to the ladies'
waiting-room.

"If you will go in and arrange your hair there," he said, "I will
go and order breakfast and have a shave.  I will be back here in
about twenty minutes.  You had better take this."

He offered her a shilling and she accepted it without hesitation.
As soon as he had gone, however, she looked at the coin in her
hand in blank wonder.  She had accepted it from him with perfect
naturalness and without even saying "Thank you!"  With a queer
little laugh, she pushed open the swinging doors and made her way
into the waiting-room.

In hardly more than a quarter of an hour she emerged, to find
Tavernake waiting for her.  He had retied his tie, bought a fresh
collar, had been shaved.  She, too, had improved her appearance.

"Breakfast is waiting this way," he announced.

She followed him obediently and they sat down at a small table in
the station refreshment-room.

"Mr. Tavernake," she asked, suddenly, "I must ask you something.
Has anything like this ever happened to you before?"

"Nothing," he assured her, with some emphasis.

"You seem to take everything so much as a matter of course," she
protested.

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know," she replied, a little feebly.  "Only -"

She found relief in a sudden and perfectly natural laugh.

"Come," he said, "that is better.  I am glad that you feel like
laughing."

"As a matter of fact," she declared, "I feel much more like
crying.  Don't you know that you were very foolish last night?
You ought to have left me alone.  Why didn't you?  You would have
saved yourself a great deal of trouble."

He nodded, as though that point of view did, in some degree,
commend itself to him.

"Yes," he admitted, "I suppose I should.  I do not, even now,
understand why I interfered.  I can only remember that it didn't
seem possible not to at the time.  I suppose one must have
impulses," he added, with a little frown.

"The reflection," she remarked, helping herself to another roll,
"seems to annoy you."

"It does," he confessed.  "I do not like to feel impelled to do
anything the reason for which is not apparent.  I like to do just
the things which seem likely to work out best for myself."

"How you must hate me!" she murmured.

"No, I do not hate you," he replied, "but, on the other hand, you
have certainly been a trouble to me.  First of all, I told a
falsehood at the boarding-house, and I prefer always to tell the
truth when I can.  Then I followed you out of the house, which I
disliked doing very much, and I seem to have spent a considerable
portion of the time since, in your company, under somewhat
extraordinary circumstances.  I do not understand why I have done
this."

"I suppose it is because you are a very good-hearted person," she
remarked.

"But I am not," he assured her, calmly.  "I am nothing of the
sort.  I have very little sympathy with good-hearted people.  I
think the world goes very much better when every one looks after
himself, and the people who are not competent to do so go to the
wall."

"It sounds a trifle selfish," she murmured.

"Perhaps it is.  I have an idea that if I could phrase it
differently it would become philosophy."

"Perhaps," she suggested, smiling across the table at him, "you
have really done all this because you like me."

"I am quite sure that it is not that," he declared.  "I feel an
interest in you for which I cannot account, but it does not seem
to me to be a personal one.  Last night," he continued, "when I
was sitting there waiting, I tried to puzzle it all out.  I came
to the conclusion that it was because you represent something
which I do not understand.  I am very curious and it always
interests me to learn.  I believe that must be the secret of my
interest in you."

"You are very complimentary," she told him, mockingly.  "I wonder
what there is in the world which I could teach so superior a
person as Mr. Tavernake?"

He took her question quite seriously.

"I wonder what there is myself," he answered.  "And yet, in a
way, I think I know."

"Your imagination should come to the rescue," she remarked.

"I have no imagination," he declared, gloomily.

They were silent for several minutes; she was still studying him.

"I wonder you don't ask me any questions about myself," she said,
abruptly.

"There is only one thing," he answered, "concerning which I am in
the least curious.  Last night in the chemist's shop--"

"Don't!" she begged him, with suddenly whitening face.  "Don't
speak of that!"

"Very well," he replied, indifferently.  "I thought that you were
rather inviting my questions.  You need not be afraid of any
more.  I really am not curious about personal matters; I find
that my own life absorbs all my interests."

They had finished breakfast and he paid the bill.  She began to
put on her gloves.

"Whatever happens to me," she said, "I shall never forget that
you have been very kind."

She hesitated for a moment and then she seemed to realize more
completely how really kind he had been.  There had been a certain
crude delicacy about his actions which she had under-appreciated.
She leaned towards him.  There was nothing left this morning of
that disfiguring sullenness.  Her mouth was soft; her eyes were
bright, almost appealing.  If Tavernake had been a judge of
woman's looks, he must certainly have found her attractive.

"I am very, very grateful to you," she continued, holding out her
hand.  "I shall always remember how kind you were.  Good-bye!"

"You are not going?" he asked.

She laughed.

"Why, you didn't imagine that you had taken the care of me upon
your shoulders for the rest of your life?" she demanded.

"No, I didn't imagine that," he answered.  "At the same time,
what plans have you made?  Where are you going?"

"Oh!  I shall think of something," she declared, indifferently.

He caught the gleam in her eyes, the sudden hopelessness which
fell like a cloud upon her face.  He spoke promptly and with
decision.

"As a matter of fact," he remarked, "you do not know yourself.
You are just going to drift out of this place and very likely
find your way to a seat on the Embankment again."

Her lips quivered.  She had tried to be brave but it was hard.

"Not necessarily," she replied.  "Something may turn up."

He leaned a little across the table towards her.

"Listen," he said, deliberately, "I will make a proposition to
you.  It has come to me during the last few minutes.  I am tired
of the boarding-house and I wish to leave it.  The work which I
do at night is becoming more and more important.  I should like
to take two rooms somewhere.  If I take a third, would you care
to call yourself what I called you to the charwoman last night
-- my sister?  I should expect you to look after the meals and my
clothes, and help me in certain other ways.  I cannot give you
much of a salary," he continued, "but you would have an
opportunity during the daytime of looking out for some work, if
that is what you want, and you would at least have a roof and
plenty to eat and drink."

She looked at him in blank amazement.  It was obvious that his
proposition was entirely honest.

"But, Mr. Tavernake," she protested, "you forget that I am not
really your sister."

"Does that matter?" he asked, without flinching.  "I think you
understand the sort of person I am.  You would have nothing to
fear from any admiration on my part--or anything of that sort,"
he added, with some show of clumsiness.  "Those things do not
come in my life.  I am ambitious to get on, to succeed and become
wealthy.  Other things I do not even think about."

She was speechless.  After a short pause, he went on.

"I am proposing this arrangement as much for my own sake as for
yours.  I am very well read and I know most of what there is to
be known in my profession.  But there are other things concerning
which I am ignorant.  Some of these things I believe you could
teach me."

Still speechless, she sat and looked at him for several moments.
Outside, the station now was filled with a hurrying throng on
their way to the day's work.  Engines were shrieking, bells
ringing, the press of footsteps was unceasing.  In the dark, ill-
ventilated room itself there was the rattle of crockery, the
yawning of discontented-looking young women behind the bar, young
women with their hair still in curl-papers, as yet unprepared for
their weak little assaults upon the good-nature or susceptibility
of their customers.  A queer corner of life it seemed.  She
looked at her companion and realized how fragmentary was her
knowledge of him.  There was nothing to be gathered from his
face.  He seemed to have no expression.  He was simply waiting
for her reply, with his thoughts already half engrossed upon the
business of the day.

"Really," she began, "I--"

He came back from his momentary wandering and looked at her.  She
suddenly altered the manner of her speech.  It was a strange
proposition, perhaps, but this was one of the strangest of men.

"I am quite willing to try it," she decided.  "Will you tell me
where I can meet you later on?"

"I have an hour and a half for luncheon at one o'clock," he said.
"Meet me exactly at the southeast corner of Trafalgar Square.
Would you like a little money?" he added, rising.

"I have plenty, thank you," she answered.

He laid half-a-crown upon the table and made an entry in a small
memorandum book which he drew from his pocket.

"You had better keep this," he said, "in case you want it.  I am
going to leave you alone here.  You can find your way anywhere, I
am sure, and I am in a hurry.  At one o'clock, remember.  I hope
you will still be feeling better."

He put on his hat and went away without a backward glance.
Beatrice sat in her chair and watched him out of sight.




CHAPTER V

INTRODUCING Mrs. WENHAM GARDNER


A very distinguished client was engaging the attention of Mr.
Dowling, Senior, of Messrs. Dowling, Spence & Company,
auctioneers and estate agents, whose offices were situated in
Waterloo Place, Pall Mall.  Mr. Dowling was a fussy little man of
between fifty and sixty years, who spent most of his time playing
golf, and who, although he studiously contrived to ignore the
fact, had long since lost touch with the details of his business.
Consequently, in the absence of Mr. Dowling, Junior, who had
developed a marked partiality for a certain bar in the locality,
Tavernake was hastily summoned to the rescue from another part of
the building, by a small boy violently out of breath.

"Never see the governor in such a fuss," the latter declared,
confidentially, "She's asking no end of questions and he don't
know a thing."

"Who is the lady?" Tavernake asked, on the way downstairs.

"Didn't hear her name," the boy replied.  "She's all right,
though, I can tell you--a regular slap-up beauty.  Such a
motor-car, too!  Flowers and tables and all sorts of things
inside.  By Jove, won't the governor tear his hair if she goes
before you get there!"

Tavernake quickened his steps and in a few moments knocked at the
door of the private office and entered.

His chief welcomed him with a gesture of relief.  The
distinguished client of the firm, whose attention he was
endeavoring to engage, had glanced toward the newcomer, at his
first appearance, with an air of somewhat bored unconcern.  Her
eyes, however, did not immediately leave his face.  On the
contrary, from the moment of his entrance she watched him
steadfastly.  Tavernake, stolid, unruffled, at that time without
comprehension, approached the desk.

"This is--er--Mr. Tavernake, our manager," Mr. Dowling announced,
obsequiously.  "In the absence of my son, he is in charge of the
letting department.  I have no doubt that he will be able to
suggest something suitable.  Tavernake," he continued, "this
lady,"--he glanced at a card in front of him--"Mrs. Wenham
Gardner of New York, is looking for a town house, and has been
kind enough to favor us with an inquiry."

Tavernake made no immediate reply.  Mr. Dowling was shortsighted,
and in any case it would never have occurred to him to associate
nervousness, or any form of emotion, with his responsible
manager.  The beautiful lady leaned back in her chair.  Her lips
were parted in a slight but very curious smile, her fingers
supported her cheek, her eyelids were contracted as she looked
into his face.  Tavernake felt that their recognition was mutual.
Once more he was back again in the tragic atmosphere of that
chemist's shop, with Beatrice, half fainting, in his arms, the
beautiful lady turned to stone.  It was an odd tableau, that, so
vividly imprinted upon his memory that it was there before him at
this very moment.  There was mystery in this woman's eyes,
mystery and something else.

"I don't seem to have come across anything down here which--er
-- particularly attracts Mrs.--Mrs. Wenham Gardner," Mr. Dowling
went on, taking up a little sheaf of papers from the desk.  "I
thought, perhaps, that the Bryanston Square house might have
suited, but it seems that it is too small, far too small.  Mrs.
Gardner is used to entertaining, and has explained to me that she
has a great many friends always coming and going from the other
side of the water.  She requires, apparently, twelve bedrooms,
besides servants' quarters."

"Your list is scarcely up to date, sir," Tavernake reminded him.
"If the rent is of no particular object, there is Grantham
House."

Mr. Dowling's face was suddenly illuminated.

"Grantham House!" he exclaimed.  "Precisely!  Now I declare that
it had absolutely slipped my memory for the moment--only for the
moment, mind--that we have just had placed upon our books one of
the most desirable mansions in the west end of London.  A most
valued client, too, one whom we are most anxious to oblige. Dear,
dear me!  It is very fortunate--very fortunate indeed that I
happened to think of it, especially as it seems that no one had
had the sense to place it upon my list.  Tavernake, get the plans
at once and show them to--er--to Mrs. Gardner."

Tavernake crossed the room in silence, opened a drawer, and
returned with a stiff roll of papers, which he spread carefully
out in front of this unexpected client.  She spoke then for the
first time since he had entered the room.  Her voice was low and
marvelously sweet.  There was very little of the American accent
about it, but something in the intonation, especially toward the
end of her sentences, was just a trifle un-English.

"Where is this Grantham House?" she inquired.

"Within a stone's throw of Grosvenor Square," Tavernake answered,
briskly.  "It is really one of the most central spots in the west
end.  If you will allow me!"

For the next few minutes he was very fluent indeed.  With pencil
in hand, he explained the plans, dwelt on the advantages of the
location, and from the very reserve of his praise created an
impression that the house he was describing was the one
absolutely perfect domicile in the whole of London.

"Can I look over the place?" she asked, when he had finished.

"By all means," Mr. Dowling declared, "by all means.  I was on
the point of suggesting it.  It will be by far the most
satisfactory proceeding.  You will not be disappointed, my dear
madam, I can assure you."

"I should like to do so, if I may, without delay," she said.

"There is no opportunity like the present," Mr. Dowling replied.
"If you will permit me," he added, rising, "it will give me the
greatest pleasure to escort you personally.  My engagements for
the rest of the day happen to be unimportant.  Tavernake, let me
have the keys of the rooms that are locked up.  The caretaker, of
course, is there in possession."

The beautiful visitor rose to her feet, and even that slight
movement was accomplished with a grace unlike anything which
Tavernake had ever seen before.

"I could not think of troubling you so far, Mr. Dowling," she
protested.  "It is not in the least necessary for you to come
yourself.  Your manager can, perhaps, spare me a few minutes.  He
seems to be so thoroughly posted in all the details," she added,
apologetically, as she noticed the cloud on Mr. Dowling's brow.

"Just as you like, of course," he declared.  "Mr. Tavernake can
go, by all means.  Now I come to think of it, it certainly would
be inconvenient for me to be away from the office for more than a
few minutes.  Mr. Tavernake has all the details at his fingers'
ends, and I only hope, Mrs. Gardner, that he will be able to
persuade you to take the house.  Our client," he added, with a
bow, "would, I am sure, be delighted to hear that we had secured
for him so distinguished a tenant."

She smiled at him, a delightful mixture of graciousness and
condescension.

"You are very good," she answered.  "The house sounds rather
large for me but it depends so much upon circumstances.  If you
are ready, Mr.--"

"Tavernake," he told her.

"Mr. Tavernake," she continued, "my car is waiting outside and we
might go on at once."

He bowed and held open the door for her, an office which he
performed a little awkwardly.  Mr. Dowling himself escorted her
out on to the pavement.  Tavernake stopped behind to get his hat,
and passing out a moment afterwards, would have seated himself in
front beside the chauffeur but that she held the door of the car
open and beckoned to him.

"Will you come inside, please?" she insisted.  "There are one or
two questions which I might ask you as we go along.  Please
direct the chauffeur."

He obeyed without a word; the car glided off.  As they swung
round the first corner, she leaned forward from among the
cushions of her seat and looked at him.  Then Tavernake was
conscious of new things.  As though by inspiration, he knew that
her visit to the office of Messrs.  Dowling, Spence & Company had
been no chance one.

She remembered him, remembered him as the companion of Beatrice
during that strange, brief meeting.  It was an incomprehensible
world, this, into which he had wandered.  The woman's face had
lost her languid, gracious expression.  There was something there
almost akin to tragedy.  Her fingers fell upon his arm and her
touch was no light one.  She was gripping him almost fiercely.

"Mr. Tavernake," she said, "I have a memory for faces which
seldom fails me.  I have seen you before quite lately.  You
remember where, of course.  Tell me the truth quickly, please."

The words seemed to leap from her lips.  Beautiful and young
though she undoubtedly was, her intense seriousness had suddenly
aged her face.  Tavernake was bewildered.  He, too, was conscious
of a curious emotional disturbance.

"The truth?  What truth do you mean?" he demanded.

"It was you whom I saw with Beatrice!"

"You saw me one night about three weeks ago," he admitted slowly.
"I was in a chemist's shop in the Strand.  You were signing his
book for a sleeping draught, I think."

She shivered all over.

"Yes, yes!" she cried.  "Of course, I remember all about it.  The
young lady who was with you--what was she doing there?  Where is
she now?"

"The young lady was my sister," Tavernake answered stiffly.

Mrs. Wenham Gardner looked, for a moment, as though she would
have struck him.

"You need not lie to me!" she exclaimed.  "It is not worth while.
Tell me where you met her, why you were with her at all in that
intimate fashion, and where she is now!"

Tavernake realized at once that so far as this woman was
concerned, the fable of his relationship with Beatrice was
hopeless.  She knew!

"Madam," he replied, "I made the acquaintance of the young lady
with whom I was that evening, at the boarding-house where we both
lived."

"What were you doing in the chemist's shop?" she demanded.

"The young lady had been ill," he proceeded deliberately,
wondering how much to tell.  "She had been taken very ill indeed.
She was just recovering when you entered."

"Where is she now?" the woman asked eagerly.  "Is she still at
that boarding-house of which you spoke?"

"No," he answered.

Her fingers gripped his arm once more.

"Why do you answer me always in monosyllables?  Don't you
understand that you must tell me everything that you know about
her.  You must tell me where I can find her, at once."

Tavernake remained silent.  The woman's voice had still that note
of wonderful sweetness, but she had altogether lost her air of
complete and aristocratic indifferenoe.  She was a very altered
person now from the distinguished client who had first enlisted
his services.  For some reason or other, he knew that she was
suffering from a terrible anxiety.

"I am not sure," he said at last, "whether I can do as you ask."

"What do you mean?" she exclaimed sharply.

"The young lady," he continued, "seemed, on the occasion to which
you have referred, to be particularly anxious to avoid
recognition.  She hurried out of the place without speaking to
you, and she has avoided the subject ever since.  I do not know
what her motives may have been, but I think that I should like to
ask her first before I tell you where she is to be found."

Mrs. Wenham Gardner leaned towards him.  It was certainly the
first time that a woman in her apparent rank of life had looked
upon Tavernake in such a manner.  Her forehead was a little
wrinkled, her lips were parted, her eyes were pathetically,
delightfully eloquent.

"Mr. Tavernake, you must not--you must not refuse me," she
pleaded.  "If you only knew the importance of it, you would not
hesitate for a moment.  This is no idle curiosity on my part.  I
have reasons, very serious reasons indeed, for wishing to
discover that poor girl's whereabouts at once.  There is a
possible danger of which she must be warned.  No one can do it
except myself."

"Are you her friend or her enemy?" Tavernake asked.

"Why do you ask such a question?" she demanded.

"I am only going by her expression when she saw you come into the
chemist's shop," Tavernake persisted doggedly.

"It is a cruel suggestion, that," the woman cried.  "I wish to be
her friend, I am her friend.  If I could only tell you
everything, you would understand at once what a terrible
situation, what a hideous quandary I am in."

Once more Tavernake paused for a few moments.  He was never a
quick thinker and the situation was certainly an embarrassing one
for him.

"Madam," he replied at length, "I beg that you will tell me
nothing.  The young lady of whom you have spoken permits me to
call myself her friend, and what she has not told me herself I do
not wish to learn from others.  I will tell her of this meeting
with you, and if it is her desire, I will bring you her address
myself within a few hours.  I cannot do more than that."

Her face was suddenly cold and hard.

"You mean that you will not!" she exclaimed angrily.  "You are
obstinate.  I do not know how you dare to refuse what I ask."

The car had come to a standstill.  He stepped out on to the
pavement.

"This is Grantham House, madam," he announced.  "Will you
descend?"

He heard her draw a quick breath between her teeth and he caught
a gleam in her eyes which made him feel vaguely uneasy.  She was
very angry indeed.

"I do not think that it is necessary for me to do so," she said
frigidly.  "I do not like the look of the house at all.  I do not
believe that it will suit me."

"At least, now that you are here," he protested, "you will, if
you please, go over it.  I should like you to see the ballroom.
The decorations are supposed to be quite exceptional."

She hesitated for a moment and then, with a slight shrug of the
shoulders, she yielded.  There was a note in his tone not exactly
insistent, and yet dominant, a note which she obeyed although
secretly she wondered at herself for doing so.  They passed
inside the house and she followed him from room to room, leaving
him to do all the talking.  She seemed very little interested but
every now and then she asked a languid question.

"I do not think that it is in the least likely to suit me," she
decided at last.  "It is all very magnificent, of course, but I
consider that the rent is exorbitant."

Tavernake regarded her thoughtfully.

"I believe," he said, " that our client might be disposed to
consider some reduction, in the event of your seriously
entertaining taking the house.  If you like, I will see him on
the subject.  I feel sure that the amount I have mentioned could
be reduced, if the other conditions were satisfactory."

"There would be no harm in your doing so," she assented.  "How
soon can you come and let me know'"

"I might be able to ring you up this evening; certainly to-morrow
morning," he answered.

She shook her head.

"I will not speak upon the telephone," she declared.  "I only
allow it in my rooms under protest.  You must come and tell me
what your client says.  When can you see him?"

"It is doubtful whether I shall be able to find him this
evening," he replied.  "It would probably be to-morrow morning."

"You might go and try at once," she suggested.

He was a little surprised.

"You are really interested in the matter, then?" he inquired.

"Yes, yes," she told him, "of course I am interested.  I want you
to come and see me directly you have heard.  It is important.
Supposing you are able to find your client to-night, shall you
have seen the young lady before then?"

"I am afraid not," he answered.

"You must try," she begged, laying her fingers upon his shoulder.
"Mr. Tavernake, do please try.  You can't realize what all this
anxiety means to me.  I am not at all well and I am seriously
worried about -about that young lady.  I tell you that I must
have an interview with her.  It is not for my sake so much as
hers.  She must be warned."

"Warned?" Tavernake repeated.  "I really don't understand."

"Of course you don't!" she exclaimed impatiently.  "Why should
you understand?  I don't want to offend you, Mr. Tavernake," she
went on hurriedly.  "I would like to treat you quite frankly.  It
really isn't your place to make difficulties like this.  What is
this young lady to you that you should presume to consider
yourself her guardian?"

"She is a boarding-house acquaintance," Tavernake confessed,
"nothing more."

"Then why did you tell me, only a moment ago, that she was your
sister?" Mrs. Gardner demanded.

Tavernake threw open the door before which they had been
standing.

"This," he said, "is the famous dancing gallery.  Lord Clumber is
quite willing to allow the pictures to remain, and I may tell you
that they are insured for over sixty thousand pounds.  There is
no finer dancing room than this in all London."

Her eyes swept around it carelessly.

"I have no doubt," she admitted coldly, "that it is very
beautiful.  I prefer to continue our discussion."

"The dining-room," he went on, "is almost as large.  Lord Clumber
tells us that he has frequently entertained eighty guests for
dinner.  The system of ventilation in this room is, as you see,
entirely modern."

She took him by the arm and led him to a seat at the further end
of the apartment.

"Mr. Tavernake," she said, making an obvious attempt to control
her temper, "you seem like a very sensible young man, if you will
allow me to say so, and I want to convince you that it is your
duty to answer my questions.  In the first place--don't be
offended, will you?--but I cannot possibly see what interest you
and that young lady can have in one another.  You belong, to put
it baldly, to altogether different social stations, and it is not
easy to imagine what you could have in common."

She paused, but Tavernake had nothing to say.  His gift of
silence amounted sometimes almost to genius.  She leaned so close
to him while she waited in vain for his reply, that the ermine
about her neck brushed his cheek.  The perfume of her clothes and
hair, the pleading of her deep violet-blue eyes, all helped to
keep him tongue-tied.  Nothing of this sort had ever happened to
him before.  He did not in the least understand what it could
possibly mean.

"I am speaking to you now, Mr. Tavernake," she continued
earnestly, "for your own good.  When you tell the young lady, as
you have promised to this evening, that you have seen me, and
that I am very, very anxious to find out where she is, she will
very likely go down on her knees and beg you to give me no
information whatever about her.  She will do her best to make you
promise to keep us apart.  And yet that is all because she does
not understand.  Believe me, it is better that you should tell me
the truth.  You cannot know her very well, Mr. Tavernake, but she
is not very wise, that young lady.  She is very obstinate, and
she has some strange ideas.  It is not well for her that she
should be left in the world alone.  You must see that for
yourself, Mr. Tavernake."

"She seems a very sensible young lady," he declared slowly.  "I
should have thought that she would have been old enough to know
for herself what she wanted and what was best for her."

The woman at his side wrung her hands with a little gesture of
despair.

"Oh, why can't I make you understand!" she exclaimed, the emotion
once more quivering in her tone.  "How can I--how can I possibly
make you believe me?  Listen.  Something has happened of which
she does not know--something terrible.  It is absolutely
necessary, in her own interests as well as mine, that I see her,
and that very shortly."

"I shall tell her exactly what you say," Tavernake answered
apparently unmoved.  "Perhaps it would be as well now if we went
on to view the sleeping apartments."

"Never mind about the sleeping apartments!" she cried quickly.
"You must do more than tell her.  You can't believe that I want
to bring harm upon any one.  Do I look like it?  Have I the
appearance of a person of evil disposition?  You can be that
young lady's best friend, Mr. Tavernake, if you will.  Take me to
her now, this minute.  Believe me, if you do that, you will never
regret it as long as you live."

Tavernake studied the pattern of the parquet floor for several
moments.  It was a difficult problem, this.  Putting his own
extraordinary sensations into the background, he was face to face
with something which he did not comprehend, and he disliked the
position intensely.  After all, delay seemed safest.

"Madam," he protested, "a few hours more or less can make but
little difference."

"That is for me to judge!" she exclaimed.  "You say that because
you do not understand.  A few hours may make all the difference
in the world."

He shook his head.

"I will tell you exactly what is in my mind," he said,
deliberately.  "The young lady was terrified when she saw you
that night accidentally in the chemist's shop.  She almost
dragged me away, and although she was almost fainting when we
reached the taxicab, her greatest and chief anxiety was that we
should get away before you could follow us.  I cannot forget
this.  Until I have received her permission, therefore, to
disclose her whereabouts, we will, if you please, speak of
something else."

He rose to his feet and glancing around was just in time to see
the change in the face of his companion.  That eloquently
pleading smile had died away from her lips, her teeth were
clenched.  She looked like a woman struggling hard to control
some overwhelming passion.  Without the smile her lips seemed
hard, even cruel.  There were evil things shining out of her
eyes.  Tavernake felt chilled, almost afraid.

"We will see the rest of the house," she declared coldly.

They went on from room to room.  Tavernake, recovering himself
rapidly, master of his subject, was fluent and practical.  The
woman listened, with only a terse remark here and there.  Once
more they stood in the hall.

"Is there anything else you would like to see?" he asked.

"Nothing," she replied, "but there is one thing more I have to
say."

He waited in stolid silence.

"Only a week ago," she went on, looking him in the face, "I told
a man who is what you call, I think, an inquiry agent, that I
would give a hundred pounds if he could discover that young woman
for me within twenty-four hours."

Tavernake started, and the smile came back to the lips of Mrs.
Wenham Gardner.  After all, perhaps she had found the way!

"A hundred pounds is a great deal of money," he said
thoughtfully.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Not so very much," she replied.  "About a fortnight's rent of
this house, Mr. Tavernake."

"Is the offer still open?" he asked.

She looked into his eyes, and her face had once more the
beautiful ingenuousness of a child.

"Mr. Tavernake," she said, "the offer is still open.  Get into
the car with me and drive back to my rooms at the Milan Court,
and I will give you a cheque for a hundred pounds at once.  It
will be very easily earned and you may just as well take it, for
now I know where you are employed, I could have you followed day
by day until I discover for myself what you are so foolishly
concealing.  Be reasonable, Mr. Tavernake."

Tavernake stood quite still.  His arms were folded, he was
looking out of the hall window at the smoky vista of roofs and
chimneys.  From the soles of his ready-made boots to his
ill-brushed hair, he was a commonplace young man.  A hundred
pounds was to him a vast sum of money.  It represented a year's
strenuous savings, perhaps more.  The woman who watched him
imagined that he was hesitating.  Tavernake, however, had no such
thought in his mind.  He stood there instead, wondering what
strange thing had come to him that the mention of a hundred
pounds, delightful sum though it was, never tempted him for a
single second.  What this woman had said might be true.  She
would probably be able to discover the address easily enough
without his help.  Yet no such reflection seemed to make the
least difference.  From the days of his earliest boyhood, from
the time when he had flung himself into the struggle, money had
always meant much to him, money not for its own sake but as the
key to those things which he coveted in life.  Yet at that moment
something stronger seemed to have asserted itself.

"You will come?" she whispered, passing her arm through his.  "We
will be there in less than five minutes, and I will write you the
cheque before you tell me anything."

He moved towards the door indeed, but he drew a little away from
her.

"Madam," he said, "I am sorry to seem so obstinate, but I thought
I had made you understand some time ago.  I do not feel at
liberty to tell you anything without that young lady's
permission."

"You refuse?" she cried, incredulously.  "You refuse a hundred
pounds?"

He opened the door of the car.  He seemed scarcely to have heard
her.

"At about eleven o'clock to-morrow morning," he announced, "I
shall have the pleasure of calling upon you.  I trust that you
will have decided to take the house."




CHAPTER VI

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS


Tavernake sat a few hours later at his evening meal in the tiny
sitting-room of an apartment house in Chelsea.  He wore a black
tie, and although he had not yet aspired to a dinner coat, the
details of his person and toilet showed signs of a new attention.
Opposite to him was Beatrice.

"Tell me," she asked, as soon as the small maid-servant who
brought in their first dish had disappeared, "what have you been
doing all day?  Have you been letting houses or surveying land or
book-keeping, or have you been out to Marston Rise?"

It was her customary question, this.  She really took an interest
in his work.

"I have been attending a rich American client," he announced, "a
compatriot of your own.  I went with her to Grantham House in her
own motor-car.  I believe she thinks of taking it."

"American!" Beatrice remarked.  "What was her name? "

Tavernake looked up from his plate across the little table,
across the bowl of simple flowers which was its sole decoration.

"She called herself Mrs. Wenham Garner!"

Away like a flash went the new-found peace in the girl's face.
She caught at her breath, her fingers gripped the table in front
of her.  Once more she was as he had known her first--pale, with
great terrified eyes shining out of a haggard face.

"She has been to you," Beatrice gasped, "for a house?  You are
sure?"

"I am quite sure," Tavernake declared, calmly.

"You recognized her?"

He assented gravely.

"It was the woman who stood in the chemist's shop that night,
signing her name in a book," he said.

He did not apologize in any way for the shock he had given her.
He had done it deliberately.  From that very first morning, when
they had breakfasted together at London Bridge, he had felt that
he deserved her confidence, and in a sense it was a grievance
with him that she had withheld it.

"Did she recognize you?"

"Yes," he admitted.  "I was sent for into the office and found
her there with the chief.  I felt sure that she recognized me
from the first, and when she agreed to look at Grantham House,
she insisted upon it that I should accompany her.  While we were
in the motor-car, she asked me about you.  She wished for your
address."

"Did you give it to her?" the girl cried, breathlessly.

"No; I said that I must consult you first."

She drew a little sigh of relief.  Nevertheless, she was looking
white and shaken.

"Did she say what she wanted me for?"

"She was very mysterious," Tavernake answered.  "She spoke of
some danger of which you knew nothing.  Before I came away, she
offered me a hundred pounds to let her know where you were."

Beatrice laughed softly.

"That is just like Elizabeth," she declared.  "You must have made
her very angry.  When she wants anything, she wants it very badly
indeed, and she will never believe that every person has not his
price.  Money means everything to her.  If she had it, she would
buy, buy, buy all the time."

"On the face of it," Tavernake remarked, soberly, "her offer
seemed rather an absurd one.  If she is in earnest, if she is
really so anxious to discover your whereabouts, she will
certainly be able to do so without my help."

"I am not so sure," Beatrice replied.  "London is a great hiding
place."

"A private detective," he began,--

Beatrice shook her head.

"I do not think," she said, "that Elizabeth will care to employ a
private detective.  Tell me, have you to see her upon this
business again?"

"I am going to her flat at the Milan Court to-morrow morning at
eleven o'clock."

Beatrice leaned back in her chair.  Presently she recommenced her
dinner.  She had the air of one to whom a respite has been
granted.  Tavernake, in a way, began to resent this continued
silence of hers.  He had certainly hoped that she would at least
have gone so far as to explain her anxiety to keep her
whereabouts secret.

"You must remember," he went on, after a short pause, "that I am
in a somewhat peculiar position with regard to you, Beatrice.  I
know so little that I do not even know how to answer in your
interests such questions as Mrs. Wenham Gardner asked me.  I am
not complaining, but is this state of absolute ignorance
necessary?"

A new thought seemed to come to Beatrice.  She looked at her
companion curiously.

"Tell me," she asked, "what did you think of Mrs. Wenham
Gardner?"

Tavernake answered deliberately, and after a moment's reflection.

"I thought her," he said, "one of the most beautiful women I have
ever seen in my life.  That is not saying very much, perhaps, but
to me it meant a good deal.  She was exceedingly gracious and her
interest in you seemed quite real and even affectionate.  I do
not understand why you should wish to hide from such a woman."

"You found her attractive?" Beatrice persisted.

"I found her very attractive indeed," Tavernake admitted, without
hesitation.  "She had an air with her.  She was quite different
from all the women I have ever met at the boarding-house or
anywhere else.  She has a face which reminded me somehow of the
Madonnas you took me to see in the National Gallery the other
day."

Beatrice shivered slightly.  For some reason, his remark seemed
to have distressed her.

"I am very, very sorry," she declared, "that Elizabeth ever came
to your office.  I want you to promise me, Leonard, that you will
be careful whenever you are with her."

Tavernake laughed.

"Careful!" he repeated.  "She isn't likely to be even civil to me
tomorrow when I tell her that I have seen you and I refuse to
give her your address.  Careful, indeed!  What has a poor clerk
in a house-agent's office to fear from such a personage?"

The servant had reappeared with their second and last course.
For a few moments they spoke of casual subjects.  Afterwards,
however, Tavernake asked a question.

"By the way," he said, "we are hoping to let Grantham House to
Mrs. Wenham Gardner.  I suppose she must be very wealthy?"

Beatrice looked at him curiously.

"Why do you come to me for information?" she demanded.  "I
suppose that she brought you references?"

"We haven't quite got to that stage yet," he answered.  "Somehow
or other, from her manner of talking and general appearance, I do
not think that either Mr. Dowling or I doubted her financial
position."

"I should never have thought you so credulous a person," remarked
Beatrice, with a smile.

Tavernake was genuinely disturbed.  His business instincts were
aroused.

"Do you really mean that this Mrs. Wenham Gardner is not a person
of substance?" he inquired.

Beatrice shrugged her shoulders.

"She is the wife of a man who had the reputation of being very
wealthy," she replied.  "She has no money of her own, I am sure."

"She still lives with her husband, I suppose?" Tavernake asked.

Beatrice closed her eyes.

"I know very little about her," she declared.  "Last time I
heard, he had disappeared, gone away, or something of the sort."

"And she has no money," Tavernake persisted, "except what she
gets from him?  No settlement, even, or anything of that sort?"

"Nothing at all," Beatrice answered.

"This is very bad news," Tavernake remarked, thinking gloomily of
his wasted day.  "It will be a great disappointment to Mr.
Dowling.  Why, her motor-car was magnificent, and she talked as
though money were no object at all.  I suppose you are quite sure
of what you are saying?"

Beatrice shrugged her shoulders.

"I ought to know," she answered, grimly, "for she is my sister."

Tavernake remained quite motionless for a minute, without speech;
it was his way of showing surprise.  When he was sure that he had
grasped the import of her words, he spoke again.

"Your sister!" he repeated.  "There is a likeness, of course.
You are dark and she is fair, but there is a likeness.  That
would account," he continued, "for her anxiety to find you."

"It also accounts," Beatrice replied, with a little break of the
lips, "for my anxiety that she should not find me.  Leonard," she
added, touching his hand for a moment with hers, "I wish that I
could tell you everything, but there are things behind, things so
terrible, that even to you, my dear brother, I could not speak of
them."

Tavernake rose to his feet and lit a cigarette--a new habit with
him, while Beatrice busied herself with a small coffee-making
machine.  He sat in an easy-chair and smoked slowly.  He was
still wearing his ready-made clothes, but his collar was of the
fashionable shape, his tie well chosen and neatly adjusted.  He
seemed somehow to have developed.

"Beatrice," he asked, "what am I to tell your sister to-morrow?"

She shivered as she set his coffee-cup down by his side.

"Tell her, if you will, that I am well and not in want," she
answered.  "Tell her, too, that I refuse to send my address.
Tell her that the one aim of my life is to keep the knowledge of
my whereabouts a secret from her."

Tavernake relapsed into silence.  He was thinking.  Mysteries had
no attraction for him--he loathed them.  Against this one
especially he felt a distinct grudge.  Nevertheless, some
instinct forbade his questioning the girl.

"Apart from more personal matters, then," he asked after some
time, "you would not advise me to enter into any business
negotiations with this lady?"

"You must not think of it," Beatrice replied, firmly.  "So far as
money is concerned, Elizabeth has no conscience whatever.  The
things she wants in life she will have somehow, but it is all the
time at other people's expense.  Some day she will have to pay
for it."

Tavernake sighed.

"It is very unfortunate," he declared.  "The commission on the
letting of Grantham House would have been worth having."

"After all, it is only your firm's loss," she reminded him.

"It does not appeal to me like that," he continued.  "So long as
I am manager for Dowling & Spence, I feel these things
personally.  However, that does not matter.  I am afraid it is a
disagreeable subject for you, and we will not talk about it any
longer."

She lit a cigarette with a little gesture of relief.  She came
once more to his side.

"Leonard," she said, "I know that I am treating you badly in
telling you nothing, but it is simply because I do not want to
descend to half truths.  I should like to tell you all or
nothing.  At present I cannot tell you all."

"Very well," he replied, "I am quite content to leave it with you
to do as you think best."

"Leonard," she continued, "of course you think me unreasonable.
I can't help it.  There are things between my sister and myself
the knowledge of which is a constant nightmare to me.  During the
last few months of my life it has grown to be a perfect terror.
It sent me into hiding at Blenheim House, it reconciled me even
to the decision I came to that night on the Embankment.  I had
decided that sooner than go back, sooner than ask help from her
or any one connected with her, I would do what I tried to do the
time when you saved my life."

Tavernake looked at her wonderingly.  She was, indeed, under the
spell of some deep emotion.  Her memory seemed to have carried
her back into another world, somewhere far away from this dingy
little sitting-room which they two were sharing together, back
into a world where life and death were matters of small moment,
where the great passions were unchained, and men and women moved
among the naked things of life.  Almost he felt the thrill of it.
It was something new to him, the touch of a magic finger upon his
eyelids.  Then the moment passed and he was himself again,
matter-of-fact, prosaic.

"Let us dismiss the subject finally," he said.  "I must see your
sister on business to-morrow, but it shall be for the last time."

"I think," she murmured, "that you will be wise."

He crossed the room and returned with a newspaper.

"I saw your music in the hall as I came in," he remarked.  "Are
you singing to-night?"

The question was entirely in his ordinary tone.  It brought her
back to the world of every-day things as nothing else could have
done.

"Yes; isn't it luck?" she told him.  "Three in one week.  I only
heard an hour ago."

"A city dinner?" he inquired.

"Something of the sort," she replied.  "I am to be at the
Whitehall Rooms at ten o'clock.  If you are tired, Leonard,
please let me go alone.  I really do not mind.  I can get a 'bus
to the door, there and back again."

"I am not tired," he declared.  "To tell you the truth, I
scarcely know what it is to be tired.  I shall go with you, of
course."

She looked at him with a momentary admiration of his powerful
frame, his strong, forceful face.

"It seems too bad," she remarked, "after a long day's work to
drag you out again."

He smiled.

"I really like to come," he assured her.  "Besides," he added,
after a moment's pause, "I like to hear you sing."

"I wonder if you mean that?" she asked, looking at him curiously.
"I have watched you once or twice when I have been singing to
you.  Do you really care for it?"

"Certainly I do.  How can you doubt it?  I do not," he continued,
slowly, "understand music, or anything of that sort, of course,
any more than I do the pictures you take me to see, and some of
the books you talk about.  There are lots of things I can't get
the hang of entirely, but they all leave a sort of pleasure
behind.  One feels it even if one only half appreciates."

She came over to his chair.

"I am glad," she said, a little wistfully, "that there is one
thing I do which you like."

He looked at her reprovingly.

"My dear Beatrice," he said, "I often wish I could make you
understand how extraordinarily helpful and useful to me you have
been."

"Tell me in what way?" she begged.

"You have given me," he assured her, "an insight into many things
in life which I had found most perplexing.  You see, you have
traveled and I haven't.  You have mixed with all classes of
people, and I have gone steadily on in one groove.  You have told
me many things which I shall find very useful indeed later on."

"Dear me," she laughed, "you are making me quite conceited!"

"Anyhow," he replied, "I don't want you to look upon me,
Beatrice, in any way as a benefactor.  I am much more comfortable
here than at the boarding-house and it is costing no more money,
especially since you began to get those singing engagements.  By
the way, hadn't you better go and get ready?"

She smothered a sigh as she turned away and went slowly upstairs.
To all appearance, no person who ever breathed was more ordinary
than this strong-featured, self-centered young man who had put
out his arm and snatched her from the Maelstrom.  Yet it seemed
to her that there was something almost unnatural about his
unapproachability.  She was convinced that he was entirely
honest, not only with regard to his actual relations toward her,
but with regard to all his purposes.  Her sex did not even seem
to exist for him.  The fact that she was good-looking, and with
her renewed health daily becoming more so, seemed to be of no
account to him whatever.  He showed interest in her appearance
sometimes, but it was interest of an entirely impersonal sort.
He simply expressed himself as satisfied or dissatisfied, as a
matter of taste.  It came to her at that moment that she had
never seen him really relax.  Only when he sat opposite to that
great map which hung now in the further room, and wandered about
from section to section with a pencil in one hand and a piece of
rubber in another, did he show anything which in any way
approached enthusiasm, and even then it was always the
unmistakable enthusiasm born of dead things.  Suddenly she
laughed at herself in the little mirror, laughed softly but
heartily.  This was the guardian whom Fate had sent for her!  If
Elizabeth had only understood!




CHAPTER VII

Mr. PRITCHARD OF NEW YORK


Later in the evening, Beatrice and Tavernake traveled together in
a motor omnibus from their rooms at Chelsea to Northumberland
Avenue.  Tavernake was getting quite used to the programme by
now.  They sat in a dimly-lit waiting-room until the time came
for Beatrice to sing.  Every now and then an excitable little
person who was the secretary to some institution or other would
run in and offer them refreshments, and tell them in what order
they were to appear.  To-night there was no departure from the
ordinary course of things, except that there was slightly more
stir.  The dinner was a larger one than usual.  It came to
Beatrice's turn very soon after their arrival, and Tavernake,
squeezing his way a few steps into the dining-room, stood with
the waiters against the wall.  He looked with curious eyes upon a
scene with which he had no manner of sympathy.

A hundred or so of men had dined together in the cause of some
charity.  The odor of their dinner, mingled with the more
aromatic perfume of the tobacco smoke which was already ascending
in little blue clouds from the various tables, hung about the
over-heated room, seeming, indeed, the fitting atmosphere for the
long rows of guests.  The majority of them were in a state of
expansiveness.  Their faces were redder than when they had sat
down; a certain stiffness had departed from their shirt-fronts
and their manners; their faces were flushed, their eyes watery.
There were a few exceptions--paler-faced men who sat there with
the air of endeavoring to bring themselves into accord with
surroundings in which they had no real concern.  Two of these
looked up with interest at the first note of Beatrice's song.
The one was sitting within a few places of the chairman, and he
was too far away for his little start to be noticed by either
Tavernake or Beatrice.  The nearer one, however, Tavernake
happened to be watching, and he saw the change in his expression.
The man was, in his way, ugly.  His face was certainly not a good
one, although he did not appear to share the immediate weaknesses
of his neighbors.  To every note of the song he listened
intently.  When it was over, he rose and came toward Tavernake.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "but did I not see you come in with
the young lady who has just been singing?"

"You may have," Tavernake answered.  "I certainly did come with
her."

"May I ask if you are related to her?"

Tavernake had got over his hesitation in replying to such
questions, by now.  He answered promptly.

"I am her brother," he declared.

The man produced a card.

"Please introduce me to her," he begged, laconically.

"Why should I?" Tavernake asked.  "I have no reason to suppose
that she desires to know you."

The man stared at him for a moment, and then laughed.

"Well," he said, "you had better show your sister my card.  She
is, I presume, a professional, as she is singing here.  My desire
to make her acquaintance is purely actuated by business motives."

Tavernake moved away toward the waiting-room.

The man, who according to his card was Mr. Sidney Grier, would
have followed him in, but Tavernake stopped him.

"If you will wait here," he suggested, "I will see whether my
sister desires to meet you."

Once more Mr. Sidney Grier looked surprised, but after a second
glance at Tavernake he accepted his suggestion and remained
outside.  Tavernake took the card to Beatrice.

"Beatrice," he announced, "there is a man outside who has heard
you sing and who wants to be introduced."

She took the card and her eyes opened wide.

"Do you know who he is?" Tavernake asked.

"Of course," she answered.  "He is a great producer of musical
comedies.  Let me think."

She stood with the card in her hand.  Some one else was singing
now--an ordinary modern ballad of love and roses, rapture and
despair.  They heard the rising and falling of the woman's voice;
the clatter of the dinner had ceased.  Beatrice stood still
thinking, her fingers clinching the card of Mr. Sidney Grier.

"You must bring him in," she said to Tavernake finally.

Tavernake went outside.

"My sister will see you," he remarked, with the air of one who
brings good news.

Mr. Sidney Grier grunted.  He was not used to being kept waiting,
even for a second.  Tavernake ushered him into the retiring room,
and the other two musicians who were there stared at him as at a
god.

"This is the gentleman whose card you have, Beatrice," Tavernake
announced.  "Mr. Sidney Grier--Miss Tavernake!"

The man smiled.

"Your brother seems to be suspicious of me," he declared.  "I
found it quite difficult to persuade him that you might find it
interesting to talk to me for a few minutes."

"He does not quite understand," Beatrice answered.  "He has not
much experience of musical affairs or the stage, and your name
would not have any significance for him."

Tavernake went outside and listened idly to the song which was
proceeding.  It was a class of music which secretly he preferred
to the stranger and more haunting notes of Beatrice's melodies.
Apparently the audience was of his opinion, for they received it
with a vociferous encore, to which the young lady generously
replied with a music-hall song about "A French lady from over the
water."  Towards the close of the applause which marked the
conclusion of this effort, Tavernake felt himself touched lightly
upon the arm.  He turned round.  By his side was standing the
other dinner guest who had shown some interest in Beatrice.  He
was a man apparently of about forty years of age, tall and
broad-shouldered, with black moustache, and dark, piercing eyes.
Unlike most of the guests, he wore a short dinner-coat and black
tie, from which, and his slight accent, Tavernake concluded that
he was probably an American.

"Say, you'll forgive my speaking to you," he said, touching
Tavernake on the arm.  "My name is Pritchard.  I saw you come in
with the young lady who was singing a few minutes ago, and if you
won't consider it a liberty, I'll be very glad indeed if you'll
answer me one question."

Tavernake stiffened insensibly.

"It depends upon the question," he replied, shortly.

"Well, it's about the young lady, and that's a fact," Mr.
Pritchard admitted.  "I see that her name upon the programme is
given as Miss Tavernake.  I was seated at the other end of the
room but she seemed to me remarkably like a young lady from the
other side of the Atlantic, whom I am very anxious to meet."

"Perhaps you will kindly put your question in plain words,"
Tavernake said.

"Why, that's easy," Mr. Pritchard declared.  "Is Miss Tavernake
really her name, or an assumed one?  I expect it's the same over
here as in my country--a singer very often sings under another
name than her own, you know," he added, noting Tavernake's
gathering frown.

"The young lady in question is my sister, and I do not care to
discuss her with strangers," Tavernake announced.

Mr. Pritchard nodded pleasantly.

"Why, of course, that ends the matter," he remarked.  "Sorry to
have troubled you, anyway."

He strolled off back to his seat and Tavernake returned
thoughtfully to the dressing-room.  He found Beatrice alone and
waiting for him.

"You've got rid of that fellow, then?" he inquired.

Beatrice assented.

"Yes; he didn't stay very long," she replied.

"Who was he?" Tavernake asked, curiously.

"From a musical comedy point of view," she said, "he was the most
important person in London.  He is the emperor of stage-land.  He
can make the fortune of any girl in London who is reasonably
good-looking and who can sing and dance ever so little."

"What did he want with you?" Tavernake demanded, suspiciously.

"He asked me whether I would like to go upon the stage.  What do
you think about it, Leonard?"

Tavernake, for some reason or other, was displeased.

"Would you earn much more money than by singing at these
dinners?" he asked.

"Very, very much more," she assured him.

"And you would like the life?"

She laughed softly.

"Why not?  It isn't so bad.  I was on the stage in New York for
some time under much worse conditions."

He remained silent for a few minutes.  They had made their way
into the street now and were waiting for an omnibus.

"What did you tell him?" he asked, abruptly.

She was looking down toward the Embankment, her eyes filled once
more with the things which he could not understand.

"I have told him nothing yet," she murmured.

"You would like to accept?"

She nodded.

"I am not sure," she replied.  "If only - I dared!"




CHAPTER VIII

WOMAN'S WILES


At eleven o'clock the next morning, Tavernake presented himself
at the Milan Court and inquired for Mrs. Wenham Gardner.  He was
sent at once to her apartments in charge of a page.  She was
lying upon a sofa piled up with cushions, wrapped in a wonderful
blue garment which seemed somehow to deepen the color of her
eyes.  By her side was a small table on which was some chocolate,
a bowl of roses, and a roll of newspapers.  She held out her hand
toward Tavernake, but did not rise.  There was something almost
spiritual about her pallor, the delicate outline of her figure,
so imperfectly concealed by the thin silk dressing-gown, the
faint, tired smile with which she welcomed him.

"You will forgive my receiving you like this, Mr. Tavernake?" she
begged.  "To-day I have a headache.  I have been anxious for your
coming.  You must sit by my side, please, and tell me at once
whether you have seen Beatrice."

Tavernake did exactly as he was bidden.  The chair toward which
she had pointed was quite close to the sofa, but there was no
other unoccupied in the room.  She raised herself a little on the
couch and turned towards him.  Her eyes were fixed anxiously upon
his, her forehead slightly wrinkled, her voice tremulous with
eagerness.

"You have seen her?"

"I have," he admitted, looking steadily into the lining of his
hat.

"She has been cruel," Elizabeth declared.  "I can tell it from
your face.  You have bad news for me."

"I do not know," Tavernake replied, "whether she has been cruel
or not.  She refuses to allow me to tell you her address.  She
begged me, indeed, to keep away from you altogether."

"Why?  Did she tell you why?"

"She says that you are her sister, that you have no money of your
own and that your husband has left you," Tavernake answered,
deliberately.

"Is that all?"

"No, it is not all," he continued.  "As to the rest, she told me
nothing definite.  It is quite clear, however, that she is very
anxious to keep away from you."

"But her reason?" Elizabeth persisted.  "Did she give you no
reason?"

Tavernake looked her in the face.

"She gave me no reason," he said.

"Do you believe that she is justified in treating me like this?"
Elizabeth asked, playing nervously with a pendant which hung from
her smooth, bare neck.

"Of course I do," he replied.  "I am quite sure that she would
not feel as she does unless you had been guilty of something very
terrible indeed."

The woman on the couch winced as though some one had struck her.
A more susceptible man than Tavernake must have felt a little
remorseful at the tears which dimmed for a moment her beautiful
eyes.  Tavernake, however, although be felt a moment's
uneasiness, although he felt himself assailed all the time by a
curious new emotion which he utterly failed to understand, was
nevertheless still immune.  The things which were to happen to
him had not yet, arrived.

"Of course," he continued, "I was very much disappointed to hear
this, because I had hoped that we might have been able to let
Grantham House to you.  We cannot consider the matter at all now
unless you pay for everything in advance."

She uncovered her eyes and looked at him.  People so direct of
speech as this had come very seldom into her life.  She was
conscious of a thrill of interest.  The study of men was a
passion with her.  Here was indeed a new type!

"So you think that I am an adventuress," she murmured.

He reflected for a moment.

"I suppose," he admitted, "that it comes to that.  I should not
have returned at all if I had not promised.  If there is any
message which you wish me to give your sister, I will take it,
but I cannot tell you her address."

She laid her hand suddenly upon his, and raising herself a little
on the couch, leaned towards him.  Her eyes and her lips both
pleaded with him.

"Mr. Tavernake," she said slowly, "Beatrice is such a dear,
obstinate creature, but she does not quite appreciate my
position.  Do me a favor, please.  If you have promised not to
give me her address let me at least know some way or some place
in which I could come across her.  I am sure she will be glad
afterwards, and I--I shall be very grateful."

Tavernake felt that he was enveloped by something which he did
not understand, but his lack of experience was so great that he
did not even wonder at his insensibility.

"I shall keep my word to your sister," he announced, "in the
spirit as well as the letter.  It is quite useless to ask me to
do otherwise."

Elizabeth was at first amazed, then angry, how angry she scarcely
knew even herself.  She had been a spoilt child, she had grown
into a spoilt woman.  Men, at least, had been ready enough to do
her bidding all her life.  Her beauty was of that peculiar kind,
half seductive, half pathetic, wholly irresistible.  And now
there had come this strange, almost impossible person, against
the armor of whose indifference she had spent herself in vain.
Her eyes filled with tears once more as she looked at him, and
Tavernake became uneasy.  He glanced at the clock and again
toward the door.

"I think, if you will excuse me," he began,--

"Mr. Tavernake," she interrupted, "you are very unkind to me,
very unkind indeed."

"I cannot help it," he answered.

"If you knew everything," she continued, "you would not be so
obstinate.  If Beatrice herself were here, if I could whisper
something in her ear, she would be only too thankful that I had
found her out.  Beatrice has always misunderstood me, Mr.
Tavernake.  It is a little hard upon me, for we are both so far
away from home, from our friends."

"You can send her any message you like by me," Tavernake
declared.  "If you like, I will wait while you write a letter.
If you really have anything to say to her which might change her
opinion, you can write it, can't you?"

She looked down at her hands--very beautiful and well-kept hands
--and sighed.  This young man, with his unusual imperturbability
and hateful common sense, was getting on her nerves.

"It is so hard to write things, Mr. Tavernake," she said, "but,
of course, it is something to know that if the worst happens I
can send her a letter.  I shall think about that for a short
time.  Meanwhile, there is so much about her I would love to have
you tell me.  She has no money, has she?  How does she support
herself?"

"She sings occasionally at concerts," Tavernake replied after a
moment's pause.  "I suppose there is no harm in telling you
that."

Elizabeth leaned towards him.  She was very loth indeed to
acknowledge defeat.  Once more her voice was deliciously soft,
her forehead delicately wrinkled, her blue eyes filled with
alluring light.

"Mr. Tavernake," she murmured, "do you know that you are not in
the least kind to me?  Beatrice and I are sisters, after all.
Even she has admitted that.  She left me most unkindly at a
critical time in my life; she misunderstood things; if I were to
see her, I could explain everything.  I feel it very much that
she is living apart from me in this city where we are both
strangers.  I am anxious about her, Mr. Tavernake.  Does she want
money?  If so, will you take her some from me?  Can't you suggest
any way in which I could help her?  Do be my friend, please, and
advise me."

Life was certainly opening out for Tavernake.  The atmosphere by
which he was surrounded, which she was deliberately creating
around him, was the atmosphere of an unknown world.  It was a
position, this, entirely novel to him.  Nevertheless, he did his
best to cope with it intelligently.  He reflected carefully
before he made any reply, he refused absolutely to listen to the
strange voices singing in his ears, and he delivered his decision
with his usual air of finality.

"I am afraid," he said, "that since Beatrice refuses even to let
you know her whereabouts, she would not wish to accept anything
from you.  It seems a pity," he went on, the instincts of the
money-saver stirring within him; "she is certainly none too well
off."

The lady on the couch sighed.

"Beatrice has at least a friend," she murmured.  "It is a great
deal to have a friend.  It is more than I have.  We are both so
far from home here.  Often I am sorry that we ever left America.
England is not a hospitable country, Mr. Tavernake."

Again this painfully literal young man spoke out what was in his
mind.

"There was a gentleman in the motor-car with you the other
night," he reminded her.

She bit her lip.

"He was just an acquaintance," she answered, "a man whom I used
to know in New York, passing through London.  He called on me and
asked me to go to the theatre and supper.  Why not?  I have had a
terrible time during the last few months, Mr. Tavernake, and I am
very lonely--lonelier than ever since my sister deserted me."

Tavernake began to feel, ridiculous though it seemed, that in
some subtle and inexplicable fashion he was in danger.  At any
rate, he was hopelessly bewildered.  He did not understand why
this very beautiful lady should look at him as though they were
old friends, why her eyes should appeal to him so often for
sympathy, why her fingers, which a moment ago were resting
lightly upon his hand, and which she had drawn away with
reluctance, should have burned him like pin-pricks of fire.  The
woman who wishes to allure may be as subtle as possible in her
methods, but a sense of her purpose, however vague it may be, is
generally communicated to her wouldbe victim.  Tavernake was
becoming distinctly uneasy.  He had no vanity.  He knew from the
first that this beautiful creature belonged to a world far
removed from any of which he had any knowledge.  The only
solution of the situation which presented itself to him was that
she might be thinking of borrowing money from him!

"There was never a time in my life," she continued softly, "when
I felt that I needed a friend more.  I am afraid that my sister
has prejudiced you against me, Mr. Tavernake.  Beatrice is very
young, and the young are not always sympathetic, you know.  They
do not make allowances, they do not understand."

"Why did you tell Mr. Dowling things which were not true?" he
asked bluntly.

She sighed, and looked down at the handkerchief with which she
had been toying.

"It was a very silly piece of conceit," she admitted, "but, you
see, I had to tell him something."

"Why did you come to the office at all?" he continued.

"Do you really want to know that?" she whispered softly.

"Well,--"

"I will tell you," she went on suddenly.  "It sounds foolish, in
a way, and yet it wasn't really, because, you see,"--she smiled
at him--" I was anxious about Beatrice.  I saw you come out of
the office that morning, and I recognized you at once.  I knew
that it was you who had been with Beatrice.  I made an excuse
about the house to come and see whether I could find you out."

Tavernake, in whom the vanity was not yet born, missed wholly the
significance of her smile, her trifling hesitation.

"All that," he declared, "is no reason why you should have told
Mr. Dowling that your husband was a millionaire and had given you
carte blanche about taking a house."

"Did I mention--my husband?"

"Distinctly," he assured her.

For the first time she had faltered in her speech.  Tavernake
felt that she herself was shaken by some emotion.  Her eyes for a
moment were strangely-lit; something had come into her face which
he did not understand.  Then it passed.  The delightful smile,
half deprecating, half appealing, once more parted her lips; the
gleam of horror no longer shone in her blue eyes.

"I am always so foolish about money," she declared, "so ignorant
that I never know how I stand, but really I think that I have
plenty, and a hundred or two more or less for rent didn't seem to
matter much."

It was a point of view, this, which Tavernake utterly failed to
comprehend.  He looked at her in surprise.

"I suppose," he protested, "you know how much a year you have to
live on?"

She shook her head.

"It seems to vary all the time," she sighed.  "There are so many
complications."

He looked at her in amazement.

"After all," he admitted, "you don't look as though you had much
of a head for figures."

"If only I had some one to help me!" she murmured.

Tavernake moved uneasily in his chair.  His sense of danger was
growing.

"If you will excuse me now," he said, "I think that I must be
getting back.  I am an employee at Dowling, Spence & Company's,
you know, and my time is not quite my own.  I only came because I
promised to."

"Mr. Tavernake," she begged, looking at him full out of those
wonderful blue eyes, "please do me a great favor."

"What is it?" he asked with clumsy ungraciousness.

"Come and see me, every now and then, and let me know how my
sister is.  Perhaps you may be able to suggest some way in which
I can help her."

Tavernake considered the question for a moment.  He was angry
with himself for the unaccountable sense of pleasure which her
suggestion had given him.

"I am not quite sure," he said, "whether I had better come.
Beatrice seemed quite anxious that I should not talk about her to
you at all.  She did not like my coming to-day."

"You seem to know a great deal about my sister," Elizabeth
declared reflectively.  "You call her by her Christian name and
you appear to see her frequently.  Perhaps, even, you are fond of
her."

Tavernake met his questioner's inquiring gaze blankly.  He was
almost indignant.

"Fond of her!" he exclaimed.  "I have never been fond of any one
in my life, or anything--except my work," he added.

She looked at him a little bewildered at first.

"Oh, you strange person!" she cried, her lips breaking into a
delightful smile.  "Don't you know that you haven't begun to live
at all yet?  You don't even know anything about life, and at the
back of it all you have capacity.  Yes," she went on, "I think
that you have the capacity for living."

Her hand fell upon his with a little gesture which was half a
caress.  He looked around him as though seeking for escape.  He
was on his feet now and he clutched at his hat.

"I must go," he insisted almost roughly.

"Am I keeping you?" she asked innocently.  "Well, you shall go as
soon as you please, only you must promise me one thing.  You must
come back, say within a week, and let me know how my sister is.
I am not half so brutal as you think.  I really am anxious about
her.  Please!"

"I will promise that," he answered.

"Wait one moment, then," she begged, turning to the letters by
her side.  "There is just something I want to ask you.  Don't be
impatient--it is entirely a matter of business."

All the time he was acutely conscious of that restless desire to
get out of the room.  The woman's white arms, from which the
sleeves of her blue gown had fallen back, were stretched towards
him as she lazily turned over her pile of correspondence.  They
were very beautiful arms and Tavernake, although he had had no
experience, was dimly aware of the fact.  Her eyes, too, seemed
always to be trying to reach some part of him which was dead, or
as yet unborn.  He could feel her striving to get there, beating
against the walls of his indifference.  Why should a woman wear
blue stockings because she had a blue gown, he wondered idly.
She was not like Beatrice, this alluring, beautiful woman, who
lay there talking to him in a manner whose meaning came to him
only in strange, bewildering flashes.  He could be with Beatrice
and feel the truth of what he had once told her--that her sex was
a thing which need not even be taken into account between them.
With this woman it was different; he felt that she wished it to
be different.

"Perhaps you had better tell me about that matter of business
next time I am here," he suggested, with an abruptness which was
almost brusque.  "I must go now.  I do not know why I have stayed
so long."

She held out her fingers.

"You are a very sudden person," she declared, smiling at his
discomfiture.  "If you must go!"

He scarcely touched her hand, anxious only to get away.  And then
the door opened and a man of somewhat remarkable appearance
entered the room with the air of a privileged person.  He was
oddly dressed, with little regard to the fashion of the moment.
His black coat was cut after the mode of a past generation, his
collar was of the type affected by Gladstone and his fellow-
statesmen, his black bow was arranged with studied negligence and
he showed more frilled white shirt-front than is usual in the
daytime.  His silk hat was glossy but broad-brimmed; his masses
of gray hair, brushed back from a high, broad forehead, gave him
almost a patriarchal aspect.  His features were large and fairly
well-shaped, but his mouth was weak and his cheeks lacked the
color of a healthy life.  Tavernake stared at him open-mouthed.
He, for his part, looked at Tavernake as he might have looked at
some strange wild animal.

"A thousand apologies, dear Elizabeth!" be exclaimed.  "I
knocked, but I imagine that you did not hear me.  Knowing your
habits, it did not occur to me that you might be engaged at this
hour of the morning."

"It is a young man from the house agent's," she announced
indifferently, "come to see me about a flat."

"In that case," he suggested amiably, "I am, perhaps, not in the
way."

Elizabeth turned her head slightly and looked at him; he backed
precipitately toward the door.

"In a few minutes," he said.  "I will return in a few minutes."

Tavernake attempted to follow his example.

"There is no occasion for your friend to leave," he protested.
"If you have any instructions for us, a note to the office will
always bring some one here to see you."

She sat up on the couch and smiled at him.  His obvious
embarrassment amused her.  It was a new sort of game, this,
altogether.

"Come, Mr. Tavernake," she said, "three minutes more won't
matter, will it?  I will not keep you longer than that, I
promise."

He came reluctantly a few steps back.

"I am sorry," he explained, "but we really are busy this
morning."

"This is business," she declared, still smiling at him
pleasantly.  "My sister has filled you with suspicions about me.
Some of them may be justifiable, some are not.  I am not so rich
as I should like some people to believe.  It is so much easier to
live well, you know, when people believe that you are rolling in
money.  Still, I am by no means a pauper.  I cannot afford to
take Grantham House, but neither can I afford to go on living
here.  I have decided to make a change, to try and economize, to
try and live within my means.  Now will you bring me a list of
small houses or flats, something at not more than say two or
three hundred a year?  It shall be strictly a business
proceeding.  I will pay you for your time, if that is necessary,
and your commission in advance.  There, you can't refuse my offer
on those terms, can you?"

Tavernake remained silent.  He was conscious that his lack of
response seemed both sullen and awkward, but he was for the
moment tongue-tied.  His habit of inopportune self-analysis had
once more asserted itself.  He could not understand the curious
nature of his mistrust of this woman, nor could he understand the
pleasure which her suggestion gave him.  He wanted to refuse, and
yet he was glad to be able to tell himself that he was, after
all, but an employee of his firm and not in a position to decline
business on their behalf.

She leaned a little towards him; her tone was almost beseeching.

"You are not going to be unkind?  You will not refuse me?" she
pleaded.

"I will bring you a list," he answered heavily, "on the terms you
suggest."

"To-morrow morning?" she begged.

"As soon as I am able," he promised.

Then he escaped.  Outside in the corridor, the man who had
interrupted his interview was walking backwards and forwards.
Tavernake passed him without responding to his bland greeting.
He forgot all about the lift and descended five flights of
stairs. . . .

A few minutes later, he presented himself at the office and
reported that Mrs. Wenham Gardner had decided unfavorably about
Grantham House, and that she was not disposed, indeed, to take
premises of anything like such a rental.  Mr. Dowling was
disappointed, and inclined to think that his employee had
mismanaged the affair.

"I wish that I had gone myself," he declared.  "She obviously
wished me to, but it happened to be inconvenient.  By-the-bye,
Tavernake, close the door, will you?  There is another matter
concerning which I should like to speak to you."

Tavernake did as he was bidden at once, without any disquietude.
His own services to the firm were of such a nature that he had no
misgiving whatever as to his employer's desire for a private
interview.

"It is about the Marston Rise estate," Mr. Dowling explained,
arranging his pince nez.  "I believe that the time is coming when
some sort of overtures should be made.  You know what has been in
my mind for a very considerable time."

Tavernake nodded.

"Yes," he admitted, "I know quite well."

"I did hear a rumor," Mr. Dowling continued, "that some one had
bought one small plot on the outskirts of the estate.  I dare say
it is not true, and in any case it is not worth while troubling
about, but it shows that the public is beginning to nibble.  I am
of opinion that the time is almost--yes, almost ripe for a move."

"Do you wish me to do anything in the matter, sir?" Tavernake
asked.

"In the first place," Mr. Dowling declared, "I should like you to
try to find out whether any of the plots have really been sold,
and, if so, to whom, and what would be their price.  Can you do
this during the week?"

"I think so," Tavernake answered.

"Say Monday morning," Mr. Dowling suggested, taking down his hat.
"I shall be playing golf to-morrow and Friday, and of course
Saturday.  Monday morning you might let me have a report."

Tavernake went back to his office.  After all, then, things were
to come to a crisis a little earlier than he had thought.  He
knew quite well that that report, if he made it honestly, and no
other idea was likely to occur to him, would effectually sever
his connection with Messrs. Dowling, Spence & Company.




CHAPTER IX

THE PLOT THICKENS


The man whom Tavernake had left walking up and down the corridor
lost no time in presenting himself once more at the apartments of
Mrs. Wenham Gardner.  He entered the suite without ceremony,
carefully closing both doors behind him.  It became obvious then
that his deportment on the occasion of his previous appearance
had been in the nature of a bluff.  The air with which he looked
across the room at the woman who watched him was furtive; the
hand which laid his hat upon the table was shaking; there was a
gleam almost of terror in his eyes.  The woman remained
impassive, inscrutable, simply watching him.  After a moment or
two, however, she spoke--a single monosyllable.

"Well?"

The man broke down.

"Elizabeth," he exclaimed, "you are too--too ghastly!  I can't
stand it.  You are unnatural."

She stretched herself upon the couch and turned towards him.

"Unnatural, am I?" she remarked.  "And what are you?"

He sank into a chair.  He had become very flabby indeed.

"What you are always calling me, I suppose," he muttered,--"a
coward.  You have so little consideration, Elizabeth.  My health
isn't what it was."

His eyes had wandered longingly toward the cupboard at the
further end of the apartment.  The woman upon the couch smiled.

"You may help yourself," she directed carelessly.  "Perhaps then
you will be able to tell me why you have come in such a state."

He crossed the room in a few hasty steps, his head and shoulders
disappeared inside the cupboard.  There was the sound of the
withdrawal of a cork, the fizz of a sodawater syphon.  He
returned to his place a different man.

"You must remember my age, Elizabeth dear," he said,
apologetically.  "I haven't your nerve--it isn't likely that I
should have.  When I was twenty-five, there was nothing in the
world of which I was afraid."

She looked him over critically.

"Perhaps I am not so absolutely courageous as you think," she
remarked.  "To tell you the truth, there are a good many things
of which I am afraid when you come to me in such a state.  I am
afraid of you, of what you will do or say."

"You need not be," he assured her hastily.  "When I am away from
you, I am dumb.  What I suffer no one knows.  I keep it to
myself."

She nodded, a little contemptuously.

"I suppose you do your best," she declared.  "Tell me, now, what
is this fresh thing which has disturbed you?"

Her visitor stared at her.

"Does there need to be any fresh thing?" he muttered.

"I suppose it is something about Wenham?" she asked.

The man shivered.  He opened his lips and closed them again.  The
woman's tone, if possible, grew colder.

"I hope you are not going to tell me that you have disobeyed my
orders," she said.

"No," he protested, "no!  I was there yesterday.  I came back by
the mail from Penzance.  I had to motor thirty miles to catch
it."

"Something has happened, of course," she went on, "something
which you are afraid to tell 'me.  Sit up like a man, my dear
father, and let me have the truth."

"Nothing fresh has happened at all," he assured her.  "It is
simply that the memory of the day I spent at that place and that
the sight of him has got on my nerves till I can't sleep or think
of anything else."

"What rubbish!" she exclaimed.

"You have only seen the place in fine weather," he continued,
dropping his voice a little.  "Elizabeth, you have no idea what
it is really like.  Yesterday morning I got out of the train at
Bodmin and I motored through to the village of Clawes.  After
that there were five miles to walk.  There's no road, only a sort
of broken track, and for the whole of that five miles there isn't
even a farm building to be seen and I didn't meet a human soul.
There was a sort of pall of white-gray mists everywhere over the
moor, sometimes so dense that I couldn't see my way, and you
could stop and listen and there wasn't a thing to be heard, not
even a sheep bell."

She laughed softly.  .

"My dear, foolish father," she murmured, "you don't understand
what a rest cure is.  This is quite all right, quite as it should
be.  Poor Wenham has been seeing too many people all his life
-- that is why we have to keep him quiet for a time.  You can
skip the scenery.  I suppose you got to the house at last?"

"Yes, I got there," continued her father.  "You know what a
bleak-looking place it is, right on the side of a bare hill--a
square, gray stone place just the color of the hillside.  Well, I
got there and walked in.  There was Ted Mathers, half dressed, no
collar, with a bottle of whiskey on the table, playing some
wretched game of cards by himself.  Elizabeth, what a brute that
man is!"

She shook her head.

"Go on," she said.  "What about Wenham?"

"He was there in a corner, gazing out of the window.  When I came
he sprang up, but when he saw who it was, he--he tried to hide.
He was afraid of me."

"Why?" she asked.

"He said that I--I reminded him of you."

"Absurd!" she murmured.  "Tell me, how did he look?"

"Ill, wretched, paler and thinner than ever, and wilder looking."

"What did Mathers say about him?" she demanded.

"What could he?  He told me that he cried all day and begged to
be taken back to America."

"No one goes near the place, I suppose?" she asked.

"Not a soul.  A man comes from the village to sell things once a
week.  Mathers knows when to expect him and takes care that
Wenham is not around.  They are out of the world there--no road,
no paths, nothing to bring even a tourist.  I could have imagined
such a spot in Arizona, Elizabeth, but in England--no!"

"Has he any amusements at all?" she inquired.

The man's hands were shaking; once more his eyes went longingly
toward the cupboard.

"He has made--a doll," he said, "carved it out of a piece of wood
and dressed it in oddments from his ties.  Mathers showed it to
me as a joke.  Elizabeth, it was wonderful--horrible!"

"Why?" she asked him.

"It is you," he continued, moistening his lips with his tongue,
"you, in a blue gown--your favorite shade.  He has even made blue
stockings and strange little shoes.  He has got some hair from
somewhere and parted it just like yours."

"It sounds very touching," she remarked.

The man was shivering again.

"Elizabeth," he said, "I do not think that he means it kindly.
Mathers took me up into his room.  He has made something there
which looks like a scaffold.  The doll was hanging by a piece of
string from the gallows.  Elizabeth!--my God, but it was like
you!" he cried, suddenly dropping his head upon his arms.

For a moment, a reflection of the terror which had seized him
flashed in her own face.  It passed quickly away.  She laughed
mockingly.

"My dear father," she protested, "you are certainly not yourself
this morning."

"I saw you swinging," he muttered, "swinging by that piece of
cord!  There was a great black pin through your heart.
Elizabeth, if he should get away sometime!  If some one should
come over from America and discover where he was!  If he should
find us out!  Oh, my God, if he should find us out!"

Elizabeth had risen to her feet.  She was standing now before the
fire, her left elbow resting upon the mantelpiece, a trifle of
silver gleaming in her right hand.

"Father," she said, "there is no danger in life for those who
know no fear.  Look at me."

His eyes sought hers, fascinated.

"If he should find me out," she continued, "it would be no such
terrible thing, after all.  It would be the end."

Her fingers disclosed the little ornament she was carrying--a
tiny pistol.  She slipped it back into her pocket.  The man was
wondering how such a thing as this came to be his daughter.

"You have courage, Elizabeth," he whispered.

"I have courage," she assented, "because I have brains.  I never
allow myself to be in a position where I should be likely to get
the worst of it.  Ever since the day when he turned so suddenly
against me, I have been careful."

Her father leaned towards her.

"Elizabeth," he said, "I never really understood.  What was it
that came over him so suddenly?  One day he was your slave, the
next I think he would have murdered you if he could."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Honestly," she replied, "I felt it impossible to keep up the
sham any longer.  I married Wenham Gardner in New York because he
was supposed to be a millionaire and because it seemed to be the
best thing to do, but as to living with him, I never meant that.
You know how ridiculous his behavior was on the boat.  He never
let me out of his sight, but swore that he was going to give up
smoking and drinking and lead a new life for my sake.  I really
believe he meant it, too."

"Wouldn't it have been better, dear," her father suggested,
timidly, "to have encouraged him?"

She shook her head.

"He was absolutely hopeless," she declared.  "You say that I have
no nerves; that is because I do not allow myself to suffer.  If I
had gone on living with Wenham, it would have driven me mad.  His
habits, his manner of life, everything disgusted me.  Until I
came to see so much of him, I never understood what the term
'decadent' really can mean.  The very touch of him grew to be
hateful.  No woman could live with such a man.  By the way, he
signed the draft, I suppose?"

Her father handed her a slip of paper, which she looked at and
locked in her drawer.

"Did he make any trouble about it?" she asked.

The professor shivered.

"He refused to sign it," he said, in a low tone, "swore he would
never sign it.  Mathers sent me out for a few minutes, made me go
into another room.  When I came back, he gave me the draft.  I
heard him calling out."

"Mathers certainly earns his money," she remarked, drily.

He gazed at her with grudging admiration.  This was his daughter,
his own flesh and blood.  Back through the years, for a moment,
he seemed to see her, a child with hair down her back, sitting on
his knee, listening to his stories, wondering at the little arts
and tricks by which he had wrested their pennies and sixpennies
from a credulous public.  Phrenologist, hypnotist, conjurer--all
these things the great Professor Franklin had called himself.
Often, from the rude stage where he had given his performance, he
had terrified to death the women and children of his audience.
It flashed upon him at that moment that never, even in the days
of her childhood, had he seen fear in Elizabeth's face.

"You should have been a man, Elizabeth," he muttered.

She shook her head, smiling as though not ill-pleased at the
compliment.

"The power of a man is so limited," she declared.  "A woman has
more weapons."

"More weapons indeed," the professor agreed, as his eyes traveled
over the slim yet wonderful perfection of her form, lingered for
a moment at the little knot of lace at her throat, wrestled with
the delicate sweetness of her features, struggling hard to think
from whom among his ancestors could have come a creature so
physically attractive.

"More weapons, indeed," he repeated.  "Elizabeth, what a gift--
what a gift!"

"You speak," she replied, "as though it were an evil one."

"I was only thinking," he said, "that it seems a pity.  You are
so wonderful, we might have found an easier and a less dangerous
way to fortune."

She smiled.

"The Bohemian blood in me, I suppose," she remarked.  "The
crooked ways attract, you know, when one has been brought up as I
was."

"Your poor mother had no love for them," he reminded her.

"Beatrice has inherited everything that belonged to my mother.  I
am your own daughter, father.  You ought to be proud of me.  But
there, I gave you another commission.  Is it true that Jerry is
really here?"

"He arrived in England on Wednesday on the Lusitania.  He has
been in town all the time since."

A distinct frown darkened her face.

"He must have had my letter, then," she murmured, half to
herself.

"Without a doubt," her father admitted.  "Elizabeth, why do you
take chances about seeing this man?  He was fond of you in New
York, I know, but then he was fond of his brother, too.  He may
not believe your story.  It may be dangerous."

She smiled.

"I think I can convince Jerry Gardner of anything I choose to
tell him," she said.  "Besides, it is absolutely necessary that I
have some information about Wenham's affairs.  He must have a
great deal more money somewhere and I must find out how we are to
get at it."

The professor shook his head.

"I don't like it," he muttered.  "Supposing he finds Beatrice!"

Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders.

"Beatrice is made of silent stuff," she declared.  "I should
never be afraid of her.  All the same, I wish I could find out
just where she is.  It would look better if we were living
together."

The professor shook his head sadly.

"She left us of her own free will," he said, "and I don't
believe, Elizabeth, that she would ever come back again.  She
knew very well what she was doing.  She knew that our views of
life were not hers.  She didn't know half but she knew enough.
You were quite right in what you said just now; Beatrice was more
like her mother, and her mother was a good woman."

"Really!" Elizabeth remarked, insolently.

"Don't answer like that," he blustered, striking the table.  "She
was your mother, too."

The woman's face was inscrutable, hard, and flawless behind the
little cloud of tobacco smoke.  The man began to tremble once
more.  Every time he ventured to assert himself, a single look
from her was sufficient to quell him.

"Elizabeth," he muttered, "you haven't a heart, you haven't a
soul, you haven't a conscience.  I wonder--what sort of a woman
you are!"

"I am your daughter," she reminded him, pleasantly.

"I was never quite so bad as that," he went on, taking a large
silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing his forehead.  "I
had to live and times were hard.  I have cheated the public,
perhaps.  I haven't been above playing at cards a little
cleverly, or making something where I could out of the weaker
men.  But, Elizabeth, I am afraid of you."

"Men are generally afraid of the big stakes," she remarked,
flicking the ash from her cigarette.  "They will cheat and lie
for halfpennies, but they are bad gamblers when life or death
-- the big things are in the balance.  Bah!" she went on.
"Father, I want Jerry Gardner to come and see me."

"If you can't make him come, my dear," the professor said, "I am
sure it will be of no use my trying."

"He has had my letter," she continued, half to herself; "he has
had my letter and he does not come."

"There is nothing to be done but wait," her father decided.

"And meanwhile," she went on, "supposing he were to discover
Beatrice, supposing they two were to come together; supposing he
were to tell her what he knows and she were to tell him what she
guessed!"

The professor buried his face in his hands.  Elizabeth threw her
cigarette away with an impatient gesture.

"What an idiot I am!" she declared.  "What is the use of wasting
time like this?"

There was a knock at the door.  A trim-looking French maid
presented herself.  She addressed her mistress in voluble French.
A coiffeur and a manicurist were waiting in the next apartment;
it was time that Madame habited herself.  The professor listened
to these announcements with an air of half-admiring wonder.

"I suppose I must be going," he said, rising to his feet.  "There
is just one thing I should like to ask you, Elizabeth, if I may,
before I go."

"Well?"

"Who was the young man whom I met here just now?"

"Why do you ask that?" she demanded.

"I really do not know," her father replied, thoughtfully, "except
that his appearance seemed a little singular.  In some respects
he appeared so commonplace.  His clothes and bearing, in fact,
were so ordinary that I was surprised to find him here with you.
And, on the other hand, his face--you must remember, my dear,
that this is entirely a professional instinct; I am still
interested in faces--"

"Quite so," she admitted.  "Go on.  The young man rather puzzles
me myself.  I should like to hear what you make of him.  What did
you think of his face?"

"There was something powerful about it," he declared, "something
dogged, splendid, narrow, impossible,--the sort of face which
belongs to a man who achieves great things because he is too
stupid to recognize failure, even when it has him in its arms and
its fingers are upon his throat.  That young man has qualities,
my dear, I am sure.  Mind you, at present they are dormant, but
he has qualities."

She led him to the door.

"My dear father," she said, "sometimes I really respect you.  If
you should come across that young man again, keep your eye upon
him.  He knows one thing at least which I wish he would tell us
-- he knows where Beatrice is."

Her father looked at her in amazement.

"He knows where Beatrice is and he has not told you?"

She nodded.

"You tried to have him tell you and he refused?" the professor
persisted.

"Exactly," she admitted.

Her father put on his hat.

"I knew that young man was something out of the common."




CHAPTER X

THE JOY OF BATTLE


They sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, in the topmost corner of
the field.  In the hedge, close at hand, was a commotion of
birds.  In the elm tree, a little further away, a thrush was
singing.  A soft west wind blew in their faces; the air
immediately around them was filled with sunlight.  Yet almost to
their feet stretched one of those great arms of the city--a
suburb, with its miles of villas, its clanging of electric cars,
its waste plots, its rows of struggling shops.  And only a little
further away still, the body itself--the huge city, throbbing
beneath its pall of smoke and cloud.  The girl, who had been
gazing steadily downwards for several moments, turned at last to
her companion.

"Do you know," she said, "that this makes me think of the first
night you spoke to me?  You remember it--up on the roof at
Blenheim House?"

Tavernake did not answer for a moment.  He was looking through a
queerly-shaped instrument that he had brought with him at
half-a-dozen stakes that he had laboriously driven into the
ground some distance away.  He was absolutely absorbed in his
task.

"The main avenue," he muttered softly to himself.  "Yes, it must
be a trifle more to the left.  Then we get all the offshoots
parallel and the better houses have their southern aspect.  I beg
your pardon, Beatrice, did you say anything?" he broke off
suddenly.

She smiled.

"Nothing worth mentioning.  I was just thinking that it reminded
me a little up here of the first time you and I ever talked
together."

He glanced down at the panorama below, with its odd jumble of
hideous buildings, softened here and there with wreaths of
sunstained smoke, its great blots of ugliness irredeemable,
insistent.

"It's different, of course," she went on.  "I remember, even now,
the view from the house-top that night.  In a sense, it was finer
than this; everything was more lurid and yet more chaotic; one
simply felt that underneath all those mysterious places was some
great being, toiling and struggling--Life itself, groaning
through space with human cogwheels.  Up here one sees too much.
Oh, my dear Leonard," she continued, "to think that you, too,
should be one of the devastators!"

He fitted his instrument into its case and replaced it in his
pocket.

"Come," he said, "you mustn't call me hard names.  I shall remind
you of the man whose works you are making me read.  You know what
he says--'The aesthete is, after all, only a dallier.  The world
lives and progresses by reason of its utilitarians.'  This hill
represents to me most of the things that are worth having in
life."

She laughed shortly.

"You will cut down those hedges and drive away the birds to find
a fresh home; you will plough up the green grass, cut out a
street and lay down granite stones.  Then I see your ugly little
houses coming up like mushrooms all over the place.  You are a
vandal, my dear Leonard."

"I am simply obeying the law," he answered.  "After all, even
from your own point of view, I do not think that it is so bad.
Look closer, and you will find that the hedges are blackened here
and there with smuts.  The birds will find a better dwelling
place further away.  See how the smoke from those factory
chimneys is sending its smuts across these fields.  They are no
longer country; they are better gathered in."

She shivered.

"There is something about life," she said, sadly, "which
terrifies me.  Every force that counts seems to be destructive."

Up the steep hill behind them came the puffing and groaning of a
small motor-car.  They both turned their heads to watch it come
into view.  It was an insignificant affair of an almost extinct
pattern, a single cylinder machine with a round tonneau back.
The engine was knocking badly as the driver brought it to a
standstill a few yards away from them.  Involuntarily Tavernake
stiffened as he saw the two men who descended from it, and who
were already passing through the gate close to where they were.
One was Mr. Dowling, the other the manager of the bank where they
kept their account.  Mr. Dowling recognized his manager with
surprise but much cordiality.

"Dear me!" he exclaimed.  "Dear me, this is most fortunate!  You
know Mr. Tavernake, of course, Belton?  My manager, Mr. Tavernake
--Mr. Belton, of the London & Westminster Bank.  I have brought
Mr. Belton up here, Tavernake, to have a look round, so that he
may know what we mean to do with all the money we shall have to
come and borrow, eh?"

The bank manager smiled.

"It is a very fine situation," he remarked.

The eyes of the two men fell upon Beatrice, who had drawn a
little to one side.

"May we have the pleasure, Tavernake?  "Mr. Dowling said,
graciously.  "You are not married, I believe?"

"No, this is my sister," Tavernake answered, slowly,--"Mr. Belton
and Mr. Dowling."

The two men acknowledged the salute with some slight surprise.
Beatrice, although her clothes were simple, had always the air of
belonging to a different world.

"Your brother, my dear Miss Tavernake," Mr. Dowling declared, "is
a perfect genius at discovering these desirable sites.  This one
I honestly consider to be the find of our lifetime.  We have
now," he proceeded, turning to Mr. Belton, "certain information
that the cars will run to whatever point we desire in this
vicinity, and the Metropolitan Railway has also arranged for an
extension of its system.  To-morrow I propose," Mr. Dowling
continued, holding the sides of his coat and assuming a somewhat
pompous manner, "to make an offer for the whole of this site.  It
will involve a very large sum of money indeed, but I am convinced
that it will be a remunerative speculation."

Tavernake remained grimly silent.  This was scarcely the time or
the place which he would have selected for an explanation with
his employer.  There were signs, however, that the thing was to
be forced upon him.

"I am very pleased indeed to meet you here, Tavernake," Mr.
Dowling went on, "pleased both for personal reasons and because
it shows, if I may be allowed to say so, the interest which you
take in the firm's business, that you should devote your holiday
to coming and--er--surveying the scene of our exploits, so to
speak.  Perhaps now that you are here you would be able to
explain to Mr. Belton better than I should, just what it is that
we propose."

Tavernake hesitated for a moment.  Finally, however, he proceeded
to make clear a very elaborate and carefully thought out building
scheme, to which both men listened with much attention.  When he
had finished, however, he turned round to Mr. Dowling, facing him
squarely.

"You will understand, sir," he concluded, "that a scheme such as
I have pointed out could only be carried through if the whole of
the property were in one person's hands.  I may say that the
information to which you referred a few days ago was perfectly
correct.  A considerable portion of the south side of the hill
has already been purchased, besides certain other plots which
would interfere considerably with any comprehensive scheme of
building."

Mr. Dowling's face fell at once; his tone was one of annoyance
mingled with irritation.

"Come, come," he declared, "this sounds very bad, Mr. Tavernake,
very neglectful, very careless as to the interests of the firm.
Why did we not keep our eye upon it?  Why did we not forestall
this other purchaser, eh?  It appears to me that we have been
slack, very slack indeed."

Tavernake took a small book from his pocket.

"You will remember, sir," he said, "that it was on the eleventh
of May last year when I first spoke to you of this site."

"Well, well," Mr. Dowling exclaimed, sharply, "what of it?"

"You were starting out for a fortnight's golf somewhere,"
Tavernake continued, "and you promised to look into the affair
when you returned.  I spoke to you again but you declared that
you were far too busy to go into the matter at all for the
present, you didn't care about this side of London, you
considered that we had enough on hand--in fact, you threw cold
water upon the idea."

"I may not have been very enthusiastic at first," Mr. Dowling
admitted, grudgingly.  "Latterly, however, I have come round to
your views."

"There have been several articles in various newspapers, and a
good deal of talk," Tavernake remarked, "which have been more
effectual, I think, in bringing you round, than my advice.
However, what I wish to say to you is this, sir, that when I
found myself unable to interest you in this scheme, I went into
it myself to some extent."

"Went into it yourself?" Mr. Dowling repeated, incredulously.
"What do you mean, Tavernake?  What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean that I have invested my savings in the purchase of
several plots of land upon this hillside," Tavernake explained.

"On your own account?" Mr. Dowling demanded.  "Your savings,
indeed!"

"Certainly," Tavernake answered.  "Why not?"

"But it's the firm's business, sir--the firm's, not yours!"

"The firm had the opportunity," Tavernake pointed out, "and were
not inclined to avail themselves of it.  If I had not bought the
land when I did, some one else would have bought the whole of it
long ago."

Mr. Dowling was obviously in a furious temper.

"Do you mean to tell me, sir," he exclaimed, "that you dared to
enter into private speculations while still an employee of the
firm?  It is a most unheard-of thing, unwarranted, ridiculous.  I
shall require you, sir, to at once make over the plots of land to
us--to the firm, you understand.  We shall give you your price,
of course, although I expect you paid much more for it than we
should have done.  Still, we must give you what you paid, and
four per cent interest for your money."

"I am sorry," Tavernake replied, "but I am afraid that I should
require better terms than that.  In fact," he continued, "I do
not wish to sell.  I have given a great deal of thought and time
to this matter, and I intend to carry it out as a personal
speculation."

"Then you will carry it out, sir, from some other place than from
within the walls of my office," Mr. Dowling declared, furiously.
"You understand that, Tavernake?"

"Perfectly," Tavernake answered.  "You wish me to leave you.  It
is very unwise of you to suggest it, but I am quite prepared to
go."

"You will either resell me those plots at cost price, or you
shall not set foot within the office again," Mr. Dowling
insisted.  "It is a gross breach of faith, this.  I never heard
of such a thing in all my life.  Most unprofessional, impossible
behavior!"

Tavernake showed no signs of anger--he simply turned a little
away.

"I shall not sell you my land, Mr. Dowling," he said, "and it
will suit me very well to leave your employ.  You appear," he
continued, "to expect some one else to do the whole of the work
for you while you reap the entire profits.  Those days have gone
by.  My business in the world is to make a fortune for myself,
and not for you!"

"How dare you, sir!" Mr. Dowling cried.  "I never heard such
impertinence in my life."

"You haven't done a stroke of work for five years," Tavernake
went on, unmoved, "and my efforts have supplied you with a fairly
good income.  In future, those efforts will be directed towards
my own advancement."

Mr. Dowling turned back toward the car.

"Young man," he said, "you can brazen it out as much as you like,
but you have been guilty of a gross breach of faith.  I shall
take care that the exact situation is made known in all
responsible quarters.  You'll get no situation with any firm with
whom I am acquainted--I can promise you that.  If you have
anything more to say to Dowling, Spence & Company, let it be in
writing."

They parted company there and then.  Tavernake and Beatrice went
down the hill in silence.

"Does this bother you at all?" she inquired presently.

"Nothing to speak of," Tavernake answered.  "It had to come.  I
wasn't quite ready but that doesn't matter."

"What shall you do now?" she asked.

"Borrow enough to buy the whole of the hill," he replied.

She looked back.

"Won't that mean a great deal of money?"

He nodded.

"It will be a big thing, of course," he admitted.  "Never mind, I
dare say I shall be able to interest some one in it.  In any
case, I never meant Mr. Dowling to make a fortune out of this."

They walked on in silence a little further.  Then she spoke
again, with some hesitation.

"I suppose that what you have done is quite fair, Leonard?"

He answered her promptly, without any sign of offence at her
question.

"As a matter of fact," he confessed, "it is an unusual thing for
any one in the employ of a firm of estate agents to make
speculations on their own account in land.  In this case,
however, I consider that I was justified.  I have opened up three
building speculations for the firm, on each one of which they
have made a great deal of money, and I have not even had my
salary increased, or any recognition whatever offered me.  There
is a debt, of course, which an employee owes to his employer.
There is also a debt, however, which the employer owes to his
employee.  In my case I have never been treated with the
slightest consideration of any sort.  What I have done I shall
stick to.  After all, I am more interested in making money for
myself than for other people."

They had reached the corner of the field now, and turning into
the lane commenced the steep descent.  It was Sunday evening, and
from all the little conventicles and tin churches below, the
bells began their unmusical summons.  From further away in the
distance came the more melodious chiming from the Cathedral and
the city churches.  The shriller and nearer note, however,
prevailed.  The whole medley of sound was a discord.  As they
descended, they could see the black-coated throngs slowly moving
towards the different places of worship.  There was something
uninspiring about it all.  She shuddered.

"Leonard," she said, "I wonder why you are so anxious to get on
in the world.  Why do you want to be rich?"

He was glancing back toward the hill, the light of calculations
in his eyes.  Once more he was measuring out those plots of land,
calculating rent, deducting interest.

"We all seek different things," he replied tolerantly,--"some
fame, some pleasure.  Mr. Dowling, for instance, has no other
ambition than to muddle round the golf links a few strokes better
than his partner."

"And you?" she asked.

"It is success I seek," he answered.  "Women, as a rule, do not
understand.  You, for instance, Beatrice, are too sentimental.  I
am very practical.  It is money that I want.  I want money
because money means success."

"And afterwards?" she whispered.

He was attending to her no longer.  They were turning now into
the broad thoroughfare at the bottom of the lane, at the end of
which a tram-car was waiting.  He scribbled a few, final notes
into his pocket-book.

"To-morrow," he exclaimed, with the joy of battle in his tone,
"to-morrow the fight begins in earnest!"

Beatrice passed her hand through his arm.

"Not only for you, dear friend, but for me," she said.  "For you?
What do you mean?" he asked quickly.

"I have been trying to tell you all day," she continued, "but you
have been too engrossed.  Yesterday afternoon I went to see Mr.
Grier at the Atlas Theatre.  I had my voice tried, and to-morrow
night I am going to take a small part in the new musical comedy."

Tavernake stared at her in something like consternation.  His
ideas as to the stage and all that belonged to it were of a
primitive order.  Mrs. Fitzgerald was perhaps as near as possible
to his idea of the type.  He glanced incredulously at Beatrice
-- slim, quietly dressed, yet with the unmistakable, to him
mysterious, distinction of breeding.

"You an actress!" he exclaimed.

She laughed softly.

"Dear Leonard," she said, "this is going to be a part of your
education.  To-morrow night you shall come to the theatre and
wait for me at the stage-door."




CHAPTER XI

A BEWILDERING OFFER


Elizabeth stood with her hands behind her back, leaning slightly
against the writing-table.  The professor, with his broad-brimmed
hat clinched in his fingers, walked restlessly up and down the
little room.  The discussion had not been altogether a pleasant
one.  Elizabeth was composed but serious, her father nervous and
excited.

"You are mad, Elizabeth!" he declared.  "Is it that you do not
understand, or will not?  I tell you that we must go."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Where would you drag me to?" she asked.  "We certainly can't go
back to New York."

He turned fiercely upon her.

"Whose fault is it that we can't?" he demanded.  "If it weren't
for you and your confounded schemes, I could be walking down
Broadway next week.  God's own city it is, too!" he muttered.  "I
wish we'd never seen those two young men."

"It was a pity, perhaps," she admitted, "yet we had to do
something.  We were absolutely stonybroke, as they say over
here."

"Anyway, we've got to get out of this," the professor declared.

"My dear father," she replied, "I will agree that if a new city
or a new world could arise from the bottom of the

Once more he struck the table.  Then he threw out his hands above
his head with the melodramatic instinct which had always been
strong in his blood.

"Do you think that I am a fool?" he cried.  "Do you think I do
not know that if there were not something moving in your brain
you would think no more of that clerk, that bourgeois estate
agent, than of the door-mat beneath your feet?  It is what I
always complain about.  You make use of me as a tool.  There are
always things which I do not understand.  He comes here, this
young man, under a pretext, whether he knows it or not.  You talk
to him for an hour at a time.  There should be nothing in your
life which I do not know of, Elizabeth," he continued, his voice
suddenly hoarse as he leaned towards her.  "Can't you see that
there is danger in friendships for you and for me, there is
danger in intimacies of any sort?  I share the danger; I have a
right to share the knowledge.  This young man has no money of his
own, I take it.  Of what use is he to us?"

"You are too hasty, my dear father," she replied.  "Let me assure
you that there is nothing at all mysterious about Mr. Tavernake.
The simple truth is that the young man rather attracts me."

The professor gazed at her incredulously.

"Attracts you!  He!"

"You have never perfectly understood me, my dear parent," she
murmured.  "You have never appreciated that trait in my
character, that strange preference, if you like, for the
absolutely original.  Now in all my life I never met such a young
man as this.  He wears the clothes and he has the features and
speech of just such a person as you have described, but there is
a difference."

"A difference, indeed!" the professor interrupted roughly.  "What
difference, I should like to know?"

She shrugged her shoulders lightly.

"He is stolid without being stupid," she explained.  "He is
entirely self-centered.  I smile at him, and he waits patiently
until I have finished to get on with our business.  I have said
quite nice things to him and he has stared at me without change
of expression, absolutely without pleasure or emotion of any
sort."

"You are too vain, Elizabeth," her father declared.  "You have
been spoilt.  There are a few people in the world whom even you
might fail to charm.  No doubt this young man is one of them."

She sighed gently.

"It really does seem," she admitted, "as though you were right,
but we shall see.  By-the-bye, hadn't you better go?  The five
minutes are nearly up."

He came over to her side, his hat and gloves in his hand,
prepared for departure.

"Will you tell me, upon your honor, Elizabeth," he begged, "that
there is no other reason for your interest?  That you are not
engaged in any fresh schemes of which I know nothing?  Things are
bad enough as they are.  I cannot sleep, I cannot rest, for
thinking of our position.  If I thought that you had any fresh
plans on hand--"

She flicked the ash from her cigarette and checked him with a
little gesture.

"He knows where Beatrice is," she remarked thoughtfully, "and I
can't get him to tell me.  There is nothing beyond -- absolutely
nothing." . . .

When Tavernake was announced, Elizabeth was still smoking,
sitting in an easy-chair and looking into the fire.  Something in
her attitude, the droop of her head as it rested upon her
fingers, reminded him suddenly of Beatrice.  He showed no other
emotion than a sudden pause in his walk across the room.  Even
that, however, in a person whose machinelike attitude towards her
provoked her resentment, was noticeable.

"Good morning, my friend!" she said pleasantly.  "You have
brought me the fresh list?"

"Unfortunately, no, madam," Tavernake answered.  "I have called
simply to announce that I am not able to be of any further
assistance to you in the matter."

She looked at him for a moment without remark.

"Are you serious, Mr. Tavernake?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.  "The fact is I am not in a position to help
you.  I have left the employ of Messrs. Dowling, Spence &
Company."

"Of your own accord?" she inquired quietly.

"No, I was dismissed," he confessed.  "I should have been
compelled to leave in a very short time, but Mr. Dowling
forestalled me."

"Won't you sit down and tell me about it?" she invited.

He looked her in the eyes, square and unflinching.  He was still
able to do that!

"It could not possibly interest you," he said.

"And-- my sister?  You have seen her?"

"I have seen your sister," Tavernake answered, without
hesitation.

"You have a message for me?"

"None," he declared.

"She refuses-- to be reconciled, then?"

"I am afraid she has no friendly feelings towards you."

"She gave you no reason?"

"No direct reason," he admitted, "but her attitude is-- quite
uncompromising."

She rose and swept across the floor towards him.  With firm but
gentle fingers she took his worn bowler hat and mended gloves
from his hand.  Her gesture guided him towards a sofa.

"Beatrice has prejudiced you against me," she murmured.  "It is
not fair.  Please come and sit down-- for five minutes," she
pleaded.  "I want you to tell me why you have quarrelled with
that funny little man, Mr. Dowling."

"But, madam,--" he protested.

"If you refuse, I shall think that my sister has been telling you
stories about me," she declared, watching him closely.

Tavernake drew a little away from her but seated himself on the
sofa which she had indicated.  He took up as much room as
possible, and to his relief she did not persist in her first
intention, which was obviously to seat herself beside him.

"Your sister has told me nothing about you whatsoever," he said
deliberately.  "At the same time, she asked me not to give you
her address."

"We will talk about that presently," she interrupted.  "In the
first place, tell me why you have left your place."

"Mr. Dowling discovered," he told her, in a matter-of-fact tone,
"that I had been doing some business on my own account.  He was
quite right to disapprove.  I have not been back to the office
since he found it out."

"What sort of business?" she asked.

"The business of the firm is to buy property in undeveloped
districts and sell it for building estate," he explained.  "I
have been very successful hitherto in finding sites for their
operations.  A short time ago, I discovered one so good that I
invested all my own savings in buying certain lots, and have an
option upon the whole.  Mr. Dowling found it out and dismissed
me."

"But it seems most unfair," she declared.

"Not at all," he answered.  "In Mr. Dowling's place I should have
done the same thing.  Every one with his way in life to make must
look out for himself.  Strictly speaking, what I did was wrong.
I wish, however, that I had done it before.  One must think of
one's self first."

"And now?" she inquired.  "What are you going to do now?"

"I am going to find a capitalist or float a company to buy the
rest of the site," he announced.  "After that, we must see about
building.  There is no hurry about that, though.  The first thing
is to secure the site."

"How much money does it require?"

"About twelve thousand pounds," he told her.

"It seems very little," she murmured.

"The need for money comes afterwards," he explained.  "We want to
drain and plan and build without mortgages.  As soon as we are
sure of the site, one can think of that.  My option only extends
for a week or so."

"Do you really think that it is a good speculation?" she asked.

"I do not think about such matters," he answered, drily.  "I
know."

She leaned back in her chair, watching him for several seconds -
admiring him, as a matter of fact.  The profound conviction of
his words was almost inspiring.  In her presence, and she knew
that she was a very beautiful woman, he appeared, notwithstanding
his absence of any knowledge of her sex and his lack of social
status, unmoved, wholly undisturbed.  He sat there in perfect
naturalness.  It did not seem to him even unaccountable that she
should be interested in his concerns.  He was not conceited or
aggressive in any way.  His complete self-confidence lacked any
militant impulse.  He was-- himself, impervious to surroundings,
however unusual.

"Why should I not be your capitalist?" she inquired slowly.

"Have you as much as twelve thousand pounds that you want to
invest?" he asked, incredulously.

She rose to her feet and moved across to her desk.  He sat quite
still, watching her without any apparent curiosity.  She unlocked
a drawer and returned to him with a bankbook in her hand.

"Add that up," she directed, "and tell me how much I have."

He drew a lead pencil from his pocket and quickly added up the
total.

"If you have not given any cheques since this was made up," he
said calmly, "you have a credit balance of thirteen thousand, one
hundred and eighteen pounds, nine shillings and fourpence.  It is
very foolish of you to keep so much money on current account.
You are absolutely losing about eight pounds a week."

She smiled.

"It is foolish of me, I suppose," she admitted, "but I have no
one to advise me just now.  My father knows no more about money
than a child, and I have just had quite a large amount paid to me
in cash.  I only wish we could get Beatrice to share some of
this, Mr. Tavernake."

He made no remark.  To all appearance, he had never heard of her
sister.  She came and sat down by his side again.

"Will you have me for a partner, Mr. Tavernake?" she whispered.

Then, indeed, for a moment, the impassivity of his features
relaxed.  He was frankly amazed.

"You cannot mean this," he declared.  "You know nothing about the
value of the property, nothing about the affair at all.  It is
quite impossible."

"I know what you have told me," she said.  "Is not that enough?
You are sure that it will make money and you have just told me
how foolish I am to keep so much money in my bank.  Very well,
then, I give it to you to invest.  You must pay me quite a good
deal of interest."

"But you know nothing about me," he protested, "nothing about the
property."

"One must trust somebody," she replied.  "Why shouldn't I trust
you?"

He was nonplussed.  This woman seemed to have an answer for
everything.  Besides, when once he had got over the
unexpectedness of the thing, it was, of course, a wonderful
stroke of fortune for him.  Then came a whole rush of thoughts, a
glow which he thrust back sternly.  It would mean seeing her
often; it would mean coming here to her rooms; it would mean,
perhaps, that she might come to look upon him as a friend.  He
set his teeth hard.  This was folly!

"Have you any idea about terms?" he inquired.

She laughed softly.

"My dear friend," she said, "why do you ask me such a question?
You know quite well that I am not competent to discuss terms with
you.  Listen.  You are engaged in a speculation to carry out
which you want the loan of twelve thousand pounds.  Draw up a
paper in which you state what my share will be of the profits,
what interest I shall get for my money, and give particulars of
the property.  Then I will take it to my solicitor, if you insist
upon it, although I am willing to accept what you think is fair."

"You must take it to a solicitor, of course," he answered,
thoughtfully.  "I may as well tell you at once, however, that he
will probably advise you against investing it in such a way."

"That will make no difference at all," she declared.  "Solicitors
hate all investments, I know, except their horrid mortgages.
There are only two conditions that I shall make."

"What are they?" he asked.

"The first is that you must not say a word of this to my sister."

Tavernake frowned.

"That is a little difficult," he remarked.  "It happens that your
sister knows something about the estate and my plans."

"There is no need to tell her the name of your partner,"
Elizabeth said.  "I want this to be our secret entirely, yours
and mine."

Her hand fell upon his; he gripped the sides of his chair.  Again
he was conscious of this bewildering, incomprehensible sensation.

"And the other condition?" he demanded, hoarsely.

"That you come sometimes and tell me how things are going on."

"Come here?" he repeated.

She nodded.

"Please!  I am very lonely.  I shall look forward to your
visits."

Tavernake rose slowly to his feet.  He held out his hand -she
knew better than to attempt to keep him.  He made a speech which
was for him gallant, but while he made it he looked into her eyes
with a directness to which she was indeed unaccustomed.

"I shall come," he said.  "I should have wanted to come, anyhow."

Then he turned abruptly away and left the room.  It was the first
speech of its sort which he had ever made in his life.




CHAPTER XII

TAVERNAKE BLUNDERS


Tavernake felt that he had indeed wandered into an alien world as
he took his place the following evening among the little crowd of
people who were waiting outside the stage-door of the Atlas
Theatre.  These were surroundings to which he was totally
unaccustomed.  Two very handsome motor-cars were drawn up against
the curb, and behind them a string of electric broughams and
taxicabs, proving conclusively that the young ladies of the Atlas
Theatre were popular in other than purely theatrical circles.

The handful of young men by whom Tavernake was surrounded were of
a genus unknown to him.  They were all dressed exactly alike,
they all seemed to breathe the same atmosphere, to exhibit the
same indifference towards the other loungers.  One or two more
privileged passed in through the stage-door and disappeared.
Tavernake contented himself with standing on the edge of the
curbstone, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dark
overcoat, his bowler hat, which was not quite the correct shape,
slightly on the back of his head; his serious, stolid face
illuminated by the gleam from a neighboring gas lamp.

Presently, people began to emerge from the door.  First of all,
the musicians and a little stream of stage hands.

Then a girl's hat appeared in the doorway, and the first of the
Atlas young ladies came out, to be claimed at once by her escort.
Very soon afterwards, Beatrice arrived.  She recognized Tavernake
at once and crossed over to him.

"Well?" she asked.

"You looked very nice," he said, slowly, as he led the way down
the street.  "Of course, I knew about your singing, but
everything else--seemed such a surprise."

"For instance?"

"Why, I mean your dancing," he went on, "and somehow or other you
looked different on the stage."

She shook her head.

"'Different' won't do for me," she persisted.  "I must have
something more specific."

"Well, then, you looked much prettier than I thought you were,"
Tavernake declared, solemnly.  "You looked exceedingly nice."

"You really thought so?" she asked, a little doubtfully.

"I really thought so.  I thought you looked much nicer than any
of the others."

She squeezed his arm affectionately.

"Dear Leonard," she said, "it's so nice to have you think so.  Do
you know, Mr. Grier actually asked me out to supper."

"What impertinence!" Tavernake muttered.

Beatrice threw her head back and laughed.

"My dear brother," she protested, "it was a tremendous
compliment.  You must remember that it was entirely through him,
too, that I got the engagement.  Four pounds a week I am going to
have.  Just think of it!"

"Four pounds a week is all very well," Tavernake admitted.  "It
seems a great deal of money to earn like that.  But I don't think
you ought to go out to supper with any one whom you know so
slightly."

"Dear prig!  You know, you are a shocking prig, Leonard."

"Am I?" he answered, without offence, and with the air of one
seriously considering the subject.

"Of course you are.  How could you help it, living the sort of
life you've led all your days?  Never mind, I like you for it.  I
don't know whether I want to go out to supper with anybody--I
really haven't decided yet--but if I did, it would certainly be
better for me to go with Mr. Grier, because he can do me no end
of good at the theatre, if he likes."

Tavernake was silent for several moments.  He was conscious of
feeling something which he did not altogether understand.  He
only knew that it involved a strong and unreasonable dislike to
Mr. Grier.  Then he remembered that he was her brother, that he
had the right to speak with authority.

"I hope that you will not go out to supper with any one," he
said.

She began to laugh but checked herself.

"Well," she remarked, "that sounds very terrible.  Shall we take
a 'bus?  To tell you the truth, I am dying of hunger.  We
rehearsed for two hours before the performance, and I ate nothing
but a sandwich--I was so excited."

Tavernake hesitated a moment--he certainly was not himself this
evening!

"Would you like to have some supper at a restaurant," he asked,
"before we go home?"

"I should love it," she declared, taking his arm as they passed
through a stream of people.  "To tell you the truth, I was so
hoping that you would propose it."

"I think," Tavernake said, deliberately, "that there is a place a
little way along here."

They pushed their way down the Strand and entered a restaurant
which Tavernake knew only by name.  A small table was found for
them and Beatrice looked about with delight.

"Isn't this jolly!" she exclaimed, taking off her gloves.  "Why,
there are five or six of the girls from the theatre here already.
There are two, see, at the corner table, and the fair-haired girl
--she is just behind me in the chorus."

Tavernake glanced around.  The young women whom she pointed out
were all escorted by men who were scrupulously attired in evening
dress.  She seemed to read his thoughts as she laughed at him.

"You stupid boy," she said.  "You don't suppose that I want to be
like them, do you?  There are lots of things it's delightful to
look on at, and that's all.  Isn't this fish good?  I love this
place."

Tavernake looked around him with an interest which he took no
pains to conceal.  Certainly the little groups of people by whom
they were surrounded on every side had the air of finding some
zest in life which up to the present, at any rate, had escaped
him.  They came streaming in, finding friends everywhere,
laughing and talking, insisting upon tables in impossible places,
calling out greetings to acquaintances across the room, chaffing
the maitre d'h“tel who was hastening from table to table.  The
gathering babel of voices was mingled every now and then with the
popping of corks, and behind it all were the soft strains of a
very seductive little band, perched up in the balcony.  Tavernake
felt the color mounting into his cheeks.  It was true: there was
something here which was new to him!

"Beatrice," he asked her suddenly, "have you ever drunk
champagne?"

She laughed at him.

"Often, my dear brother," she answered.  "Why?"

"I never have," he confessed.  "We are going to have some now."

She would have checked him but he had summoned a waiter
imperiously and given his order.

"My dear Leonard," she protested, "this is shocking
extravagance."

"Is it?" he replied.  "I don't care.  Tell me about the theatre.
Were they kind to you there?  Will you be able to keep your
place?"

"The girls were all much nicer than I expected," she told him,
"and the musical director said that my voice was much too good
for the chorus.  Oh, I do hope that they will keep me!"

"They would be idiots if they didn't," he declared, vigorously.
"You sing better and you dance more gracefully and to me you
seemed much prettier than any one else there."

She laughed into his eyes.

"My dear brother," she exclaimed, "your education is progressing
indeed!  It is positively the first evening I have ever heard you
attempt to make pretty speeches, and you are quite an adept
already."

"I don't know about that," he protested.  "I suppose it never
occurred to me before that you were good-looking," he added,
examining her critically, "or I dare say I should have told you
so.  You see, one doesn't notice these things in an ordinary way.
Lots of other people must have told you so, though."

"I was never spoilt with compliments," she said.  "You see, I had
a beautiful sister."

The words seemed to have escaped her unconsciously.  Almost as
they passed her lips, her expression changed.  She shivered, as
though reminded of something unpleasant.  Tavernake, however,
noticed nothing.  For the greater part of the day he had been
sedulously fighting against a new and unaccustomed state of mind.
He had found his thoughts slipping away, time after time, until
he had had to set his teeth and use all his will power to keep
his attention concentrated upon his work.  And now once more they
had escaped, again he felt the strange stir in his blood.  The
slight flush on his cheek grew suddenly deeper.  He looked past
the girl opposite to him, out of the restaurant, across the
street, into that little sitting-room in the Milan Court.  It was
Elizabeth who was there in front of him.  Again he heard her
voice, saw the turn of her head, the slow, delightful curve of
the lips, the eyes that looked into his and spoke to him the
first strange whispers of a new language.  His heart gave a quick
throb.  He was for the moment transformed, a prisoner no longer,
a different person, indeed, from the stolid, well-behaved young
man who found himself for the first time in his life in these
unaccustomed surroundings.  Then Beatrice leaned towards him, her
voice brought him back to the present--not, alas, the voice which
at that moment he would have given so much to have heard.

"To-night," she murmured, "I feel as though we were at the
beginning of new things.  We must drink a toast."

Tavernake filled her glass and his own.

"Luck to you in your new profession!" he said.

"And here is one after your own heart, you most curious of men!"
she exclaimed, a few seconds later.  "To the undiscovered in
life!"

He drained his glass and set it down empty.

"The undiscovered," he muttered, looking around.  "It is a very
good toast, Beatrice.  There are many things of which one might
remain ignorant all one's life if one relied wholly upon one's
own perceptions."

"I believe," she agreed, "that if I had not appeared you were in
great danger of becoming narrow."

"I am sure of it," he answered, "but you see you came."

She was thoughtful for a moment.

"This reminds me just a little of that first dreary feast of
ours," she said.  "You knew what it was like then to feed a
genuinely starving girl.  And I was miserable, Leonard.  It
didn't seem to me that there was any other end save one."

"You've got over all that nonsense?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes, I suppose so," she answered.  "You see, I've started life
again and one gets stronger.  But there are times even now," she
added, "when I am afraid."

The mirth had suddenly died from her face.  She looked older,
tired, and careworn.  The shadows were back under her eyes; she
glanced around almost timorously.  He filled her glass.

"That is foolishness," he said.  "Nothing nor anybody can harm
you now."

Some note in his voice attracted her attention.  Strong and
square, with hard, forceful face, he sat wholly at his ease among
these unfamiliar surroundings, a very tower of refuge, she felt,
to the weak.  His face was not strikingly intellectual--she was
not sure now about his mouth--but one seemed to feel that dogged
nature, the tireless pains by which he would pursue any aim dear
to him.  The shadows passed away from her mind.  What was dead
was gone!  It was not reasonable that she should be haunted all
her days by the ghosts of other people's sins.  The atmosphere of
the place, the atmosphere of the last few hours, found its way
again into her blood.  After all, she was young, the music was
sweet, her pulses were throbbing to the tune of this new life.
She drank her wine and laughed, her head beating time to the
music.

"We have been sad long enough," she declared.  "You and I, my
dear serious brother, will embark in earnest now upon the paths
of frivolity.  Tell me, how did things go to-day?"

It flashed into his mind that he had great news, but that it was
not for her.  About that matter there was still doubt in his
mind, but he could not speak of it.

"I have had an offer," he said guardedly.  "I cannot say much
about it at present, for nothing is certain, but I am sure that I
shall be able to raise the money somehow."

His tone was calm and confident.  There was no self-assurance or
bluster about it, and yet it was convincing.  She looked at him
curiously.

"You are a very positive person, Leonard," she remarked.  "You
must have great faith in yourself, I think."

He considered the question for a moment.

"Perhaps I have," he admitted.  "I do not think that there is any
other way to succeed."

The atmosphere of the place was becoming now almost languorous.
The band had ceased to play; little parties of men and women were
standing about, bidding one another goodnight.  The lamps had
been lowered, and in the gloom the voices and laughter seemed to
have become lower and more insinuating; the lights in the eyes of
the women, as they passed down the room on their way out, softer
and more irresistible.

"I suppose we must go," she said reluctantly.

Tavernake paid his bill and they turned into the street.  She
took his arm and they turned westward.  Even out here, the
atmosphere of the restaurant appeared to have found its way.  The
soberness of life, its harder and more practical side, was for
the moment obscured.  It was not the daytime crowd, this, whose
footsteps pressed the pavements.  The careworn faces of the
money-seekers had vanished.  The men and women to whom life was
something of a struggle had sought their homes--resting, perhaps,
before they took up their labors again.  Every moment taxicabs
and motor-cars whirled by, flashing upon the night a momentary
impression of men in evening dress, of women in soft garments
with jewels in their hair.  The spirit of pleasure seemed to have
crept into the atmosphere.  Even the poorer people whom they
passed in the street, were laughing or singing.

Tavernake stopped short.

"To-night," he declared, "is not the night for omnibuses.  We are
going to have a taxicab.  I know that you are tired."

"I should love it," she admitted.

They hailed one and drove off.  Beatrice leaned back among the
cushions and closed her eyes, her ungloved hand rested almost
caressingly upon his.  He leaned forward.  There were new things
in the world--he was sure of it now, sure though they were coming
to him through the mists, coming to him so vaguely that even
while he obeyed he did not understand.  Her full, soft lips were
slightly parted; her heavily-fringed eyelids closed; her deep
brown hair, which had escaped bounds a little, drooping over her
ear.  His fingers suddenly clasped hers tightly.

"Beatrice!" he whispered.

She sat up with a start, her eyes questioning his, the breath
coming quickly through her parted lips.

"Once you asked me to kiss you, Beatrice," he said.  "To-night
-- I am going to."

She made no attempt to repulse him.  He took her in his arms and
kissed her.  Even in that moment he knew that he had made a
mistake.  Nevertheless, he kissed her again and again, crushing
her lips against his.

"Please let me go, Leonard," she begged at last.

He obeyed at once.  He understood quite well that some strange
thing had happened.  It seemed to him during those next few
minutes that everything which had passed that night was a dream,
that this vivid picture of a life more intense, making larger
demands upon the senses than anything he had yet experienced, was
a mirage, a thing which would live only in his memory, a life in
which he could never take any part.  He had blundered; he had
come into a new world and he had blundered.  A sense of guilt was
upon him.  He had a sudden wild desire to cry out that it was
Elizabeth whom he had kissed.  Beatrice was sitting upright in
her place, her head turned a little away from him.  He felt that
she was expecting him to speak--that there were inevitable words
which he should say.  His silence was a confession.  He would
have lied but the seal was upon his lips.  So the moment passed,
and Tavernake had taken another step forward towards his destiny!
. . .

As he helped her out of the cab, her fingers tightened for a
moment upon his hand.  She patted it gently as she passed out
before him into the house, leaving the door open.  When he had
paid the cabman and followed, she had disappeared.  He looked
into the sitting-room; it was empty.  Overhead, he could hear her
footsteps as she ascended to her room.




CHAPTER XIII

AN EVENING CALL


In the morning, when he left for the city, she was not down.
When he came home in the evening, she was gone.  Without removing
his hat or overcoat, he took the letter which he found propped up
on the mantelpiece and addressed to him to the window and read
it.

DEAR BROTHER LEONARD,--It wasn't your fault and I don't think it
was mine.  If either of us is to blame, it is certainly I, for
though you are such a clever and ambitious young person, you
really know very little indeed of the world,--not so much, I
think, as I do.  I am going to stay for a few nights, at any
rate, with one of the girls at the theatre, who I know wants some
one to share her tiny flat with her.  Afterwards, I shall see.

Don't throw this letter in the fire and don't think me
ungrateful.  I shall never forget what you did for me.  How could
I?

I will send you my address as soon as I am sure of it, or you can
always write me to the theatre.

                Good-bye, dear Leonard,
                                        YOUR SISTER BEATRICE.

Tavernake looked from the sheet of notepaper out across the gray
square.  He knew that he was very angry, angry though he
deliberately folded the letter up and placed it in his pocket,
angry though he took off his overcoat and hung it up with his
usual care; but his anger was with himself.  He had blundered
badly.  This episode of his life was one which he had better
forget.  It was absolutely out of harmony with all his ideas.  He
told himself that he was glad Beatrice was gone.  Housekeeping
with an imaginary sister in this practical world was an
absurdity.  Sooner or later it must have come to an end.  Better
now, before it had gone too far--better now, much better!  All
the same, he knew that he was going to be very lonely.

He rang the bell for the woman who waited upon them, and whom he
seldom saw, for Beatrice herself had supplied their immediate
wants.  He found some dinner ready, which he ate with absolute
unconsciousness.  Then he threw himself fiercely into his work.
It was all very well for the first hour or so, but as ten o'clock
grew near he began to find a curious difficulty in keeping his
attention fixed upon those calculations.  The matter of average
rentals, percentage upon capital--things which but yesterday he
had found fascinating--seemed suddenly irksome.  He could fix his
attention upon nothing.  At last he pushed his papers away, put
on his hat and coat, and walked into the street.

At the Milan Court, the hall-porter received his inquiry for
Elizabeth with an air of faint but well-bred surprise.
Tavernake, in those days, was a person exceedingly difficult to
place.  His clothes so obviously denoted the station in life
which he really occupied, while the slight imperiousness of his
manner, his absolute freedom from any sort of nervousness or
awkwardness, seemed to bespeak a consideration which those who
had to deal with him as a stranger found sometimes a little
puzzling.

"Mrs. Wenham Gardner is in her rooms, I believe, sir," the man
said.  "If you will wait for a moment, I will inquire."

He disappeared into his office, thrusting his head out, a moment
or two later, with the telephone receiver still in his hand.

"Mrs. Gardner would like the name again, sir, please," he
remarked.

Tavernake repeated it firmly.

"You might say," he added, "that I shall not detain her for more
than a few minutes."

The man disappeared once more.  When he returned, he indicated
the lift to Tavernake.

"If you will go up to the fifth floor, sir," he said, " Mrs.
Gardner will see you."

Tavernake found his courage almost leaving him as he knocked at
the door of her rooms.  Her French maid ushered him into the
little sitting-room, where, to his dismay, he found three men,
one sitting on the table, the other two in easy-chairs.
Elizabeth, in a dress of pale blue satin, was standing before the
mirror.  She turned round as Tavernake entered.

"Mr. Tavernake shall decide!" she exclaimed, waving her hand to
him.  " Mr. Tavernake, there is a difference of opinion about my
earrings.  Major Post here,"--she indicated a distinguished-
looking elderly gentleman, with carefully trimmed beard and
moustache, and an eyeglass attached to a thin band of black
ribbon--" Major Post wants me to wear turquoises.  I prefer my
pearls.  Mr. Crease half agrees with me, but as he never agrees
with any one, on principle, he hates to say so.  Mr. Faulkes is
wavering.  You shall decide; you, I know, are one of those people
who never waver."

"I should wear the pearls," Tavernake said.

Elizabeth made them a little courtesy.

"You see, my dear friends," she declared, " you have to come to
England, after all, to find a man who knows his own mind and
speaks it without fear.  The pearls it shall be."

"It may be decision," Crease drawled, speaking with a slight
American accent, "or it may be gallantry.  Mr. Tavernake knew
your own choice."

"The last word, as usual," she sighed.  "Now, if you good people
will kindly go on downstairs, I will join you in a few minutes.
Mr. Tavernake is my man of business and I am sure he has
something to say to me."

She dismissed them all pleasantly.  As soon as the door was
closed she turned to Tavernake.  Her manner seemed to become a
shade less gracious.

"Well?"

"I don't know why I came," Tavernake confessed bluntly.  "I was
restless and I wanted to see you."

She looked at him for a moment and then she laughed.  Tavernake
felt a sense of relief; at least she was not angry.

"Oh, you strangest of mortals!" she exclaimed, holding out her
hands.  "Well, you see me--in one of my most becoming gowns, too.
What do you think of the fit?"

She swept round and faced him again with an expectant look.
Tavernake, who knew nothing of women's fashions, still realized
the superbness of that one unbroken line.

"I can't think how you can move a step in it," he said, "but you
look--"

He paused.  It was as though he had lost his breath.  Then he set
his teeth and finished.

"You look beautiful," he declared.  "I suppose you know that.  I
suppose they've all been telling you so."

She shook her head.

"They haven't all your courage, dear Briton," she remarked, "and
if they did tell me so, I am not sure that I should be convinced.
You see, most of my friends have lived so long and lived so
quickly that they have learned to play with words until one never
knows whether the things they speak come from their hearts.  With
you it is different."

"Yes," Tavernake admitted, "with me it is different!"

She glanced at the clock.

"Well," she said, "you have seen me and I am glad to have seen
you, and you may kiss my fingers if you like, and then you must
run away.  I am engaged to have supper with my friends
downstairs."

He raised her fingers clumsily enough to his lips and kept them
there for a moment.  When he let them go, she wrung them as
though in pain, and looked at him.  She turned abruptly away.  In
a sense she was disappointed.  After all, he was an easy victim!

"Elise," she called out, "my cloak."

Her maid came hurrying from the next room.  Elizabeth turned
towards her, holding out her shoulders.  She nodded to Tavernake.

"You know the way down, Mr. Tavernake?  I shall see you again
soon, sha'n't I?  Good-night!"

She scarcely glanced at him as she sent him away, yet Tavernake
walked on air.




CHAPTER XIV

A WARNING FROM Mr. PRITCHARD


Tavernake hesitated for a moment under the portico of the Milan
Court, looking out at the rain which had suddenly commenced to
descend.  He scarcely noticed that he had a companion until the
man who was standing by his side addressed him.

"Say, your name is Tavernake, isn't it?"

Tavernake, who had been on the point of striding away, turned
sharply around.  The man who had spoken to him was wearing
morning clothes of dark gray tweed and a soft Homburg hat.  His
complexion was a little sallow and he was clean-shaven except for
a slight black moustache.  He was smoking a black cigar and his
accent was transatlantic.  Something about his appearance struck
Tavernake as being vaguely familiar, but he could not at first
recall where he had seen him before.

"That is my name, certainly," Tavernake admitted.

"I am going to ask you a somewhat impertinent question," his
neighbor remarked.

"I suppose you can ask it," Tavernake rejoined.  "I am not
obliged to answer, am I?"

The man smiled.

"Come," he said, "that's honest, at any rate.  Are you in a hurry
for a few minutes?"

"I am in no particular hurry," Tavernake answered.  "What do you
want?"

"A few nights ago," the stranger continued, lowering his voice a
little, "I met you with a young lady whose appearance, for some
reason which we needn't go into, interested me.  To-night I
happened to overhear you inquiring, only a few minutes ago, for
the sister of the same young lady."

"What you heard doesn't concern me in the least," Tavernake
retorted.  "I should say that you had no business to listen."

His companion smiled.

"Well," he declared, "I have always heard a good deal about
British frankness, and it seems to me that I'm getting some.
Anyway, I'll tell you where I come in.  I am interested in Mrs.
Wenham Gardner.  I am interested, also, in her sister, whom I
think you know--Miss Beatrice Franklin, not Miss Tavernake!"

Tavernake made no immediate reply.  The man was an American,
without a doubt.  Perhaps he knew something of Beatrice.  Perhaps
this was one of the friends of that former life concerning which
she had told him nothing.

"You are not, by any chance, proposing," Tavernake said at last,
"to discuss either of these ladies with me?  I do not know you or
what your business may be.  In any case, I am going now."

The other laid his hand on Tavernake's shoulder.

"You'll be soaked to the skin," he protested.  "I want you to
come into the smoking-room here with me for a few minutes.  We
will have a drink together and a little conversation, if you
don't mind."

"But I do mind," Tavernake declared.  "I don't know who you are
and I don't want to know you, and I am not going to talk about
Mrs. Gardner, or any other lady of my acquaintance, with
strangers.  Good-night!"

"One moment, please, Mr. Tavernake."

Tavernake hesitated.  There was something curiously compelling in
the other's smooth, distinct voice.

"I'd like you to take this card," he said.  "I told you my name
before but I expect you've forgotten it,--Pritchard--Sam
Pritchard.  Ever heard of me before?"

"Never!"

"Not to have heard of me in the United States," the other
continued, with a grim smile, "would be a tribute to your
respectability.  Most of the crooks who find their way over here
know of Sam Pritchard.  I am a detective and I come from New
York."

Tavernake turned and looked the man over.  There was something
convincing about his tone and appearance.  It did not occur to
him to doubt for a moment a word of this stranger's story.

"You haven't anything against her--against either of them?" he
asked, quickly.

"Nothing directly," the detective answered.  "All the same, you
have been calling upon Mrs. Wenham Gardner this evening, and if
you are a friend of hers I think that you had better come along
with me and have that talk."

"I will come," Tavernake agreed, "but I come as a listener.
Remember that I have nothing to tell you.  So far as you are
concerned, I do not know either of those ladies."

Pritchard smiled.

"Well," he said, "I guess we'll let it go at that.  All the same,
if you don't mind, we'll talk.  Come this way and we'll get to
the smoking-room through the hotel.  It's under cover."

Tavernake moved restlessly in his chair.

"What the devil is all this talk about crooks!" he exclaimed
impatiently.  "I didn't come here to listen to this sort of
thing.  I am not sure that I believe a word of what you say."

"Why should you," Pritchard remarked, "without proof?  Look
here."

He drew a leather case from his pocket and spread it out.  There
were a dozen photographs there of men in prison attire.  The
detective pointed to one, and with a little shiver Tavernake
recognized the face of the man who had been sitting at the right
hand of Elizabeth.

"You don't mean to say," he faltered, "that Mrs. Gardner--"

The detective folded up his case and replaced it in his pocket.

"No," he said, "we haven't any photographs of your lady friend
there, nor of her sister.  And yet, it may not be so far off."

"If you are trying to fasten anything upon those ladies,--"
Tavernake began, threateningly.

The detective laughed and patted him on the shoulder.

"It isn't my business to try and fasten things upon any one," he
interrupted.  "At the same time, you seem to be a friend of Mrs.
Wenham Gardner, and it is just as well that some one should warn
her."

"Warn her of what?" Tavernake asked.

The detective looked at his cigar meditatively.

"Make her understand that there is trouble ahead," he replied.

Tavernake sipped his whiskey and soda and lit a cigarette.  Then
he turned in his chair and looked thoughtfully at his companion.
Pritchard was a striking-looking man, with hard, clean-cut
features--a man of determination.

"Mr. Pritchard, I am a clerk in an estate office.  My people were
work-people and I am trying to better myself in the world.  I
haven't learned how to beat about a subject, but I have learned a
little of the world, and I know that people such as you are not
in the habit of doing things without a reason.  Why the devil
have you brought me in here to talk about Mrs. Gardner and her
sister?  If you've anything to say, why don't you go to Mrs.
Gardner herself and say it?  Why do you come and talk to
strangers about their affairs?  I am here listening to you, but I
tell you straight I don't like it."

Pritchard nodded.

"Say, I am not sure that I don't like that sort of talk," he
declared.  "I know all about you, young man.  You're in Dowling &
Spence's office and you've got to quit.  You've got an estate you
want financing.  Miss Beatrice Franklin was living under your
roof--as your sister, I understand--until yesterday, and Mrs.
Gardner, for some reason of her own, seems to be doing her best
to add you to the list of her admirers.  I am not sure what it
all means but I could make a pretty good guess.  Here's my point,
though.  You're right.  I didn't bring you here for your health.
I brought you here because you can do me a service and yourself
one at the same time, and you'll be doing no one any harm, nobody
you care about, anyway.  I have no grudge against Miss Beatrice.
I'd just as soon she kept out of the trouble that's coming."

"What is this service?" Tavernake asked.

Pritchard for the moment evaded the point.

"I dare say you can understand, Mr. Tavernake," he said, "that in
my profession one has to sometimes go a long way round to get a
man or a woman just where you want them.  Now we merely glanced
at that table as we came in, and I can tell you this for gospel
truth--there isn't one of that crowd that I couldn't, if I liked,
haul back to New York on some charge or another.  You wonder why
I don't do it.  I'll tell you.  It's because I am waiting
-- waiting until I can bring home something more serious,
something that will keep them out of the way for just as long as
possible.  Do you follow me, Mr. Tavernake?"

"I suppose I do," Tavernake answered, doubtfully.  "You are only
talking of the men, of course?"

Pritchard smiled.

"My young friend," he agreed, "I am only talking of the men.  At
the same time, I guess I'm not betraying any confidence, or
telling you anything that Mrs. Wenham Gardner doesn't know
herself, when I say that she's doing her best to qualify for a
similar position."

"You mean that she is doing something against the law!" Tavernake
exclaimed, indignantly.  "I don't believe it for a moment.  If
she is associating with these people, it's because she doesn't
know who they are."

Pritchard flicked the ash from his cigar.

"Well," he said, "every man has a right to his own opinions, and
for my part I like to hear any one stick up for his friends.  It
makes no odds to me.  However, here are a few facts I am going to
bring before you.  Four months ago, one of the turns at a
vaudeville show down Broadway consisted of a performance by a
Professor Franklin and his two daughters, Elizabeth and Beatrice.
The professor hypnotized, told fortunes, felt heads, and the
usual rigmarole.  Beatrice sang, Elizabeth danced.

People came to see the show, not because it was any good but
because the girls, even in New York, were beautiful."

"A music-hall in New York!" Tavernake muttered.

The detective nodded.

"Among the young bloods of the city," he continued, "were two
brothers, as much alike as twins, although they aren't twins,
whose names were Wenham and Jerry Gardner.  There's nothing in
fast life which those young men haven't tried.  Between them, I
should say they represented everything that was known of
debauchery and dissipation.  The eldest can't be more than
twenty-seven to-day, but if you were to see them in the morning,
either of them, before they had been massaged and galvanized into
life, you'd think they were little old men, with just strength
enough left to crawl about.  Well, to cut a long story short,
both of them fell in love with Elizabeth."

"Brutes!" Tavernake interjected.

"I guess they found Miss Elizabeth a pretty tough nut to crack,"
the detective went on.  "Anyhow, you know what her price was from
her name, which is hers right enough.  Wenham, who was a year
younger than his brother, was the first to bid it.  Three months
ago, Mr. and Mrs. Wenham Gardner, Miss Beatrice, and the devoted
father left New York in the Lusitania and came to London."

"Where is this Wenham Gardner, then?" Tavernake demanded.

Pritchard took his cigar case from his pocket and selected
another cigar.

"Say, that's where you strike the nail right on the head," he
remarked.  "Where is this Wenham Gardner?

I don't mind telling you, Mr. Tavernake, that to discover his
whereabouts is exactly what I am over on this side for.  I have a
commission from the family to find out, and a blank cheque to do
it with."

"Do you mean that he has disappeared, then?" asked Tavernake.

"Off the face of the earth, sir," Pritchard replied.  "Something
like two months ago, the young married couple, with Miss
Beatrice, started for a holiday tour somewhere down in the west
of England.  A few days after they started, Miss Beatrice comes
back to London alone.  She goes to a boarding-house, is
practically penniless, but she has shaken her sister--has, I
believe, never spoken with her since.  A little later, Elizabeth
alone turns up in London.  She has plenty of money, more money
than she has ever had the control of before in her life, but no
husband."

"So far, I don't see anything remarkable about that," Tavernake
interposed.

"That may or may not be," Pritchard answered, drily.  "This
creature, Wenham Gardner--I hate to call him a man--was her
abject slave--up till the time they reached London, at any rate.
He would never have quit of his own accord.  He stopped quite
suddenly communicating with all his friends.  None of their
cables, even, were answered."

"Why don't you go and ask Mrs. Gardner where he is?" Tavernake
demanded bluntly.

"I have already," Pritchard declared, "taken that liberty.  With
tears in her eyes, she assured me that after some slight quarrel,
in which she admits that she was the one to blame, her husband
walked out of the house where they were staying, and she has not
seen him since.  She was quite ready with all the particulars,
and even implored me to help find him."

"I cannot imagine," Tavernake said, "why any one should
disbelieve her."

The detective smiled.

"There are a few little outside circumstances," he remarked,
looking at the ash of his cigar.  "In the first place, how do you
suppose that this young Wenham Gardner spent the last week of his
stay in New York?"

"How should I know?" Tavernake replied, impatiently.

"By realizing every cent of his property on which he could lay
his hands," the detective continued.  "It isn't at any time an
easy business, and the Gardner interest is spread out in many
directions, but he must have sailed with something like forty
thousand pounds in hard cash.  A suspicious person might presume
that that forty thousand pounds has found its way to the stronger
of the combination."

"Anything else?" Tavernake asked.

"I won't worry you much more," the detective answered.  "There
are a few other circumstances which seem to need explanation, but
they can wait.  There is one serious one, however, and that is
where you come in."

"Indeed!" Tavernake remarked.  "I was hoping you would come to
that soon."

"The two sisters, Beatrice and Elizabeth, have been together ever
since we can learn anything of their history.  Those people who
don't understand the disappearance of Wenham Gardner would like
to know why they quarreled and parted, why Beatrice is keeping
away from her sister in this strange manner.  I personally, too,
should like to know from Miss Beatrice when she last saw Wenham
Gardner alive."

"You want me to ask Miss Beatrice these things?" Tavernake
demanded.

"It might come better from you," Pritchard admitted.  "I have
written her to the theatre but naturally she has not replied."

Tavernake looked curiously at his companion.

"Do you really suppose," he asked, "that, even granted there were
any unusual circumstances in connection with that quarrel--do you
seriously suppose that Beatrice would give her sister away?"

The detective sighed.

"No doubt, Mr. Tavernake," he said, "these young ladies are
friends of yours, and perhaps for that reason you are a little
prejudiced in their favor.  Their whole bringing-up and
associations, however, have certainly not been of a strict order.
I cannot help thinking that persuasion might be brought to bear
upon Miss Beatrice, that it might be pointed out to her that a
true story is the safest."

"Well, if you've finished," Tavernake declared, "I'd like to tell
you what I think of your story.  I think it's all d -d silly
nonsense!  This Wenham Gardner, by your own saying, was half mad.
There was a quarrel and he's gone off to Paris or somewhere.  As
to your suggestions about Mrs. Gardner, I think they're
infamous."

Pritchard was unmoved by his companion's warmth.

"Why, that's all right, Mr. Tavernake," he affirmed.  "I can
quite understand your feeling like that just at first.  You see,
I've been among crime and criminals all my days, and I learn to
look for a certain set of motives when a thing of this sort
happens.  You've been brought up among honest folk, who go the
straightforward way about life, and naturally you look at the
same matter from a different point of view.  But you and I have
got to talk this out.  I want you to understand that those very
charming young ladies are not quite the class of young women whom
you know anything about.  Mind you, I haven't a word to say
against Miss Beatrice.  I dare say she's as straight as they make
'em.  But--you must take another whiskey and soda, Mr. Tavernake.
Now, I insist upon it.  Tim, come right over here."

Mr. Pritchard seemed to have forgotten what he was talking about.
The room had been suddenly invaded.  The whole of the little
supper party, whose individual members he had pointed out to his
companion, came trooping into the room.  They were all apparently
on the best of terms with themselves, and they all seemed to make
a point of absolutely ignoring Pritchard's presence.  Elizabeth
was the one exception.  She was carrying a tiny Chinese spaniel
under one arm; with the fingers of her other hand she held a
tortoise-shell mounted monocle to her eye, and stared directly at
the two men.  Presently she came languidly across the room to
them.

"Dear me," she said, "I had no idea that even your wide circle of
acquaintances, Mr. Pritchard, included my friend, Mr. Tavernake."

The two men rose to their feet.  Tavernake felt confused and
angry.  It was as though he had been playing the traitor in
listening, even for a moment, to these stories.

"Mr. Pritchard introduced himself to me only a few minutes ago,"
he declared.  "He brought me in here and I have been listening to
a lot of rubbish from him of which I don't believe a single
word."

She flashed a wonderful smile upon him.

"Mr. Pritchard is so very censorious," she murmured.  "He takes
such a very low view of human nature.  After all, though, I
suppose we must not blame him.  I think that as men and women we
do not exist to him.  We are simply the pegs by means of which he
can climb a little higher in the esteem of his employers."

Pritchard took up his soft hat and stick.

"Mrs. Gardner," he said, "I will confess that I have been wasting
my time with this young man.  You are a trifle severe upon me.
You may find, and before long, that I am your best friend."

She laughed delightfully.

"Dear Mr. Pritchard," she exclaimed, "it is a strange thought,
that!  If only I dared hope that some day it might come true!"

"More unlikely things, madam, are happening every hour," the
detective remarked.  "The world--our little corner of it, at any
rate--is full of anomalies.  There might even come a time to any
one of us three when liberty was more dangerous than the prison
cell itself."

He nodded carelessly to Tavernake, and with a bow to Elizabeth
turned and left the room.  Elizabeth remained as though turned to
stone, looking after him as he descended the stairs.

"The man is a fool!" Tavernake cried, roughly.

Elizabeth shook her head and sighed.

"He is something far more ineffective," she said.  "He is just a
little too clever."




CHAPTER, XV

GENERAL DISCONTENT


Elizabeth did not at once rejoin her friends.  Instead, she sank
on to the low settee close to where she had been standing, and
drew Tavernake down to her side.  She waved her hand across at
the others, who were calling for her.

"In a moment, dear people," she said.

Then she leaned back among the cushions and laughed at her
companion.

"Tell me, Mr. Tavernake," she asked, "don't you feel that you
have stepped into a sort of modern Arabian Nights?"

"Why?"

"Oh, I know Mr. Pritchard's weakness," she continued.  "He loves
to throw a glamour around everything he says or does.  Because he
honors me by interesting himself in my concerns, he has probably
told you all sorts of wonderful things about me and my friends.
A very ingenious romancer, Mr. Pritchard, you know.  Confess,
now, didn't he tell you some stories about us?"

She might have spared herself the trouble of beating about the
bush.  There was no hesitation about Tavernake.

"He said that your friends were every one of them criminals,"
Tavernake declared, "and he admitted that he was working hard at
the present moment to discover that you were one, too."

She laughed softly but heartily.

"I wonder what was his object," she remarked, "in taking you into
his confidence."

"He happened to know," Tavernake explained, "that I was intimate
with your sister.  He wanted me to ask Beatrice a certain
question."

Elizabeth laughed no more.  She looked steadfastly into his eyes.

"And that question?"

"He wanted me to ask Beatrice why she left you and hid herself in
London."

She tried to smile but not very successfully.

"According to his story," Tavernake continued, "you and Beatrice
and your husband were away together somewhere in the country.
Something happened there, something which resulted in the
disappearance of your husband.  Beatrice came back alone and has
not been near you since.  Soon afterwards, you, too, came back
alone.  Mr. Gardner has not been seen or heard of."

Elizabeth was bending over her dog, but even Tavernake,
unobservant though he was, could see that she was shaken.

"Pritchard is a clever man, generally," she remarked,
"diabolically clever.  Why has he told you all this, I wonder?
He must have known that you would probably repeat it to me.  Why
does he want to show me his hand?"

"I have no idea," Tavernake replied.  "These matters are all
beyond me.  They do not concern me in any way.  I am not keeping
you from your friends?  Please send me away when you like."

"Don't go just yet," she begged.  "Sit with me for a moment.
Can't you see," she added, whispering, "that I have had a shock?
Sit with me.  I can't go back to those others just yet."

Tavernake did as he was bidden.  The woman at his side was still
caressing the little animal she carried.  Watching her, however,
Tavernake could see that her bosom was rising and falling
quickly.  There was an unnatural pallor in her cheeks, a
terrified gleam in her eyes.  Nevertheless, these things passed.
In a very few seconds she was herself again.

"Come," she said, "it is not often that I give way.  The only
time I am ever afraid is when there is something which I do not
understand.  I do not understand Mr. Pritchard to-night.  I know
that he is my enemy.  I cannot imagine why he should talk to you.
He must have known that you would repeat all he said.  It is not
like him.  Tell me, Mr. Tavernake, you have heard all sorts of
things about me.  Do you believe them?  Do you believe--it's
rather a horrible thing to ask, isn't it?" she went on hurriedly,
--"do you believe that I made away with my husband?"

"You surely do not need to ask me that question," Tavernake
answered, fervently.  "I should believe your word, whatever you
told me.  I should not believe that you could do anything wrong."

Her hand touched his for a moment and he was repaid.

"Don't think too well of me," she begged.  "I don't want to
disappoint you."

Some one pushed open the swing doors and she started nervously.
It was only a waiter who passed through into the bar.

"What I think of you," Tavernake said slowly, "nothing could
alter, but because I am stupid, I suppose, there is quite a good
deal that I cannot understand.  I cannot understand, for
instance, why they should suspect you of having anything to do
with your husband's disappearance.  You can prove where you were
when he left you?"

"Quite easily," she answered, "only, unfortunately, no one seems
to have seen him go.  He timed his departure so cunningly that he
apparently vanished into thin air.  Even then," she continued,
"but for one thing I don't suppose that any one would have had
suspicions.  I dare say Mr. Pritchard told you that before we
left New York my husband sold out some of his property and
brought it over to Europe with him in cash.  We had both
determined that we would live abroad and have nothing more to do
with America.  It was not I who persuaded him to do this.  It
made no difference to me.  If he had run away and left me, the
courts would have given me money.  If he had died and I had been
a widow, he would have left me his property.  But simply because
there was all this money in our hands, and because he
disappeared, his people and this man Pritchard suspect me."

"It is wicked," he muttered.

She turned slowly towards him.

"Mr. Tavernake," she said, "do you know that you can help me very
much indeed?"

"I only wish I could," he replied.  "Try me."

"Can't you see," she went on, "that the great thing against me is
that Beatrice left me suddenly when we were on that wretched
expedition, and came back alone?  She is in London, I know, quite
close to me, and still she hides.  Pritchard asks himself why.
Mr. Tavernake, go and tell her what people are saying, go and
tell her everything that has happened, let her understand that
her keeping away is doing me a terrible injury, beg her to come
and let people see that we are reconciled, and warn her, too,
against Pritchard.  Will you do this for me?"

"Of course I will," Tavernake answered.  "I will see her
to-morrow."

Elizabeth drew a little sigh of relief.

"And you'll let me know what she says?" she asked, rising.

"I shall be only too glad to," Tavernake assured her.

"Good-night!"

She looked up into his face with a smile which had turned the
heads of hardened stagers in New York.  No wonder that Tavernake
felt his heart beat against his ribs!  He took her hands and held
them for a moment.  Then he turned abruptly away.

"Good-night!" he said.

He disappeared through the swing doors.  She strolled across the
room to where her friends were sitting in a circle, laughing and
talking.  Her father, who had just come in and joined them,
gripped her by the arm as she sat down.

"What does it mean?" he demanded, with shaking voice.  "Did you
see that he was there with Pritchard--your young man--that
wretched estate agent's clerk?  I tell you that Pritchard was
pumping him for all he was worth."

"My dear father," she whispered, coldly, "don't be melodramatic.
You give yourself away the whole time.  Go to bed if you can't
behave like a man."

The lights had been turned low, there was no one else in the
room.  The little old gentleman with the eyeglass leaned forward.

"Have you any notion, my dear Elizabeth," he asked, "why our
friend Pritchard is so much in evidence just at present?"

"Not on account of you, Jimmy," she answered, "nor of any one
else here, in fact.  The truth is he has conceived a violent
admiration for me--an admiration so pronounced, indeed, that he
hates to let me out of his sight."

They all laughed uproariously.  Then Walter Crease, the
journalist, leaned forward,--a man with a long, narrow face,
yellow-stained fingers, and hollow cheekbones.  He glanced around
the room before he spoke, and his voice sounded like a hoarse
whisper.

"See here," he said, "seems to me Pritchard is getting mighty
awkward.  He hasn't got his posse around him in this country,
anyway."

There was a dead silence for several seconds.  Then the little
old gentleman nodded solemnly.

"I am a trifle tired of Pritchard myself," he admitted, "and he
certainly knows too much.  He carries too much in his head to go
around safely."

The eyes of Elizabeth were bright.

"He treats us like children," she declared.  "To-night he has
told the whole of my affairs to a perfect stranger.  It is
intolerable!"

The little party broke up soon after.  Only Walter Crease and the
man called Jimmy Post were left talking, and they retired into
the window-seat, whispering together.

Tavernake, with his hands thrust deep in his overcoat pockets,
left the hotel and strode along the Strand.  Some fancy seized
him before he had gone many paces, and turning abruptly to the
left he descended to the Embankment.  He made his way to the very
seat upon which he had sat once before with Beatrice.  With
folded arms he leaned back in the corner, looking out across the
river, at the curving line of lights, at the black, turgid
waters, the slowly-moving hulk of a barge on its way down the
stream.  It was a new thing, this, for him to have to accuse
himself of folly, of weakness.  For the last few days he had
moved in a mist of uncertainty, setting his heel upon all
reflection, avoiding every issue.  To-night he could escape those
accusing thoughts no longer; to-night he was more than ever
bitter with himself.  What folly was this which had sprung up in
his life--folly colossal, unimaginable, as unexpected as though
it had fallen a thunderbolt from the skies!  What had happened to
change him so completely!

His thought traveled back to the boarding-house.  It was there
that the thing had begun.  Before that night upon the roof, the
finger-posts which he had set up with such care and deliberation
along the road which led towards his coveted goal, had seemed to
him to point with unfaltering directness towards everything in
life worthy of consideration.  To-night they were only dreary
phantasms, marking time across a miserable plain.  Perhaps, after
all, there had been something in his nature, some rebel thing,
intolerable yet to be reckoned with, which had been first born of
that fateful curiosity of his.  It had leapt up so suddenly,
sprung with such scanty notice into strenuous and insistent life.
Yet what place had it there?  He must fight against it, root it
out with both hands.  What was this world of intrigue, this
criminal, undesirable world, to him?  His common sense forbade
him altogether to dissociate Elizabeth from her friends, from her
surroundings.  She was the secret of the pain which was tearing
at his heartstrings, of all the excitement, the joy, the passion
which had swept like a full flood across the level way of his
life, which had set him drifting among the unknown seas.  Yet it
was Beatrice who had brought this upon him.  If she had never
left, if he had not tasted the horrors of this new loneliness, he
might have been able to struggle on.  He missed her, missed her
diabolically.  The other things, marvelous though they were, had
been more or less like a mirage.  This world of new emotions had
spread like a silken mesh over all his thoughts, over all his
desires.  Beatrice had been a tangible person, restful,
delightful, a real companion, his one resource against this
madness.  And now she was gone, and he was powerless to get her
back.  He turned his head, he looked up the road along which he
had torn that night with his arms around her.  She owed him her
life and she had gone!  With all a man's inconsequence, it seemed
to him as he rose heavily to his feet and started homeward, that
she had repaid him with a certain amount of ingratitude, that she
had left him at the one moment in his life when he needed her
most.




CHAPTER XVI

AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE


The next afternoon, at half-past four, Tavernake was having tea
with Beatrice in the tiny flat which she was sharing with another
girl, off Kingsway.  She opened the door to him herself, and
though she chattered ceaselessly, it seemed to him that she was
by no means at her ease.  She installed him in the only available
chair, an absurd little wicker thing many sizes too small for
him, and seated herself upon the hearth-rug a few feet away.

"You have soon managed to find me out, Leonard," she remarked.

"Yes," he answered.  "I had to go to the stage doorkeeper for
your address."

"He hadn't the slightest right to give it you," she declared.

Tavernake shrugged his shoulders.

"I had to have it," he said simply.

"The power of the purse again!" she laughed.  "Now that you are
here, I don't believe that you are a bit glad to see me.  Are
you?"

He did not answer for a moment.  He was thinking of that vigil
upon the Embankment, of the long walk home, of the battle with
himself, the continual striving to tear from his heart this new
thing, for which, with a curious and most masculine
inconsistency, he persisted in holding her responsible.

"You know, Leonard," she continued, getting up abruptly and
beginning to make the tea, "I believe that you are angry with me.
If you are, all I can say is that you are a very foolish person.
I had to come away.  Can't you see that?"

"I cannot," he answered stolidly.

She sighed.

"You are not a reasonable person," she declared.  "I suppose it
is because you have led such a queer life, and had no womenfolk
to look after you.  You don't understand.  It was absurd, in a
way, that I should ever have called myself your sister, that we
should even have attempted such a ridiculous experiment.  But
after--after the other night--"

"Can't we forget that?" he interrupted.

She raised her eyes and looked at him.

"Can you?" she asked.

There was a curious, almost a pleading earnestness in her tone.
Her eyes had something new to say, something which, though it
failed to stir his blood, made him vaguely uncomfortable.
Nevertheless, he answered her without hesitation.

"Yes," he replied, "I could forget it.  I will promise to forget
it."

It was unaccountable, but he almost fancied that he saw this new
thing pass from her face, leaving her pale and tremulous.  She
looked away again and busied herself with the tea-caddy, but the
fingers which held the spoon were shaking a little.

"Oh, I suppose I could forget," she said, "but it would be very
difficult for either of us to behave as though it had never
happened.  Besides, it really was an impossible situation, you
know," she went on, looking down into the tea-caddy.  "It is much
better for me to be here with Annie.  You can come and see me now
and then and we can still be very good friends."

Tavernake was annoyed.  He said nothing, and Beatrice, glancing
up, laughed at his gloomy expression.

"You certainly are," she declared, "the most impossible, the most
primitive person I ever met.  London isn't Arcadia, you know, and
you are not my brother.  Besides, you were such an autocrat.  You
didn't even like my going out to supper with Mr. Grier."

"I hate the fellow!" Tavernake admitted.  "Are you seeing much of
him?"

"He took us all out to supper last night," she replied.  "I
thought it was very kind of him to ask me."

"Kind, indeed!  Does he want to marry you?" Tavernake demanded.

She set down the teapot and again she laughed softly.  In her
plain black gown, very simple, adorned only by the little white
bow at her neck, quakerlike and spotless, with the added color in
her cheeks, too, which seemed to have come there during the last
few moments, she was a very alluring person.

"He can't," she declared.  "He is married already."

Then there came to Tavernake an inspiration, an inspiration so
wonderful that he gripped the sides of his chair and sat up.
Here, after all, was the way out for him, the way out from his
garden of madness, the way to escape from that mysterious,
paralyzing yoke whose burden was already heavy upon his
shoulders.  In that swift, vivid moment he saw something of the
truth.  He saw himself losing all his virility, the tool and
plaything of this woman who had bewitched him, a poor, fond
creature living only for the kind words and glances she might
throw him at her pleasure.  In those few seconds he knew the true
from the false.  Without hesitation, he gripped with all the
colossal selfishness of his unthinking sex at the rope which was
thrown to him.

"Well, then, I do," he said firmly.  "Will you marry me,
Beatrice?"

She threw her head back and laughed, laughed long and softly, and
Tavernake, simple and unversed in the ways of women, believed
that she was indeed amused.

"Neither you nor any one else, dear Leonard!" she exclaimed.

"But I want you to," he persisted.  "I think that you will."

There was coquetry now in the tantalizing look she flashed him.

"Am I, too, then, one of these things to be attained in your
life?" she asked.  "Dear Leonard, you mustn't say it like that.
I don't like the look of your jaw.  It frightens me."

"There is nothing to be afraid of in marrying me," he answered.
"I should make you a very good husband.  Some day you would be
rich, very rich indeed.  I am quite sure that I shall succeed, if
not at once, very soon.  There is plenty of money to be made in
the world if one perseveres."

She had the air of trying to take him seriously.

"You sound quite convincing," she admitted, "but I do wish that
you would put all these thoughts out of your mind, Leonard.  It
doesn't sound like you in the least.  Remember what you told me
that first night; you assured me that women had not the slightest
part in your life."

"I have changed," he confessed.  "I did not expect anything of
the sort to happen, but it has.  It would be foolish of me to
deny it.  I have been all my life learning, Beatrice," he
continued, with a sudden curious softness in his tone, "and yet,
somehow or other, it seems to me that I never knew anything at
all until lately.  There was no one to direct me, no one to show
me just what is worth while in life.  You have taught me a great
deal, you have taught me how little I know.  And there are
things," he went on, solemnly, "of which I am afraid, things
which I do not begin even to understand.  Can't you see how it is
with me?  I am really very ignorant.  I want some one who
understands; I want you, Beatrice, very badly."

She patted the back of his hand caressingly.

"You mustn't talk like that, Leonard," she said.  "I shouldn't
make you a good wife.  I am not going to marry any one."

"And why?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"That is my secret," she told him, looking into the fire.

"You mean to say that, you will never marry?" he persisted.

"Oh, I suppose I shall change, like other women," she answered.
"Just at present, I feel like that."

"Is it because your sister's marriage--"

She caught hold of both his hands; her eyes were suddenly full of
terror.

"You mustn't talk about Elizabeth," she begged, "you please
mustn't talk about her.  Promise that you won't."

"But I came here to talk about her," he replied.

Beatrice, for a moment, said nothing.  Then she threw down his
hands and laughed once more.  As she flung herself back in her
place, it seemed to Tavernake that he saw once more the girl who
had stood upon the roof of the boarding-house.

"You came to talk about Elizabeth!" she exclaimed.  "I forgot.
Well, go on, what is it?"

"Your sister is in trouble!"

"Are you her confidant?" Beatrice asked.

"I am not exactly that," he admitted, "but she has asked me to
come and see you."

Beatrice had suddenly grown hard, her lips were set together,
even her attitude was uncompromising.

"Say exactly what you have to say," she told him.  "I will not
interrupt."

"It sounds foolish," Tavernake declared, "because I know so
little, but it seems that your sister is being annoyed by a man
named Pritchard, an American detective.  She tells me that he
suspects her of being concerned in some way with the
disappearance of her husband.  One of his reasons is that you
left her abruptly and went into hiding, that you will not see or
speak to her.  She wishes you to be reconciled."

"Is that all?" Beatrice asked.

"It is all," he replied, "so long as you understand its
significance.  If you go to see your sister, or let her come to
see you, this man Pritchard will have one of his causes for
suspicion removed."

"So you came as Elizabeth's ambassador," Beatrice said, half as
though to herself.  "Well, here is my answer.  I will not go to
Elizabeth.  If she finds out my whereabouts and comes here, then
I shall go away again and hide.  I shall never willingly exchange
another word with her as long as I live."

Tavernake looked at her doubtfully.

"But she is your sister!" he explained.

"She is my sister," Beatrice repeated, "and yet what I have said
to you I mean."

There was a short silence.  Tavernake felt unaccountably ill at
ease.  Something had sprung up between them which he did not
understand.  He was swift to recognize, however, the note of
absolute finality in her tone.

"I have given my message," he declared.  "I shall tell her what
you say.  Perhaps I had better go now."

He half rose to his feet.  Suddenly she lost control of herself.

"Leonard, Leonard," she cried, "don't you see that you are being
very foolish indeed?  You have been good to me.  Let me try and
repay it a little.  Elizabeth is my sister, but listen!  What I
say to you now I say in deadly earnest.  Elizabeth has no heart,
she has no thought for other people, she makes use of them and
they count for no more to her than the figures that pass through
one's dreams.  She has some sort of hateful gift," Beatrice
continued, and her voice shook and her eyes flashed, "some
hateful gift of attracting people to her and making them do her
bidding, of spoiling their lives and throwing them away when they
have ceased to be useful.  Leonard, you must not let her do this
with you."

He rose to his feet awkwardly.  Very likely it was all true, and
yet, what difference did it make?

"Thank you," he said.

They stood, for a moment, hand in hand.  Then they heard the
sound of a key in the lock.

"Here's Annie coming back!" Beatrice exclaimed.

Tavernake was introduced to Miss Annie Legarde, who thought he
was a very strange person indeed because he did not fit in with
any of the types of men, young or old, of whom she knew anything.
And as for Tavernake, he considered that Miss Annie Legarde would
have looked at least as well in a hat half the size, and much
better without the powder upon her face.  Her clothes were
obviously more expensive than Beatrice's, but they were put on
with less care and taste.

Beatrice came out on to the landing with him.

"So you won't marry me, Beatrice?" he said, as she held out her
hand.

She looked at him for a moment and then turned away with a faint
sob, without even a word of farewell.  He watched her disappear
and heard the door shut.  Slowly he began to descend the stone
steps.  There was something to him a little fateful about the
closed door above, the long yet easy descent into the street.




CHAPTER XVII

THE BALCONY AT IMANO'S


At six o'clock that evening, Tavernake rang up the Milan Court
and inquired for Elizabeth.  There was a moment or two's delay
and then he heard her reply.  Even over the telephone wires, even
though he stood, cramped and uncomfortable, in that stuffy little
telephone booth, he felt the quick start of pleasure, the thrill
of something different in life, which came to him always at the
sound of her voice, at the slightest suggestion of her presence.

"Well, my friend, what fortune?" she asked him.

"None," he answered.  "I have done my best.  Beatrice will not
listen to me."

"She will not come and see me?"

"She will not."

Elizabeth was silent for a moment.  When she spoke again, there
was a change in her tone.

"You have failed, then."

"I did everything that could be done," Tavernake insisted
eagerly.  "I am quite sure that nothing anybody could say would
move Beatrice.  She is very decided indeed."

"I have another idea," Elizabeth remarked, after a brief pause.
"She will not come to me; very well, I must go to her.  You must
take me there."

"I cannot do that," Tavernake answered.

"Why not?"

"Beatrice has refused absolutely to permit me to tell you or any
one else of her whereabouts," he declared.  "Without her
permission I cannot do it."

"Do you mean that?" she asked.

"Of course," he answered uncomfortably.

There was another silence.  When she spoke again, her voice had
changed for the second time.  Tavernake felt his heart sink as he
listened.

"Very well," she said.  "I thought that you were my friend, that
you wished to help me."

"I do," he replied, "but you would not have me break my word?"

"You are breaking your word with me," she told him.

"It is a different thing," he insisted.

"You will not take me there?" she said once more.

"I cannot," Tavernake answered.

"Very well, good-bye!"

"Don't go," he begged.  "Can't I see you somewhere for a few
minutes this evening?"

"I am afraid not," Elizabeth replied coolly.

"Are you going out?" he persisted.

"I am going to the Duke of York's Theatre with some friends," she
answered.  "I am sorry.  You have disappointed me."

She rang off and he turned away from the telephone booth into the
street.  It seemed to him, as he walked down the crowded
thoroughfare, that some reflection of his own self-contempt was
visible in the countenances of the men and women who were
hurrying past him.  Wherever he looked, he was acutely conscious
of it.  In his heart he felt the bitter sense of shame of a man
who wilfully succumbs to weakness.  Yet that night he made his
efforts.

For four hours he sat in his lonely rooms and worked.  Then the
unequal struggle was ended.  With a groan he caught up his hat
and coat and left the house.  Half an hour later, he was among
the little crowd of loiterers and footmen standing outside the
doors of the Duke of York's Theatre.

It was still some time before the termination of the performance.
As the slow minutes dragged by, he grew to hate himself, to hate
this new thing in his life which had torn down his everyday
standards, which had carried him off his feet in this strange and
detestable fashion.  It was a dormant sense, without a doubt,
which Elizabeth had stirred into life--the sense of sex,
quiescent in him so long, chiefly through his perfect physical
sanity; perhaps, too, in some measure, from his half-starved
imagination.  It was significant, though, that once aroused it
burned with surprising and unwavering fidelity.  The whole world
of women now were different creatures to him, but they left him
as utterly unmoved as in his unawakened days.  It was Elizabeth
only he wanted, craved for fiercely, with all this late-born
passion of mingled sentiment and desire.  He felt himself, as he
hung round there upon the pavement, rubbing shoulders with the
liveried servants, the loafers, and the passers-by, a thing to be
despised.  He was like a whipped dog fawning back to his master.
Yet if only he could persuade her to come with him, if it were
but for an hour!  If only she would sit opposite him in that
wonderful little restaurant, where the lights and the music, the
laughter and the wine, were all outward symbols of this new life
from before which her fingers seemed to have torn aside the
curtains!  His heart beat with a fierce impatience.  He watched
the thin stream of people who left before the play was over,
suburbanites mostly, in a hurry for their trains.  Very soon the
whole audience followed, commissionaires were busy with their
whistles, the servants eagerly looking right and left for their
masters.  And then Elizabeth!  She came out in the midst of
half-a-dozen others, brilliant in a wonderful cloak and dress of
turquoise blue, laughing with her friends, to all appearance the
gayest of the party.  Tavernake stepped quickly forward, but at
that moment there was a crush and he could not advance.  She
passed within a yard of him, escorted by a couple of men, and for
a moment their eyes met.  She raised her eyebrows, as though in
surprise, and her recognition was of the slightest.  She passed
on and entered a waiting motorcar, accompanied by the two men.
Tavernake stood and looked after it.  She did not even glance
round.  Except for that little gesture of cold surprise, she had
ignored him.  Tavernake, scarcely knowing what he did, turned
slowly towards the Strand.

He was face to face now with a crisis before which he seemed
powerless.  Men were there in the world to be bullied, cajoled,
or swept out of the way.  What did one do with a woman who was
kind one moment and insolent the next, who raised her eyebrows
and passed on when he wanted her, when he was there longing for
her?  Those old solid dreams of his--wealth, power, his name on
great prospectuses, a position in the world--these things now
appeared like the day fancies of a child.  He had seen his way
towards them.  Already he had felt his feet upon the rungs of the
ladder which leads to material success.  This was something
different, something greater.  Then a sense of despair chilled
his heart.  He felt how ignorant, how helpless he was.  He had
not even studied the first text-book of life.  Those very
qualities which had served him so well before were hopeless here.
Persistence, Beatrice had told him once, only annoys a woman.

He came to a standstill outside the entrance to the Milan Court,
and retraced his steps.  The thought of Beatrice had brought
something soothing with it.  He felt that he must see her, see
her at once.  He walked back along the Strand and entered the
restaurant where Beatrice and he had had their memorable supper.
From the vestibule he could just see Grier's back as he stood
talking to a waiter by the side of a round table in the middle of
the room.  Tavernake slowly withdrew and made his way upstairs.
There were one or two little tables there in the balcony, hidden
from the lower part of the room.  He seated himself at one,
handing his coat and hat mechanically to the waiter who came
hurrying up.

"But, Monsieur," the man explained, with a deprecating gesture,
"these tables are all taken."

Tavernake, who kept an account book in which he registered even
his car fares, put five shillings in the man's hand.

"This one I will have," he said, firmly, and sat down.

The man looked at him and turned aside to speak to the head
waiter.  They conversed together in whispers.  Tavernake took no
notice.  His jaw was set.  Himself unseen, he was gazing
steadfastly at that table below.  The head waiter shrugged his
shoulders and departed; his other clients must be mollified.
There was a finality which was unanswerable about Tavernake's
methods.

Tavernake ate and drank what they brought to him, ate and drank
and suffered.  Everything was as it had been that other night--
the popping of corks, the soft music, the laughter of women, the
pleasant, luxurious sense of warmth and gayety pervading the
whole place.

It was all just the same, but this time he sat outside and looked
on.  Beatrice was seated next Grier, and on her other side was a
young man of the type which Tavernake detested, partly because it
inspired him with a reluctant but insistent sense of inferiority.
The young man was handsome, tall, and thin.  His evening clothes
fitted him perfectly, his studs and links were of the latest
mode, his white tie arranged as though by the fingers of an
artist.  And yet he was no tailor's model.  A gentleman, beyond a
doubt, Tavernake decided, watching grudgingly the courteous
movement of his head, listening sometimes to his well-bred but
rather languid voice.  Beatrice laughed often into his face.  She
admired him, of course.  How could she help it!  Grier sat at her
other side.  He, too, talked to her whenever he had the chance.
It was a new fever which Tavernake was tasting, a new fever
burning in his blood.  He was jealous; he hated the whole party
below.  In imagination he saw Elizabeth with her friends, supping
most likely in that other, more resplendent restaurant, only a
few yards away.  He imagined her the centre of every attention.
Without a doubt, she was looking at her neighbor as she had
looked at him.  Tavernake bit his lip, frowning.  If he had had
it in his power, in those black moments, to have thrown a
thunderbolt from his place, he would have wrecked every table in
the room, he would have watched with joy the white, startled
faces of the revelers as they fled away into the night.  It was a
new torture, indescribable, bitter.  Indeed, this curiosity of
his, of which he had spoken to Beatrice as they had walked
together down Oxford Street on that first evening, was being
satisfied with a vengeance!  He was learning of those other
things of life.  He had sipped at the sweetness; he was drinking
the bitters!

An altercation by his side distracted him.  Again there was the
head waiter and a protesting guest.  Tavernake looked up and
recognized Professor Franklin.  With his broad-brimmed hat in his
hand, the professor, in fluent phraseology and a strong American
accent, was making himself decidedly disagreeable.

"You had better send for your manager right away, young man," he
declared.  "On Tuesday night he brought me here himself and I
engaged this table for the week.  No, I tell you I won't have any
other!  I guess my order was good enough.  You send for Luigi
right here.  You know who I am?  Professor Franklin's my name,
from New York, and if I say I mean to have a thing, I expect to
get it."

For the first time he recognized Tavernake, and paused for a
moment in his speech.

"Have I got your table, Professor?" Tavernake asked, slowly.

"You have, sir," the professor answered.  "I did not recognize
you when I came in or I would have addressed you personally.  I
have particular reasons for occupying a front table here every
night this week."

The thoughts began to crowd in upon Tavernake's brain.  He
hesitated.

"Why not sit down with me?" he suggested.

The professor acquiesced without a word.  The head waiter, with a
sigh of relief, took his hat and overcoat and accepted his order.
Tavernake leaned across the table.

"Professor," he said, "why do you insist upon sitting up here?"

The professor moved his head slowly downwards.

"My young friend, I speak to you in confidence?"

"In confidence," Tavernake repeated.

"I come here secretly," the professor continued, "because it is
the only chance I have of seeing a very dear relative of mine.  I
am obliged to keep away from her just now, but from here I can
watch, I can see that she is well."

"You mean your daughter Beatrice," Tavernake said, calmly.

The professor trembled all over.

"You know!" he muttered.

"Yes, I know," Tavernake answered.  "I have been able to be of
some slight assistance to your daughter Beatrice."

The professor grasped his hand.

"Yes, yes," he said, "Elizabeth is very angry with you because
you will not tell her where to find the little girl.  You are
right, Mr. Tavernake.  You must never tell her."

"I don't intend it," Tavernake declared.

"Say, this is a great evening for me!" the professor went on,
eagerly.  "I found out by accident myself.  I was at the bar and
I saw her come in with a lot of others."

"Why don't you go and speak to her?" Tavernake asked.

The professor shivered.

"There has been a disagreement," he explained.  "Beatrice and
Elizabeth have quarreled.  Mind you, Beatrice was right."

"Then why don't you go to her instead of staying with Elizabeth?"
Tavernake demanded, bluntly.

The professor temporarily collapsed.  He drank heavily of the
whiskey and soda by his side, and answered gloomily.

"My young friend," he said, "Beatrice, when she left us, was
penniless.  Mind you, Elizabeth is the one with brains.  It is
Elizabeth who has the money.  She has a strong will, too.  She
keeps me there whether I will or not, she makes me do many things
--many things, surely--which I hate.  But Elizabeth has her way.
If I had gone with Beatrice, if I were to go to her now, I should
be only a burden upon her."

"You have no money, then?" Tavernake remarked.

The professor shook his head sadly.

"Speculations, my young friend," he replied, "speculations
undertaken solely with the object of making a fortune for my
children.  I have had money and lost it."

"Can't you earn any?" Tavernake asked.  "Beatrice doesn't seem
extravagant."

The professor regarded this outspoken young man with an air of
hurt dignity.

"If you will forgive me," he said.  "I think that we will choose
another subject of conversation."

"At any rate," Tavernake declared, "you must be fond of your
daughter or you would not come here night after night just to
look at her."

The professor shook out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed
his eyes.

"Beatrice was always my favorite," he announced solemnly, "but
Elizabeth--well, you can't get away from Elizabeth," he added,
leaning across the table.  "To tell you the truth, Mr. Tavernake,
Elizabeth terrifies me sometimes, she is so bold.  I am afraid
where her scheming may land us.  I would be happier with Beatrice
if only she had the means to satisfy my trifling wants."

He turned to the waiter and ordered a pint of champagne.

"Veuve Clicquot '99," he instructed the man.  "At my age," he
remarked, with a sigh, "one has to be careful about these little
matters.  The wrong brand of champagne means a sleepless night."

Tavernake looked at him in a puzzled way.  The professor was a
riddle to him.  He represented no type which had come within the
orbit of his experience.  With the arrival of the champagne, the
professor became almost eloquent.  He leaned forward, gazing
stealthily down at the round table.

"If I could tell you of that girl's mother, Mr. Tavernake," he
said, "if I could tell you what her history, our history, has
been, it would seem to you so strange that you would probably
regard me as a romancer.  No, we have to carry our secrets with
us."

"By-the-bye," Tavernake asked, "what are you a professor of?"

"Of the hidden sciences, sir," was the immediate reply.
"Phrenology was my earliest love.  Since then I have studied in
the East; I have spent many years in a monastery in China.  I
have gratified in every way my natural love of the occult.  I
represent today those people of advanced thought who have
traveled, even in spirit, for ever such a little distance across
the line which divides the Seen from the Unseen, the Known from
the Infinite."

He took a long draught of champagne.  Tavernake gazed at him in
blank amazement.

"I don't know much about science," he said.  "It is only lately
that I have begun to realize how ignorant I really am.  Your
daughter has helped to teach me."

The professor sighed heavily.

"A young woman of attainments, sir," he remarked, "of character,
too.  Look at the way she carries her head.  That was a trick of
her mother's."

"Don't you mean to speak to her at all, then?" Tavernake asked.

"I dare not," the professor replied.  "I am naturally of a
truthful disposition, and if Elizabeth were to ask me if I had
spoken to her sister, I should give myself away at once.  No, I
look on and that is all."

Tavernake drummed with his fingers upon the tablecloth.
Something in the merriment of that little party downstairs had
filled him with a very bitter feeling.

"You ought to go and claim her, professor," he declared.  "Look
down at them now.  Is that the best life for a girl?  The men are
almost strangers to her, and the girls are not fit for her to
associate with.  She has no friends, no relatives.  Your daughter
Elizabeth can do without you very well.  She is strong enough to
take care of herself."

"But my dear sir," the professor objected, "Beatrice could not
support me."

Tavernake paid his bill without another word.  Downstairs the
lights had been lowered, the party at the round table were
already upon their feet.

"Good-night, professor!" he said.  "I am going to see the last of
Beatrice from the top of the stairs."

The professor followed him--they stood there and watched her
depart with Annie Legarde.  The two girls got into a taxicab
together, and Tavernake breathed a sigh of relief, a relief for
which he was wholly unable to account, when he saw that Grier
made no effort to follow them.  As soon as the taxi had rolled
away, they descended and passed into the street.  Then the
professor suddenly changed his tone.

"Mr. Tavernake," he said, "I know what you are thinking about me:
I am a weak old man who drinks too much and who wasn't born
altogether honest.  I can't give up anything.  I'd be happier,
really happier, on a crust with Beatrice, but I daren't, I simply
daren't try it.  I prefer the flesh pots with Elizabeth, and you
despise me for it.  I don't blame you, Mr. Tavernake, but
listen."

"Well?" Tavernake interjected.

The professor's fingers gripped his arm.

"You've known Beatrice longer--you don't know Elizabeth very
well, but let me tell you this.  Elizabeth is a very wonderful
person.  I know something about character, I know something about
those hidden powers which men and women possess--strange powers
which no one can understand, powers which drag a man to a woman's
feet, or which make him shiver when he passes another even in a
crowd.  You see, these things are a science with me, Mr.
Tavernake, but I don't pretend to understand everything.  All I
know is that Elizabeth is one of those people who can just do
what she likes with men.  I am her father and I am her slave.  I
tell myself that I would rather be with Beatrice, and I am as
powerless to go as though I were bound with chains.  You are a
young ignorant man, Mr. Tavernake, you know nothing of life, and
I will give you a word of warning.  It is better for you that you
keep away from over there."

He raised one hand and pointed across the street towards the
Milan Court; with the other he once more gripped Tavernake's arm.

"Why she should take the trouble even to speak with you for a
moment, I do not know," the professor continued, "but she does.
It has pleased her to talk with you--why I can't imagine--only if
I were you I would get away while there is yet time.  She is my
daughter but she has no heart, no pity.  I saw her smile at you.
I am sorry always for the man she smiles upon like that.
Goodnight, Mr. Tavernake!"

The professor crossed the street.  Tavernake watched him until he
was out of sight.  Then he felt an arm thrust through his.

"Why, this is what I call luck!" a familiar voice exclaimed.
"Mr. Tavernake, you're the very man I was looking for!"




CHAPTER XVIII

A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE


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.




CHAPTER XIX

TAVERNAKE INTERVENES


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."




CHAPTER XX

A PLEASANT REUNION


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 L"

"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!"




CHAPTER XXI

SOME EXCELLENT ADVICE


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.  lPritchard
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."




CHAPTER XXII

DINNER WITH ELIZABETH


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!




CHAPTER XXIII

ON AN ERRAND OF CHIVALRY


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 caf‚.
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 caf‚ 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."




CHAPTER XXIV

CLOSE TO TRAGEDY


The actual words of greeting which passed between Elizabeth and
the man whose advent had caused her so much emotion were
unimpressive.  The newcomer, with the tips of his fingers resting
upon the tablecloth, leaned slightly towards her.  At close
quarters, he was even more unattractive than when Tavernake had
first seen him.  He was faultily shaped; there was something a
little decadent about his deep-set eyes and receding forehead.
Neither was his expression prepossessing.  He looked at her as a
man looks upon the thing he hates.

"So, Elizabeth," he said, "this pleasure has come at last!"

"I heard that you were back in England," she replied.  "Pray sit
down."

Even then her eyes never left his.  All the time they seemed to
be fiercely questioning, seeking for something in his features
which eluded them.  It was terrible to see the change which the
last few minutes had wrought in her.  Her smooth, girlish face
had lost its comeliness.  Her eyes, always a little narrow,
seemed to have receded.  It was such a change, this, as comes to
a brave man who, in the prime of life, feels fear for the first
time.

"I am glad to find you at supper," he declared, taking up the
menu.  "I am hungry.  You can bring me some grilled cutlets at
once," he added to the waiter who stood by his side, "and some
brandy.  Nothing else."

The waiter bowed and hurried off.  The woman played with her fan
but her fingers were shaking.

"I fear," he remarked, "that my coming is rather a shock to you.
I am sorry to see you looking so distressed."

"It is not that," she answered with some show of courage.  "You
know me too well to believe me capable of seeking a meeting which
I feared.  It is the strange thing which has happened to you
during these last few months--this last year.  Do you know--has
any one told you--that you seem to have become even more like
--the image of--"

He nodded understandingly.

"Of poor Wenham!  Many people have told me that.  Of course, you
know that we were always appallingly alike, and they always said
that we should become more so in middle-age.  After all, there is
only a year between us.  We might have been twins."

"It is the most terrible thing in likenesses I have ever seen,"
the woman continued slowly.  "When you entered the room a few
seconds ago, it seemed to me that a miracle had happened.  It
seemed to me that the dead had come to life."

"It must have been a shock," the man murmured, with his eyes upon
the tablecloth.

"It was," she agreed, hoarsely.  "Can't you see it in my face?  I
do not always look like a woman of forty.  Can't you see the gray
shadows that are there?  You see, I admit it frankly.  I was
terrified--I am terrified!"

"And why?" he asked.

"Why?" she repeated, looking at him wonderingly.  "Doesn't it
seem to you a terrible thing to think of the dead coming back to
life?"

He tapped lightly upon the tablecloth for a minute with the
fingers of one hand.  Then he looked at her again.

"It depends," he said, "upon the manner of their death."

An executioner of the Middle Ages could not have played with his
victim more skillfully.  The woman was shivering now, preserving
some outward appearance of calm only by the most fierce and
unnatural effort.

"What do you mean by that, Jerry?" she asked.  "I was not even
with--Wenham, when he was lost.  You know all about it, I
suppose,--how it happened?"

The man nodded thoughtfully.

"I have heard many stories," he admitted.  "Before we leave the
subject for ever, I should like to hear it from you, from your
own lips."

There was a bottle of champagne upon the table, ordered at the
commencement of the meal.  She touched her glass; the waiter
filled it.  She raised it to her lips and set it down empty.  Her
fingers were clutching the tablecloth.

"You ask me a hard thing, Jerry," she said.  "It is not easy to
talk of anything so painful.  From the moment we left New York,
Wenham was strange.  He drank a good deal upon the steamer.  He
used to talk sometimes in the most wild way.  We came to London.
He had an attack of delirium tremens.  I nursed him through it
and took him into the country, down into Cornwall.  We took a
small cottage on the outskirts of a fishing village--St.
Catherine's, the place was called.  There we lived quietly for a
time.  Sometimes he was better, sometimes worse.  The doctor in
the village was very kind and came often to see him.  He brought
a friend from the neighboring town and they agreed that with
complete rest Wenham would soon be better.  All the time my life
was a miserable one.  He was not fit to be alone and yet he was a
terrible companion.  I did my best.  I was with him half of every
day, sometimes longer.  I was with him till my own health began
to suffer.  At last I could stand the solitude no longer.  I sent
for my father.  He came and lived with us."

"The professor," her listener murmured.

She nodded.

"It was a little better then for me," she went on, "except that
poor Wenham seemed to take such a dislike to my father.  However,
he hated every one in turn, even the doctors, who always did
their best for him.  One day, I admit, I lost my temper.  We
quarreled; I could not help it--life was becoming insupportable.
He rushed out of the house--it was about three o'clock in the
afternoon.  I have never seen him since."

The man was looking at her, looking at her closely although he
was blinking all the time.

"What do you think became of him?" he asked.  "What do people
think?  "

She shook her head.

"The only thing he cared to do was swim," she said.  "His clothes
and hat were found down in the little cove near where we had a
tent."

"You think, then, that he was drowned?" the man asked.

She nodded.  Speech seemed to be becoming too painful.

"Drowning," her companion continued, helping himself to brandy,
"is not a pleasant death.  Once I was nearly drowned myself.  One
struggles for a short time and one thinks--yes, one thinks!" he
added.

He raised his glass to his lips and set it down.

"It is an easy death, though," he went on, "quite an easy death.
By the way, were those clothes that were found of poor Wenham's
identified as the clothes he wore when he left the house?"

She shook her head.

"One could not say for certain," she answered.  "I never noticed
how he was dressed.  He wore nearly always the same sort of
things, but he had an endless variety."

"And this was seven months ago -seven months."

She assented.

"Poor Wenham," he murmured.  "I suppose he is dead.  What are you
going to do, Elizabeth?"

"I do not know," she replied.  "Soon I must go to the lawyers and
ask for advice.  I have very little more money left.  I have
written several times to New York to you, to his friends, but I
have had no answer.  After all, Jerry, I am his wife.  No one
liked my marrying him, but I am his wife.  I have a right to a
share of his property if he is dead.  If he has deserted me,
surely I shall be allowed something.  I do not even know how rich
he was."

The man at her side smiled.

"Much better off than I ever was," he declared.  "But,
Elizabeth!"

"Well?"

"There were rumors that, before you left New York, Wenham
converted very large sums of money into letters of credit and
bonds, very large sums indeed."  She shook her head.  "He had a
letter of credit for about a thousand pounds, I think," she said.
"There is very little left of the money he had with him."

"And you find living here expensive, I dare say?"

"Very expensive indeed," she agreed, with a sigh.  "I have been
looking forward to seeing you, Jerry.  I thought, perhaps, for
the sake of old times you might advise me."

"Of old times," he repeated to himself softly.  "Elizabeth, do
you think of them sometimes?"

She was becoming more herself.  This was a game she was used to
playing.  Of old times, indeed!  It seemed only yesterday that
these two brothers, who had the reputation in those days of being
the richest young men in New York, were both at her feet.  So
far, she had scarcely been fortunate.  There was still a chance,
however.  She looked up.  It seemed to her that he was losing his
composure.  Yes, there was something of the old gleam in his
eyes!  Once he had been madly enough in love with her.  It ought
not to be impossible!

"Jerry," she said, "I have told you these things.  It has been so
very, very painful for me.  Won't you try now and be kind?
Remember that I am all alone and it is all very difficult for me.
I have been looking forward to your coming.  I have thought so
often of those times we spent together in New York.  Won't you be
my friend again?  Won't you help me through these dark days?"

Her hand touched his.  For a moment he snatched his away as
though stung.  Then he caught her fingers in his and held them as
though in a vice.  She smiled, the smile of conscious power.  The
flush of beauty was streaming once more into her face.  Poor
fellow, he was still in love, then!  The fingers which had closed
upon hers were burning.  What a pity that he was not a little
more presentable!

"Yes," he muttered, "we must be friends, Elizabeth.  Wenham had
all the luck at first.  Perhaps it's going to be my turn now,
eh?"

He bent towards her.  She laughed into his face for a moment and
then was once more suddenly colorless, the smile frozen upon her
lips.  She began to shiver.

"What is it?" he asked.  "What is it, Elizabeth?"

"Nothing," she faltered, "only I wish--I do wish that you were
not so much like Wenham.  Sometimes a trick of your voice, the
way you hold your head--it terrifies me!"

He laughed oddly.

"You must get used to that, Elizabeth," he declared.  "I can't
help being like him, you know.  We were great friends always
until you came.  I wonder why you preferred Wenham."

"Don't ask me--please don't ask me that," she begged.  "Really, I
think he happened to be there just at the moment I felt like
making a clean sweep of everything, of leaving New York and every
one and starting life again, and I thought Wenham meant it.  I
thought I should be able to keep him from drinking and to help
him start a new life altogether over here or on the Continent."

"Poor little woman," he said, "you have been disappointed, I am
afraid."

She sighed.

"I am only human, you know," she went on.  "Every one told me
that Wenham was a millionaire, too.  See how much I have
benefited by it.  I am almost penniless, I do not know whether he
is dead or alive, I do not know what to do to get some money.
Was Wenham very rich, Jerry?"

The man laughed.

"Oh, he was very rich indeed!" he assured her.  "It is terrible
that you should be left like this.  We will talk about it
together presently, you and I.  In the meantime, you must let me
be your banker."

"Dear Jerry," she whispered, "you were always generous."

"You have not spoken of the little prude--dear Miss Beatrice," he
reminded her suddenly.

Elizabeth sighed.

"Beatrice was a great trial from the first," she declared.  "You
know how she disliked you both--she was scarcely even civil to
Wenham, and she would never have come to Europe with us if father
hadn't insisted upon it.  We took her down to Cornwall with us
and there she became absolutely insupportable.  She was always
interfering between Wenham and me and imagining the most absurd
things.  One day she left us without a word of warning.  I have
never seen her since."

The man stared gloomily into his plate.

"She was a queer little thing," he muttered.  "She was good, and
she seemed to like being good."

Elizabeth laughed, not quite pleasantly.

"You speak as though the rest of us," she remarked, "were
qualified to take orders in wickedness."

He helped himself to more brandy.

"Think back," he said.  "Think of those days in New York, the
life we led, the wild things we did week after week, month after
month, the same eternal round of turning night into day, of
struggling everywhere to find new pleasures, pulling vice to
pieces like children trying to find the inside of their
playthings."

"I don't like your mood in the least," she interrupted.

He drummed for a moment upon the tablecloth with his fingers.

"We were talking of Beatrice.  You don't even know where she is
now, then?"

"I have no idea," Elizabeth declared.

"She was with you for long in Cornwall?" he asked.

Elizabeth toyed with her wineglass for a minute.

"She was there about a month," she admitted.

"And she didn't approve of the way you and Wenham behaved?" he
demanded.

"Apparently not.  She left us, anyway.  She didn't understand
Wenham in the least.  I shouldn't be surprised," Elizabeth went
on, "to hear that she was a hospital nurse, or learning typing,
or a clerk in an office.  She was a young woman of gloomy ideas,
although she was my sister."

He came a little closer towards her.

"Elizabeth," he said, "we will not talk any more about Beatrice.
We will not talk any more about anything except our two selves."

"Are you really glad to see me again, Jerry?" she asked softly.

"You must know it, dear," he whispered.  "You must know that I
loved you always, that I adored you.  Oh, you knew it!  Don't
tell me you didn't.  You knew it, Elizabeth!"

She looked down at the tablecloth.

"Yes, I knew it," she admitted, softly.

"Can't you guess what it is to me to see you again like this?" he
continued.

She sighed.

"It is something for me, too, to feel that I have a friend close
at hand."

"Come," he said, "they are turning out the lights here.  You want
to know about Wenham's property.  Let me come upstairs with you
for a little time and I will tell you as much as I can from
memory."

He paid the bill, helped her on with her cloak.  His fingers
seemed like burning spots upon her flesh.  They went up in the
lift.  In the corridors he drew her to him and she began to
tremble.

"What is there strange about you, Jerry?" she faltered, looking
into his face.  "You terrify me!"

"You are glad to see me?  Say you are glad to see me?"

"Yes, I am glad," she whispered.

Outside the door of her rooms, she hesitated.

"Perhaps," she suggested, faintly,--"wouldn't it be better if you
came to-morrow morning?"

Once more his fingers touched her and again that extraordinary
sense of fear seemed to turn her blood cold.

"No," he replied, "I have been put off long enough!  You must let
me in, you must talk with me for half an hour.  I will go then, I
promise.  Half an hour!  Elizabeth, haven't I waited an eternity
for it?"

He took the keys from her fingers and opened the door, closing it
again behind them.  She led the way into the sitting-room.  The
whole place was in darkness but she turned on the electric light.
The cloak slipped from her shoulders.  He took her hands and
looked at her.

"Jerry," she whispered, "you mustn't look at me like that.  You
terrify me!  Let me go!"

She wrenched herself free with an effort.  She stepped back to
the corner of the room, as far as she could get from him.  Her
heart was beating fiercely.  Somehow or other, neither of these
two young men, over whose lives she had certainly brought to bear
a very wonderful influence, had ever before stirred her pulses
like this.  What was it, she wondered?  What was the meaning of
it?  Why didn't he speak?  He did nothing but look, and there
were unutterable things in his eyes.  Was he angry with her
because she had married Wenham, or was he blaming her because
Wenham had gone?  There was passion in his face, but such
passion!  Desire, perhaps, but what else?  She caught up a
telegram which lay upon her writing desk, and tore it open.  It
was an escape for a moment.  She read the words, stared, and read
them aloud incredulously.  It was from her father.

"Jerry Gardner sailed for New York to-day."

She looked up at the man, and as she looked her face grew gray
and the thin sheet went quivering from her lifeless fingers to
the floor.  Then he began to laugh, and she knew.

"Wenham!" she shrieked.  "Wenham!"

There was murder in his face, murder almost in his laugh.

"Your loving husband!" he answered.

She sprang for the door but even as she moved she heard the click
of the bolt shot back.  He touched the electric switch and the
room was suddenly in darkness.  She heard him coming towards her,
she felt his hot breath upon her cheek.

"My loving wife!" he whispered.  "At last!"




CHAPTER XXV

THE MADMAN TALKS


Tavernake turned on the light.  Pritchard, with a quick leap
forward, seized Wenham around the waist and dragged him away.
Elizabeth had fainted; she lay upon the floor, her face the color
of marble.

"Get some water and throw over her," Pritchard ordered.

Tavernake obeyed.  He threw open the window and let in a current
of air.  In a moment or two the woman stirred and raised her
head.

"Look after her for a minute," Pritchard said.  "I Il lock this
fierce little person up in the bathroom."

Pritchard carried his prisoner out.  Tavernake leaned over the
woman who was slowly coming back to consciousness.

"Tell me about it," she asked, hoarsely.  "Where is he?"

"Locked up in the bathroom," Tavernake answered.  "Pritchard is
taking care of him.  He won't be able to get out."

"You know who it was?" she faltered.

"I do not," Tavernake replied.  "It isn't my business.  I'm only
here because Pritchard begged me to come.  He thought he might
want help."

She held his fingers tightly.

"Where were you?" she asked.

"In the bathroom when you arrived.  Then he bolted the door
behind and we had to come round through your bedroom."

"How did Pritchard find out?"

"I know nothing about it," Tavernake replied.  "I only know that
he peered through the latticework and saw you sitting there at
supper."

She smiled weakly.

"It must have been rather a shock to him," she said.  "He has
been convinced for the last six months that I murdered Wenham, or
got rid of him by some means or other.  Help me up."

She staggered to her feet.  Tavernake assisted her to an easy
chair.  Then Pritchard came in.

"He is quite safe," he announced, "sitting on the edge of the
bath playing with a doll."

She shivered.

"What is he doing with it?" she asked.

"Showing me exactly, with a shawl pin, where he meant to have
stabbed you," Pritchard answered, drily.  "Now, my dear lady," he
continued, "it seems to me that I have done you one injustice, at
any rate.  I certainly thought you'd helped to relieve the world
of that young person.  Where did he come from?  Perhaps you can
tell me that."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I suppose I may as well," she said.  "Listen, you have seen what
he was like to-night, but you don't know what it was to live with
him.  It was Hell!"--she sobbed--"absolute Hell!  He drank, he
took drugs, it was all his servant could do to force him even to
make his toilet.  It was impossible.  It was crushing the life
out of me."

"Go on," Pritchard directed.

"There isn't much more to tell," she continued.  "I found an old
farmhouse--the loneliest spot in Cornwall.  We moved there and I
left him--with Mathers.  I promised Mathers that he should have
twenty pounds a week for every week he kept his master away from
me.  He has kept him away for seven months."

"What about that story of yours--about his having gone in
swimming?" Pritchard asked.

"I wanted people to believe that he was dead," she declared
defiantly.  "I was afraid that if you or his relations found him,
I should have to live with him or give up the money."

Pritchard nodded.

"And to-night you thought--"

"I thought he was his brother Jerry," she went on.  "The likeness
was always amazing, you know that.  I was told that Jerry was in
town.  I felt nervous, somehow, and wired to Mathers.  I had his
reply only last night.  He wired that Wenham was quite safe and
contented, not even restless."

"That telegram was sent by Wenham himself," Pritchard remarked.
"I think you had better hear what he has to say."

She shrank back.

"No.  I couldn't bear the sight of him again!"

"I think you had better," Pritchard insisted.  "I can assure you
that he is quite harmless.  I will guarantee that."

He left the room.  Soon he returned, his arm locked in the arm of
Wenham Gardner.  The latter had the look of a spoilt child who is
in disgrace.  He sat sullenly upon a chair and glared at every
one.  Then he produced a small crumpled doll, with a thread of
black cotton around its neck, and began swinging it in front of
him, laughing at Elizabeth all the time.

"Tell us," Pritchard asked, "what has become of Mathers?"

He stopped swinging the doll, shivered for a moment, and then
laughed.

"I don't mind," he declared.  "I guess I don't mind telling.  You
see, whatever I was when I did it, I am mad now--quite mad.  My
friend Pritchard here says I am mad.  I must have been mad or I
shouldn't have tried to hurt that dear beautiful lady over
there."

He leered at Elizabeth, who shrank back.

"She ran away from me some time ago," he went on, "sick to death
of me she was.  She thought she'd got all my money.  She hadn't.
There's plenty more, plenty more.  She ran away and left me with
Mathers.  She was paying him so much a week to keep me quiet, not
to let me go anywhere where I should talk, to keep me away from
her so that she could live up here and see all her friends and
spend my money.  And at first I didn't mind, and then I did mind,
and I got angry with Mathers, and Mathers wouldn't let me come
away, and three nights ago I killed Mathers."

There was a little thrill of horror.  He looked from one to the
other.  By degrees their fear seemed to become communicated to
him.

"What do you mean by looking like that, all of you?" he
exclaimed.  "What does it matter?  He was only my man-servant.  I
am Wenham Gardner, millionaire.  No one will put me in prison for
that.  Besides, he shouldn't have tried to keep me away from my
wife.  Anyway, it don't matter.  I am quite mad.  Mad people can
do what they like.  They have to stop in an asylum for six
months, and then they're quite cured and they start again.  I
don't mind being mad for six months.  Elizabeth," he whined,
"come and be mad, too.  You haven't been kind to me.  There's
plenty more money--plenty more.  Come back for a little time and
I'll show you."

"How did you kill Mathers?" Pritchard asked.

"I stabbed him when he was stooping down," Wenham Gardner
explained.  "You see, when I left college my father thought it
would be good for me to do something.  I dare say it would have
been but I didn't want to.  I studied surgery for six months.
The only thing I remember was just where to kill a man behind the
left shoulder.  I remembered that.  Mathers was a fat man, and he
stooped so that his coat almost burst.  I just leaned over,
picked out the exact spot, and he crumpled all up.  I expect," he
went on, "you'll find him there still.  No one comes near the
place for days and days.  Mathers used to leave me locked up and
do all the shopping himself.  I expect he's lying there now.
Some one ought to go and see."

Elizabeth was sobbing quietly to herself.  Tavernake felt the
perspiration break out upon his forehead.  There was something
appalling in the way this young man talked.

"I don't understand why you all look so serious," he continued.
"No one is going to hurt me for this.  I am quite mad now.  You
see, I am playing with this doll.  Sane men don't play with
dolls.  I hope they'll try me in New York, though.  I am
well-known in New York.  I know all the lawyers and the jurymen.
Oh, they're up to all sorts of tricks in New York!  Say, you
don't suppose they'll try me over here?" he broke off suddenly,
turning to Pritchard.  "I shouldn't feel so much at home here."

"Take him away," Eizabeth begged.  "Take him away."  Pritchard
nodded.

"I thought you'd better hear," he said.  "I am going to take him
away now.  I shall send a telegram to the police-station at St.
Catherine's.  They had better go up and see what's happened."

Pritchard took his captive once more by the arm.  The young man
struggled violently.

"I don't like you, Pritchard," he shrieked.  "I don't want to go
with you.  I want to stay with Elizabeth.  I am not really afraid
of her.  She'd like to kill me, I know, but she's too clever
--oh, she's too clever!  I'd like to stay with her."

Pritchard led him away.

"We'll see about it later on," he said.  "You'd better come with
me just now."

The door closed behind them.  Tavernake staggered up.

"I must go," he declared.  "I must go, too."

Elizabeth was sobbing quietly to herself.  She seemed scarcely to
hear him.  On the threshold Tavernake turned back.

"That money," he asked, "the money you were going to lend me--was
that his?"

She looked up and nodded.  Tavernake went slowly out.




CHAPTER XXVI

A CRISIS


Pritchard was the first visitor who had ever found his way into
Tavernake's lodgings.  It was barely eight o'clock on the same
morning.  Tavernake, hollow-eyed and bewildered, sat up upon the
sofa and gazed across the room.

"Pritchard!" he exclaimed.  "Why, what do you want?"

Pritchard laid his hat and gloves upon the table.  Already his
first swift glance had taken in the details of the little
apartment.  The overcoat and hat which Tavernake had worn the
night before lay by his side.  The table was still arranged for
some meal of the previous day.  Apart from these things, a single
glance assured him that Tavernake had not been to bed.

Pritchard drew up an easy-chair and seated himself deliberately.

"My young friend," he announced, "I have come to the conclusion
that you need some more advice."

Tavernake rose to his feet.  His own reflection in the
looking-glass startled him.  His hair was crumpled, his tie
undone, the marks of his night of agony were all too apparent.
He felt himself at a disadvantage.

"How did you find me out?" he asked.  "I never gave you my
address."

Pritchard smiled.

"Even in this country, with a little help," he said, "those
things are easy enough.  I made up my mind that this morning
would be to some extent a crisis with you.  You know, Tavernake,
I am not a man who says much, but you are the right sort.  You've
been in with me twice when I should have missed you if you hadn't
been there."

Tavernake seemed to have lost the power of speech.  He had
relapsed again into his place upon the sofa.  He simply waited.

"How in the name of mischief," Pritchard continued, impressively,
"you came to be mixed up in the lives of this amiable trio, I
cannot imagine!  I am not saying a word against Miss Beatrice,
mind.  All that surprises me is that you and she should ever have
come together, or, having come together, that you should ever
have exchanged a word.  You see, I am here to speak plain truths.
You are, I take it, a good sample of the hard, stubborn,
middle-class Briton.  These three people of whom I have spoken,
belong--Miss Beatrice, perhaps, by force of circumstances--but
still they do belong to the land of Bohemia.  However, when one
has got over the surprise of finding you on intimate terms with
Miss Beatrice, there comes a more amazing thing.  You, with hard
common sense written everywhere in your face, have been prepared
at any moment, for all I know are prepared now, to make an utter
and complete idiot of yourself over Elizabeth Gardner."

Still Tavernake did not speak.  Pritchard looked at him
curiously.

"Say," he went on, "I have come here to do you a service, if I
can.  So far as I know at present, this very wonderful young lady
has kept on the right side of the law.  But see here, Tavernake,
she's been on the wrong side of everything that's decent and
straight all her days.  She married that poor creature for his
money, and set herself deliberately to drive him off his head.
Last night's tragedy was her doing, not his, though he, poor
devil, will have to end his days in an asylum, and the lady will
have his money to make herself more beautiful than ever with.
Now I am going to let you behind the scenes, my young friend."

Then Tavernake rose to his feet.  In the shabby little room he
seemed to have grown suddenly taller.  He struck the crazy table
with his clenched fist so that the crockery upon it rattled.
Pritchard was used to seeing men--strong men, too--moved by
various passions, but in Tavernake's face he seemed to see new
things.

"Pritchard," Tavernake exclaimed, "I don't want to hear another
word!"

Pritchard smiled.

"Look here," he said, "what I am going to tell you is the truth.
What I am going to tell you I'd as soon say in the presence of
the lady as here."

Tavernake took a step forward and Pritchard suddenly realized the
man who had thrown himself through that little opening in the
wall, one against three, without a thought of danger.

"If you say a single word more against her," Tavernake shouted
hoarsely, "I shall throw you out of the room!"

Pritchard stared at him.  There was something amazing about this
young man's attitude, something which he could not wholly grasp.
He could see, too, that Tavernake's words were so few simply
because he was trembling under the influence of an immense
passion.

"If you won't listen," Pritchard declared, slowly, "I can't talk.
Still, you've got common sense, I take it.  You've the ordinary
powers of judging between right and wrong, and knowing when a man
or a woman's honest.  I want to save you--"

"Silence!" Tavernake exclaimed.  "Look here, Pritchard," he went
on, breathing a little more naturally now, "you came here meaning
to do the right thing--I know that.  You're all right, only you
don't understand.  You don't understand the sort of person I am.
I am twenty-four years old, I have worked for my own living up
here in London since I was twelve.  I was a man, so far as work
and independence went, at fifteen.  Since then I have had my
shoulder to the wheel; I have lived on nothing; I have made a
little money where it didn't seem possible.  I have worried my
way into posts which it seemed that no one could think of giving
me, but all the time I have lived in a little corner of the world
--like that."

His finger suddenly described a circle in the air.

"You don't understand--you can't," he went on, "but there it is.
I never spoke to a woman until I spoke to Beatrice.  Chance made
me her friend.  I began to understand the outside of some of
those things which I had never even dreamed of before.  She set
me right in many ways.  I began to read, think, absorb little
bits of the real world.  It was all wonderful.  Then Elizabeth
came.  I met her, too, by accident--she came to my office for a
house--Elizabeth!"

Pritchard found something almost pathetic in the sudden dropping
of Tavernake's voice, the softening of his face.

"I don't know how to talk about these things," Tavernake said,
simply.  "There's a literature that's reached from before the
Bible to now, full of nothing else.  It's all as old as the
hills.  I suppose I am about the only sane man in this city who
knew nothing of it; but I did know nothing of it, and she was the
first woman.  Now you understand.  I can't hear a word against
her--I won't!  She may be what you say.  If so, she's got to tell
me so herself!"

"You mean that you are going to believe any story she likes to
put up?"

"I mean that I am going to her," Tavernake answered, "and I have
no idea in the world what will happen--whether I shall believe
her or not.  I can see what you think of me," he went on,
becoming a little more himself as the stress of unaccustomed
speech passed him by.  "I will tell you something that will show
you that I realize a good deal.  I know the difference between
Beatrice and Elizabeth.  Less than a week ago, I asked Beatrice
to marry me.  It was the only way I could think of, the only way
I could kill the fever."

"And Beatrice?" Pritchard asked, curiously.

"She wouldn't," Tavernake replied.  "After all, why should she?
I have my way to make yet.  I can't expect others to believe in
me as I believe in myself.  She was kind but she wouldn't."

Pritchard lit a cigar.

"Look here, Tavernake," he said, "you are a young man, you've got
your life before you and life's a biggish thing.  Empty out those
romantic thoughts of yours, roll up your shirt sleeves and get at
it.  You are not one of these weaklings that need a woman's
whispers in their ears to spur them on.  You can work without
that.  It's only a chapter in your life--the passing of these
three people.  A few months ago, you knew nothing of them.  Let
them go.  Get back to where you were."

Then Tavernake for the first time laughed--a laugh that sounded
even natural.

"Have you ever found a man who could do that?" he asked.  "The
candle gives a good light sometimes, but you'll never think it
the finest illumination in the world when you've seen the sun.
Never mind me, Pritchard.  I'm going to do my best still, but
there's one thing that nothing will alter.  I am going to make
that woman tell me her story, I am going to listen to the way she
tells it to me.  You think that where women are concerned I am a
fool.  I am, but there is one great boon which has been
vouchsafed to fools--they can tell the true from the false.  Some
sort of instinct, I suppose.  Elizabeth shall tell me her story
and I shall know, when she tells it, whether she is what you say
or what she has seemed to me."

Pritchard held out his hand.

"You're a queer sort, Tavernake," he declared.  "You take life
plaguy seriously.  I only hope you 'll get all out of it you
expect to.  So long!"

Tavernake opened the window after his visitor had gone, and
leaned out for some few minutes, letting the fresh air into the
close, stifling room.  Then he went upstairs, bathed and changed
his clothes, made some pretense at breakfast, went through his
letters with methodical exactness.  At eleven o'clock he set out
upon his pilgrimage.




CHAPTER XXVII

TAVERNAKE CHOOSES


Tavernake was kept waiting in the hall of the Milan Court for at
least half an hour before Elizabeth was prepared to see him.  He
wandered aimlessly about watching the people come and go, looking
out into the flower-hung courtyard, curiously unconscious of
himself and of his errand, unable to concentrate his thoughts for
a moment, yet filled all the time with the dull and uneasy
sensation of one who moves in a dream.  Every now and then he
heard scraps of conversation from the servants and passers-by,
referring to the last night's incident.  He picked up a paper but
threw it down after only a casual glance at the paragraph.  He
saw enough to convince him that for the present, at any rate,
Elizabeth seemed assured of a certain amount of sympathy.  The
career of poor Wenham Gardner was set down in black and white,
with little extenuation, little mercy.  His misdeeds in Paris,
his career in New York, spoke for themselves.  He was quoted as a
type, a decadent of the most debauched instincts, to whom crime
was a relaxation and vice a habit.  Tavernake would read no more.
He might have been all these things, and yet she had become his
wife!

At last came the message for which he was waiting.  As usual, her
maid met him at the door of her suite and ushered him in.
Elizabeth was dressed for the part very simply, with a suggestion
even of mourning in her gray gown.  She welcomed him with a
pathetic smile.

"Once more, my dear friend," she said, "I have to thank you."

Her fingers closed upon his and she smiled into his face.
Tavernake found himself curiously unresponsive.  It was the same
smile, and he knew very well that he himself had not changed, yet
it seemed as though life itself were in a state of suspense for
him.

"You, too, are looking grave this morning, my friend," she
continued.  "Oh, how horrible it has all been!  Within the last
two hours I have had at least five reporters, a gentleman from
Scotland Yard, another from the American Ambassador to see me.
It is too terrible, of course," she went on.  "Wenham's people
are doing all they can to make it worse.  They want to know why
we were not together, why he was living in the country and I in
town.  They are trying to show that he was under restraint there,
as if such a thing were possible!  Mathers was his own servant--
poor Mathers!

She sighed and wiped her eyes.  Still Tavernake said nothing.
She looked at him, a little surprised.

"You are not very sympathetic," she observed.  "Please come and
sit down by my side and I will show you something."

He moved towards her but he did not sit down.  She stretched out
her hand and picked something up from the table, holding it
towards him.  Tavernake took it mechanically and held it in his
fingers.  It was a cheque for twelve thousand pounds.

"You see," she said, "I have not forgotten.  This is the day,
isn't it?  If you like, you can stay and have lunch with me up
here and we will drink to the success of our speculation."

Tavernake held the cheque in his fingers; he made no motion to
put it in his pocket.  She looked at him with a puzzled frown
upon her face.

"Do talk or say something, please!" she exclaimed.  "You look at
me like some grim figure.  Say something.  Sit down and be
natural."

"May I ask you some questions?"

"Of course you may," she replied.  "You may do anything sooner
than stand there looking so grim and unbending.  What is it you
want to know?"

"Did you understand that Wenham Gardner was this sort of man when
you married him?"

She shrugged her shoulders slightly.

"I suppose I did," she admitted.

"You married him, then, only because he was rich?"

She smiled.

"What else do women marry for, my dear moralist?" she demanded.
"It isn't my fault if it doesn't sound pretty.  One must have
money!"

Tavernake inclined his head gravely; he made no sign of dissent.

"You two came over to England," he went on, "with Beatrice and
your father.  Beatrice left you because she disapproved of
certain things."

Elizabeth nodded.

"You may as well know the truth," she said.  "Beatrice has the
most absurd ideas.  After a week with Wenham, I knew that he was
not a person with whom any woman could possibly live.  His valet
was really only his keeper; he was subject to such mad fits that
he needed some one always with him.  I was obliged to leave him
in Cornwall.  I can't tell you everything, but it was absolutely
impossible for me to go on living with him."

"Beatrice," Tavernake remarked, "thought otherwise."

Elizabeth looked at him quickly from below her eyelids.  It was
hard, however, to gather anything from his face.

"Beatrice thought otherwise," Elizabeth admitted.  "She thought
that I ought to nurse him, put up with him, give up all my
friends, and try and keep him alive.  Why, it would have been
absolute martyrdom, misery for me," she declared.  "How could I
be expected to do such a thing?"

Tavernake nodded gravely.

"And the money?" he asked.

"Well, perhaps there I was a trifle calculating," she confessed.
"But you," she added, nodding at the cheque in his hand,
"shouldn't grumble at that.  I knew when we were married that I
should have trouble.  His people hated me, and I knew that in the
event of anything happening like this thing which has happened,
they would try to get as little as possible allowed me.  So
before we left New York, I got Wenham to turn as much as ever he
could into cash.  That we brought away with us."

"And who took care of it?"

Elizabeth smiled.

"I did," she answered, "naturally."

"Tell me about last night," Tavernake said.  "I suppose I am
stupid but I don't quite understand."

"How should you?" she answered.  "Listen, then.  Wenham, I
suppose got tired of being shut up with Mathers, although I am
sure I don't see what else was possible.  So he waited for his
opportunity, and when the man wasn't looking--well, you know what
happened," she added, with a shiver.  "He got up to London
somehow and made his way to Dover Street."

"Why Dover Street?"

"I suppose you know," Elizabeth explained, "that Wenham has a
brother--Jerry--who is exactly like him.  These two had rooms in
Dover Street always, where they kept some English clothes and a
servant.  Jerry Gardner was over in London.  I knew that, and was
expecting to see him every day.  Wenham found his way to the
rooms, dressed himself in his brother's clothes, even wore his
ring and some of his jewelry, which he knew I should recognize,
and came here.  I believed--yes, I believed all the time," she
went on, her voice trembling, "that it was Jerry who was sitting
with me.  Once or twice I had a sort of terrible shiver.  Then I
remembered how much they were alike and it seemed to me
ridiculous to be afraid.  It was not till we got upstairs, till
the door was closed behind me, that he turned round and I knew!"

Her head fell suddenly into her hands.  It was almost the first
sign of emotion.  Tavernake analyzed it mercilessly.  He knew
very well that it was fear, the coward's fear of that terrible
moment.

"And now?"

"Now," she went on, more cheerfully, "no one will venture to deny
that Wenham is mad.  He will be placed under restraint, of
course, and the courts will make me an allowance.  One thing is
absolutely certain, and that is that he will not live a year."

Tavernake half closed his eyes.  Was there no sign of his
suffering, no warning note of the things which were passing out
of his life!  The woman who smiled upon him seemed to see
nothing.  The twitching of his fingers, the slight quivering of
his face, she thought was because of his fear for her.

"And now," she declared, in a suddenly altered tone, "this is all
over and done with.  Now you know everything.  There are no more
mysteries," she added, smiling at him delightfully.  "It is all
very terrible, of course, but I feel as though a great weight had
passed away.  You and I are going to be friends, are we not?"

She rose slowly to her feet and came towards him.  His eyes
watched her slow, graceful movements as though fascinated.  He
remembered on that first visit of his how wonderful he had
thought her walk.  She was still smiling up at him; her fingers
fell upon his shoulders.

"You are such a strange person," she murmured.  "You aren't a
little bit like any of the men I've ever known, any of the men I
have ever cared to have as friends.  There is something about you
altogether different.  I suppose that is why I rather like you.
Are you glad?"

For a single wild moment Tavernake hesitated.  She was so close
to him that her hair touched his forehead, the breath from her
upturned lips fell upon his cheeks.  Her blue eyes were half
pleading, half inviting.

"You are going to be my very dear friend, are you not--Leonard?"
she whispered.  "I do feel that I need some one strong like you
to help me through these days."

Tavernake suddenly seized the hands that were upon his shoulders,
and forced them back.  She felt herself gripped as though by a
vice, and a sudden terror seized her.  He lifted her up and she
caught a glimpse of his wild, set face.  Then the breath came
through his teeth.  He shook all over but the fit had passed.  He
simply thrust her away from him.

"No," he said, "we cannot be friends!  You are a woman without a
heart, you are a murderess!"

He tore her cheque calmly in pieces and flung them scornfully
away.  She stood looking at him, breathing quickly, white to the
lips though the murder had gone from his eyes.

"Beatrice warned me," he went on; "Pritchard warned me.  Some
things I saw for myself, but I suppose I was mad.  Now I know!"

He turned away.  Her eyes followed him wonderingly.

"Leonard," she cried out, "you are not going like this?  You
don't mean it!"

Ever afterwards his restraint amazed him.  He did not reply.  He
closed both doors firmly behind him and walked to the lift.  She
came even to the outside door and called down the corridor.

"Leonard, come back for one moment!"

He turned his head and looked at her, looked at her from the
corner of the corridor, steadfastly and without speech.  Her
fingers dropped from the handle of the door.  She went back into
her room with shaking knees, and began to cry softly.  Afterwards
she wondered at herself.  It was the first time she had cried for
many years.


Tavernake walked to the city and in less than half an hour's time
found himself in Mr. Martin's office.  The lawyer welcomed him
warmly.

"I'm jolly glad to see you, Tavernake," he declared.  "I hope
you've got the money.  Sit down."

Tavernake did not sit down; he had forgotten, indeed, to take of
his hat.

"Martin," he said, "I am sorry for you.  I have been fooled and
you have to pay as well as I have.  I can't take up the option on
the property.  I haven't a penny toward it except my own money,
and you know how much that is.  You can sell my plots, if you
like, and call the money your costs.  I've finished."

The lawyer looked at him with wide-open mouth.

"What on earth are you talking about, Tavernake?" he exclaimed.
"Are you drunk, by any chance?"

"No, I am quite sober," Tavernake answered.  "I have made one or
two bad mistakes, that's all.  You have a power of attorney for
me.  You can do what you like with my land, make any terms you
please.  Good-day!"

"But, Tavernake, look here!" the lawyer protested, springing to
his feet.  "I say, Tavernake!" he called out.

But Tavernake heard nothing, or, if he heard, he took no notice.
He walked out into the street and was lost among the hurrying
throngs upon the pavements.




BOOK TWO





CHAPTER I

NEW HORIZONS


Towards the sky-line, across the level country, stumbling and
crawling over the deep-hewn dikes, wading sometimes through the
mud-oozing swamp, Tavernake, who had left the small railway
terminus on foot, made his way that night steadily seawards, as
one pursued by some relentless and indefatigable enemy.  Twilight
had fallen like a mantle around him, fallen over that great flat
region of fens and pastureland and bog.  Little patches of mist,
harbingers of the coming obscurity, were being drawn now into the
gradual darkness.  Lights twinkled out from the far-scattered
homesteads.  Here and there a dog barked, some lonely bird
seeking shelter called to its mate, but of human beings there
seemed to be no one in sight save the solitary traveler.

Tavernake was in grievous straits.  His clothes were caked with
mud, his hair tossed with the wind, his cheeks pale, his eyes set
with the despair of that fierce upheaval through which he had
passed.  For many hours the torture which had driven him back
towards his birthplace had triumphed over his physical
exhaustion.  Now came the time, however, when the latter asserted
itself.  With a half-stifled moan he collapsed.  Sheer fatigue
induced a brief but merciful spell of uneasy slumber.  He lay
upon his back near one of the broader dikes, his arms
outstretched, his unseeing eyes turned toward the sky.  The
darkness deepened and passed away again before the light of the
moon.  When at last he sat up, it was a new world upon which he
looked, a strange land, moonlit in places, yet full of shadowy
somberness.  He gazed wonderingly around--for the moment he had
forgotten.  Then memory came, and with memory once more the stab
at his heart.  He rose to his feet and went resolutely on his
way.

Almost until the dawn he walked, keeping as near as he could to
that long monotonous line of telegraph posts, yet avoiding the
road as much as possible.  With the rising of the sun, he crept
into a wayside hovel and lay there hidden for hours.  Hunger and
thirst seemed like things which had passed him by.  It was sleep
only which he craved, sleep and forgetfulness.

Dusk was falling again before he found himself upon his feet,
starting out once more upon this strangely thought-of pilgrimage.
This time he kept to the road, plodding along with tired,
dejected footsteps, which had in them still something of that
restless haste which drove him ceaselessly onward as though he
were indeed possessed of some unquiet spirit.  He was recovering
now, however, a little of his natural common sense.  He
remembered that he must have food and drink, and he sought them
from the wayside public-house like an ordinary traveler,
conquering without any apparent effort that first invincible
repugnance of his toward the face of any human being.  Then on
again across this strange land of windmills and spreading plains,
until the darkness forced him to take shelter once more.  That
night he slept like a child.  With the morning, the fever had
passed from his blood.  A great wind blew in his face even as he
opened his eyes, touched to wakefulness by the morning sun, a
wind that came booming over the level places, salt with the touch
of the ocean and fragrant with the perfume of many marsh plants.
He was coming toward the sea now, and within a very short
distance from where he had spent the night, he found a broad,
shining river stealing into the land.  With eager fingers he
stripped himself and plunged in, diving again and again below the
surface, swimming with long, lazy strokes backwards and forwards.
Afterwards he lay down in the warm, dry grass, dressed himself
slowly, and went on his way.  The wind, which had increased now
since the early morning, came thundering across the level land,
bending the tops of the few scattered trees, sending the sails of
the windmills spinning, bringing on its bosom now stronger than
ever the flavor of the sea itself, salt and stimulating.
Tavernake told himself that this was a new world into which he
was coming.  He would pass into its embrace and life would become
a new thing.

Towards evening with many a thrill of reminiscence, he descended
a steep hill and walked into a queer time-forgotten village,
whose scattered red-tiled cottages were built around an arm of
the sea.  Boldly enough now he entered the one inn which flaunted
its sign upon the cobbled street, and, taking a seat in the
stone-floored kitchen, ate and drank and bespoke a bed.  Later
on, he strolled down to the quay and made friends with the few
fishermen who were loitering there.  They answered his questions
readily, although he found it hard at first to pick up again the
dialect of which he himself had once made use.  The little place
was scarcely changed.  All progress, indeed, seemed to have
passed it by.  There were a handful of fishermen, a boat-builder
and a fish-curer in the village.  There was no other industry
save a couple of small farmhouses on the outskirts of the place,
no railway within twelve miles.  Tourists came seldom,
excursionists never.  In the half contented, half animal-like
expression which seemed common to all the inhabitants, Tavernake
read easily enough the history of their uneventful days.  It was
such a shelter as this, indeed, for which he had been searching.

On the second night after his arrival, he walked with the
boatbuilder upon the wooden quay.  The boatbuilder's name was
Nicholls, and he was a man of some means, deacon of the chapel,
with a fair connection as a jobbing carpenter, and possessor of
the only horse and cart in the place.

"Nicholls," Tavernake said, "you don't remember me, do you?"

The boat-builder shook his head slowly and ponderously.

"There was Richard Tavernake who farmed the low fields," he
remarked, reminiscently.  "Maybe you're a son of his.  Now I come
to think of it, he had a boy apprenticed to the carpentering."

"I was the boy," Tavernake answered.  "I soon had enough of it
and went to London."

"You'm grown out of all knowledge," Nicholls declared, "but I
mind you now.  So you've been in London all these years?"

"I've been in London," Tavernake admitted, "and I think, of the
two, that Sprey-by-the-Sea is the better place."

"Sprey is well enough," the boat-builder confessed, "well enough
for a man who isn't set on change."

"Change," Tavernake asserted, grimly, "is an overrated joy.  I
have had too much of it in my life.  I think that I should like
to stay here for some time."

The boat-builder was surprised, but he was a man of heavy and
deliberate turn of mind and he did not commit himself to speech.
Tavernake continued.

"I used to know something of carpentering in my younger days," he
said, "and I don't think that I have forgotten it all.  I wonder
if I could find anything to do down here?"

Matthew Nicholls stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"The folk round about are not over partial to strangers," he
observed, "and you'm been away so long I reckon there's not many
as'd recollect you.  And as for carpentering jobs, there's Tom
Lake over at Lesser Blakeney and his brother down at Brancaster,
besides me on the spot, as you might say.  It's a poor sort of
opening there'd be, if you ask my opinion, especially for one
like yourself, as 'as got education."

"I should be satisfied with very little," Tavernake persisted.
"I want to work with my hands.  I should like to forget for a
time that I have had any education at all."

"That do seem mightily queer to me," Nicholls remarked,
thoughtfully.

Tavernake smiled.

"Come," he said, "it isn't altogether unnatural.  I want to make
something with my hands.  I think that I could build boats.  Why
do you not take me into your yard?  I could do no harm and I
should not want much pay."

Matthew Nicholls stroked his beard once more and this time he
counted fifty, as was his custom when confronted with a difficult
matter.  He had no need to do anything of the sort, for nothing
in the world would have induced him to make up his mind on the
spot as to so weighty a proposal.

"It's not likely that you're serious," he objected.  "You are a
young man and strong-limbed, I should imagine, but you've
education--one can tell it by the way you pronounce your words.
It's but a poor living, after all, to be made here."

"I like the place," Tavernake declared doggedly.  "I am a man of
small needs.  I want to work all through the day, work till I am
tired enough to sleep at night, work till my bones ache and my
arms are sore.  I suppose you could give me enough to live on in
a humble way?"

"Take a bite of supper with me," Nicholls answered.  "In these
serious affairs, my daughter has always her say.  We will put the
matter before her and see what she thinks of it."

They lingered about the quay until the light from Wells
Lighthouse flashed across the sea, and until in the distance they
could hear the moaning of the incoming tide as it rippled over
the bar and began to fill the tidal way which stretched to the
wooden pier itself.  Then the two men made their way along the
village street, through a field, and into the little yard over
which stood the sign of "Matthew Nicholls, Boat-Builder."  At one
corner of the yard was the cottage in which he lived.

"You'll come right in, Mr. Tavernake," he said, the instincts of
hospitality stirring within him as soon as they had passed
through the gate.  "We will talk of this matter together, you and
me and the daughter."

Tavernake seemed, on his introduction to the household, like a
man unused to feminine society.  Perhaps he did not expect to
find such a type of her sex as Ruth Nicholls in such a remote
neighborhood.  She was thin, and her cheeks were paler than those
of any of the other young women whom he had seen about the
village.  Her eyes, too, were darker, and her speech different.
There was nothing about her which reminded him in the least of
the child with whom he had played.  Tavernake watched her
intently.  Presently the idea came to him that she, too, was
seeking shelter.

Supper was a simple meal, but it was well and deftly served.  The
girl had the gift of moving noiselessly.  She was quick without
giving the impression of haste.  To their guest she was
courteous, but her recollection of him appeared to be slight, and
his coming but a matter of slight interest.  After she had
cleared the cloth, however, and produced a jar of tobacco, her
father bade her sit down with them.

"Mr. Tavernake," he began, ponderously, "is thinking some of
settling down in these parts, Ruth."

She inclined her head gravely.

"It appears," her father continued, "that he is sick and tired of
the city and of head-work.  He is wishful to come into the yard
with me, if so be that we could find enough work for two."

The girl looked at their visitor, and for the first time there
was a measure of curiosity in her earnest gaze.  Tavernake was,
in his way, good enough to look upon.  He was well-built, his
shoulders and physique all spoke of strength.  His features were
firmly cut, although his general expression was gloomy.  But for
a certain moroseness, an uncouthness which he seemed to
cultivate, he might even have been deemed good-looking.

"Mr. Tavernake would make a great mistake," she said,
hesitatingly.  "It is not well for those who have brains to work
with their hands.  It is not a place for those to live who have
been out in the world.  At most seasons of the year it is but a
wilderness.  Sometimes there is little enough to do, even for
father."

"I am not ambitious for over-much work or for over-much money,
Miss Nicholls," Tavernake replied.  "I will be frank with you
both.  Things out in the world there went ill with me; it was not
my fault, but they went ill with me.  What ambitions I had are
finished--for the present, at any rate.  I want to rest, I want
to work with my hands, to grow my muscles again, to feel my
strength, to believe that there is something effective in the
world I can do.  I have had a shock, a disappointment,--call it
what you like."

The old man Nicholls nodded deliberately.

"Well," he pronounced, "it's a big change to make.  I never
thought of help in the yard before.  When there's been more than
I could do, I've just let it go.  Come for a week on trial,
Leonard Tavernake.  If we are of any use to one another, we shall
soon know of it."

The girl, who had been looking out into the night, came back.

"You are making a mistake, Mr. Tavernake," she said.  "You are
too young and strong to have finished your battle."

He looked at her steadily and sighed.  It was only too obvious
that hers had been fought and lost.

"Perhaps," he replied softly, "you are right.  Perhaps it is only
the rest I want.  We shall see."




CHAPTER II

THE SIMPLE LIFE


So Tavernake became a boat-builder.  Summer passed into winter
and this hamlet by the sea seemed, indeed, as though it might
have been one of the forgotten spots upon the earth.  Save for
that handful of cottages, the two farmhouses a few hundred yards
inland, and the deserted Hall half-hidden in its grove of pine
trees, there was no dwelling-place nor any sign of human
habitation for many miles.  For eight hours a day Tavernake
worked, mostly out of doors, in the little yard which hung over
the beach.  Sometimes he rested from his labors and looked
seaward, looked around him as though rejoicing in that unbroken
solitude, the emptiness of the gray ocean, the loneliness of the
land behind.  What things there were which lay back in the cells
of his memory, no person there knew, for he spoke of his past to
no one, not even to Ruth.  He was a good workman, and he lived
the simple life of those others without complaint or weariness.
There was nothing in his manner to denote that he had been used
to anything else.  The village had accepted him without question.
It was only Ruth who still, gravely but kindly enough,
disapproved of his presence.

One day she came and sat with him as he smoked his after-dinner
pipe, leaning against an overturned boat, with his eyes fixed
upon that line of gray breakers.

"You spend a good deal of your time thinking, Mr. Tavernake," she
remarked quietly.

"Too much," he admitted at once, "too much, Miss Nicholls.  I
should be better employed planing down that mast there."

"You know that I did not mean that," she said, reprovingly, "only
sometimes you make me--shall I confess it?--almost angry with
you."

He took his pipe from his mouth and knocked out the ashes.  As
they fell on the ground so he looked at them.

"All thought is wasted time," he declared, grimly, "all thought
of the past.  The past is like those ashes; it is dead and
finished."

She shook her head.

"Not always," she replied.  "Sometimes the past comes to life
again.  Sometimes the bravest of us quit the fight too soon."

He looked at her questioningly, almost fiercely.  Her words,
however, seemed spoken without intent.

"So far as mine is concerned," he pronounced, "it is finished.
There is a memorial stone laid upon it, and no resurrection is
possible."

"You cannot tell," she answered.  "No one can tell."

He turned back to his work almost rudely, but she stayed by his
side.

"Once," she remarked, reflectively, "I, too, went a little way
into the world.  I was a school-teacher at Norwich.  I was very
fond of some one there; we were engaged.  Then my mother died and
I had to come back to look after father."

He nodded.

"Well"

"We are a long way from Norwich," she continued, quietly.  "Soon
after I left, the man whom I was fond of grew lonely.  He found
some one else."

"You have forgotten him?" Tavernake asked, quickly.

"I shall never forget him," she replied.  "That part of life is
finished, but if ever my father can spare me, I shall go back to
my work again.  Sometimes those work the best and accomplish the
most who carry the scars of a great wound."

She turned away to the house, and after that it seemed to him
that she avoided him for a time.  At any rate, she made no
further attempt to win his confidence.  Propinquity, however, was
too much for both of them.  He was a lodger under her father's
roof.  It was scarcely possible for them to keep apart.
Saturdays and Sundays they walked sometimes for miles across the
frost-bound marshes, in the quickening atmosphere of the
darkening afternoons, when the red sun sank early behind the
hills, and the twilight grew shorter every day.  They watched the
sea-birds together and saw the wild duck come down to the pools;
felt the glow of exercise burn their cheeks; felt, too, that
common and nameless exultation engendered by their loneliness in
the solitude of these beautiful empty places.  In the evenings
they often read together, for Nicholls, although no drinker,
never missed his hour or so at the village inn.  Tavernake, in
time, began to find a sort of comfort in her calm, sexless
companionship.  He knew very well that he was to her as she was
to him, something human, something that filled an empty place,
yet something without direct personality.  Little by little he
felt the bitterness in his heart grow less.  Then a late spring
--late, at any rate, in this quaint corner of the world--stole
like some wonderful enchantment across the face of the moors and
the marshes.  Yellow gorse starred with golden clumps the brown
hillside; wild lavender gleamed in patches across the
silver-streaked marshes; the dead hedges came blossoming into
life.  Crocuses, long lines of yellow and purple crocuses, broke
from waxy buds into starlike blossoms along the front of Matthew
Nicholls's garden.  And with the coming o spring, Tavernake found
himself suddenly able to thin of the past.  It was a new phase of
life.  He could sit down and think of those things that had
happened to him, without fearing to be wrecked by the storm.
Often he sat out looking seaward, thinking of the days when he
had first met Beatrice, of those early days of pleasant
companionship, of the marvelous avidity with which he had learned
from her.  Only when Elizabeth's face stole into the foreground
did he spring from his place and turn back to his work.

One day Tavernake sat poring over the weekly local paper, reading
it more out of curiosity than from any real interest.  Suddenly a
familiar name caught his eye.  His heart seemed to stop beating
for a moment, and th page swam before his eyes.  Quickly he
recovered hill self and read:

      THE QUEEN'S HALL, UNTHANK ROAD,
                  NORWICH

                TWICE DAILY.
             PROFESSOR FRANKLIN
          assisted by his daughter,
           MISS BEATRICE FRANKLIN,
     will give his REFINED and MARVELOUS
     ENTERTAINMENT, comprising HYPNOTISM, feats
     Of SECOND SIGHT never before attempted on
     any stage, THOUGHT-READING, and a BRIEF
     LECTURE upon the connection between ANCIENT
     SUPERSTITIONS and the EXTRAORDINARY
     DEVELOPMENTS OF THE NEW SCIENCE.

     PROFESSOR FRANKLIN Can be CONSULTED PRIVATELY,
     by letter or by appointment.  Address for this
     week--The Golden Cow, Bell's Lane, Norwich.

Twice Tavernake read the announcement.  Then he went out and
found Ruth.

"Ruth," he told her, "there is something calling me back, perhaps
for good."

For the first time she gave him her hand.

"Now you are talking like a man once more," she declared.  "Go
and seek it.  Comeback and say good-bye to us, if you will, but
throw your tools into the sea."

Tavernake laughed and looked across at his workshop.

"I don't believe," he said, "that you've any confidence in my
boat."

"I'm not sure that I would sail with you," she answered, "even if
you ever finished it.  A laborer's work for a laborer's hand.
You must go back to the other things."




CHAPTER III

OLD FRIENDS MEET


The professor set down his tumbler upon the zinc-rimmed counter.
He was very little changed except that he had grown a shade
stouter, and there was perhaps more color in his cheeks.  He
carried himself, too, like a man who believes in himself.  In the
small public-house he was, without doubt, an impressive figure.

"My friends," he remarked, "our host's whiskey is good.  At the
same time, I must not forget--"

"You'll have one with me, Professor," a youth at his elbow
interrupted.  "Two special whiskies, miss, if you please."

The professor shrugged his shoulders--it was a gesture which he
wished every one to understand.  He was suffering now the penalty
for a popularity which would not be denied!

"You are very kind, sir," he said, "very kind, indeed.  As I was
about to say, I must not forget that in less than half an hour I
am due upon the stage.  It does not do to disappoint one's
audience, sir.  It is a poor place, this music-hall, but it is
full, they tell me packed from floor to ceiling.  At eight-thirty
I must show myself."

"A marvelous turn, too, Professor," declared one of the young men
by whom he was surrounded.

"I thank you, sir," the professor replied, turning towards the
speaker, glass in hand.  "There have been others who have paid me
a similar compliment; others, I may say, not unconnected with the
aristocracy of your country--not unconnected either, I might
add," he went on, "with the very highest in the land, those who
from their exalted position have never failed to shower favors
upon the more fortunate sons of our profession.  The science of
which I am to some extent the pioneer--not a drop more, my young
friend.  Say, I'm in dead earnest this time!  No more, indeed."

The young man in knickerbockers who had just come in banged the
head of his cane upon the counter.

"You'll never refuse me, Professor," he asserted, confidently.
"I'm an old supporter, I am.  I've seen you in Blackburn and
Manchester, and twice here.  Just as wonderful as ever!  And that
young lady of yours, Professor, begging your pardon if she is
your daughter, as no doubt she is, why, she's a nut and no
mistake."

The professor sighed.  He was in his element but he was getting
uneasy at the flight of time.

"My young friend," he said, "your face is not familiar to me but
I cannot refuse your kindly offer.  It must be the last, however,
absolutely the last."

Then Tavernake, directed here from the music-hall, pushed open
the swing door and entered.  The professor set down his glass
untasted.  Tavernake came slowly across the room.

"You haven't forgotten me, then, Professor?" he remarked, holding
out his hand.

The professor welcomed him a little limply; something of the
bombast had gone out of his manner.  Tavernake's arrival had
reminded him of things which he had only too easily forgotten.

"This is very surprising," he faltered, "very surprising indeed.
Do you live in these parts?"

"Not far away," Tavernake answered.  "I saw your announcement in
the papers."

The professor nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I am on the war-path again.  I tried resting but
I got fat and lazy, and the people wouldn't have it, sir," he
continued, recovering very quickly something of his former
manner.  "The number of offers I got through my agents by every
post was simply astounding--astounding!"

"I am looking forward to seeing your performance this evening,"
Tavernake said politely.  "In the meantime--"

"I know what you are thinking of," the professor interrupted.
"Well, well, give me your arm and we will walk down to the hall
together.  My friends," the professor added, turning round, "I
wish you all a good-night!"

Then the door was pushed half-way open and Tavernake's heart gave
a jump.  It was Beatrice who stood there, very pale, very tired,
and much thinner even than the Beatrice of the boardinghouse, but
still Beatrice.

"Father," she exclaimed, "do you know that it is nearly--"

Then she saw Tavernake and said no more.  She seemed to sway a
little, and Tavernake, taking a quick step forward, grasped her
by the hands.

"Dear sister," he cried, "you have been ill!"

She was herself again almost in a moment.

"Ill?  Never in my life," she replied.  "Only I have been
hurrying--we are late already for the performance--and seeing you
there, well, it was quite a shock, you know.  Walk down with us
and tell me all about it.

Tell us what you are doing here--or rather, don't talk for a
moment!  It is all so amazing."

They turned down the narrow cobbled street, the professor walking
in the middle of the roadway, swinging his cane, a very imposing
and wonderful figure, with the tails of his frock-coat streaming
in the wind, his long hair only half-hidden by his hat.  He
hummed a tune to himself and affected not to take any notice of
the other two.  Then Tavernake suddenly realized that he had done
a cowardly action in leaving her without a word.

"There is so much to ask," she began at last, "but you have come
back."

She looked at his workman's clothes.

"What have you been doing?" she asked, sharply.

"Working," Tavernake answered, "good work, too.  I am the better
for it.  Don't mind my clothes, Beatrice.  I have been mad for a
time, but after all it has been a healthy madness."

"It was a strange thing that you did," she said,--"you
disappeared."

He nodded.

"Some day," he told her, "I may, perhaps, be able to make you
understand.  Just now I don't think that I could."

"It was Elizabeth?" she whispered, softly.

"It was Elizabeth," he admitted.

They said no more then till they reached the hall.  She stopped
at the door and put out her hand timidly.

"I shall see you afterwards?" she ventured.

"Do you mind my coming to the performance?" he asked.

She hesitated.

"A few moments ago," she remarked, smiling, "I was dreading your
coming.  Now I think that you had better.  It will be all over at
ten o'clock, and I shall look for you outside.  You are living in
Norwich?"

"I shall be here for to-night, at any rate," he answered.

"Very well, then," she said, "afterwards we will have a talk."

Tavernake passed through the scattered knot of loiterers at the
door and bought a seat for himself in the little music-hall,
which, notwithstanding the professor's boast, was none too well
filled.  It was a place of the old-fashioned sort, with small
tables in the front, and waiters hurrying about serving drinks.
The people were of the lowest order, and the atmosphere of the
room was thick with tobacco smoke.  A young woman in a flaxen wig
and boy's clothes was singing a popular ditty, marching up and
down the stage, and interspersing the words o f her song with
grimaces and appropriate action.  Tavernake sat down with a
barely-smothered groan.  He was beginning to realize the tragedy
upon which he had stumbled.  A comic singer followed, who in a
dress suit several sizes too large for him gave an imitation of a
popular Irish comedian.  Then the curtain went up and the
professor was seen, standing in front of the curtain and bowing
solemnly to a somewhat unresponsive audience.  A minute later
Beatrice came quietly in and sat by his side.  There was nothing
new about the show.  Tavernake had seen the same thing before,
with the exception that the professor was perhaps a little behind
the majority of his fellow-craftsmen.  The performance was
finished in dead silence, and after it was over, Beatrice came to
the front and sang.  She was a very unusual figure in such a
place, in a plain black evening gown, with black gloves and no
jewelry, but they encored her heartily, and she sang a song from
the musical comedy in which Tavernake had first seen her.  A
sudden wave of reminiscence stirred within him.  His thoughts
seemed to go back to the night when he had waited for her outside
the theatre and they had had supper at Imano's, to the day when
he had left the boarding-house and entered upon his new life.  It
was more like a dream than ever now.

He rose and quitted the place immediately she had finished,
waiting in the street until she appeared.  She came out in a few
minutes.

"Father is going to a supper," she announced, "at the inn where
he has a room for receiving people.  Will you come home with me
for an hour?  Then we can go round and fetch him."

"I should like to," Tavernake answered.

Her lodgings were only a few steps away--a strange little house
in a narrow street.  She opened the front door and ushered him
in.

"You understand, of course," she said, smiling, "that we have
abandoned the haunts of luxury altogether."

He looked around at the tiny room with its struggling fire and
horsehair sofa, linoleum for carpet, oleographs for pictures, and
he shivered, not for his own sake but for hers.  On the sideboard
were some bread and cheese and a bottle of ginger beer.

"Please imagine," she begged, taking the pins from her hat, "that
you are in those dear comfortable rooms of ours down at Chelsea.
Draw that easy-chair up to what there is of the fire, and listen.
You smoke still?"

"I have taken to a pipe," he admitted.

"Then light it and listen," she went on, smoothing her hair for a
minute in front of the looking-glass.  "You want to know about
Elizabeth, of course."

"Yes," he said, "I want to know."

"Elizabeth, on the whole," Beatrice continued, "got out of all
her troubles very well.  Her husband's people were wild with her,
but Elizabeth was very clever.  They were never able to prove
that she had exercised more than proper control over poor Wenham.
He died two months after they took him to the asylum.  They
offered Elizabeth a lump sum to waive all claims to his estate,
and she accepted it.  I think that she is now somewhere on the
Continent."

"And you?" he asked.  "Why did you leave the theatre?"

"It was a matter of looking after my father," she explained.
"You see, while he was there with Elizabeth he had too much money
and nothing to do.  The consequence was that he was always
--well, I suppose I had better say it--drinking too much, and he
was losing all his desire for work.  I made him promise that if I
could get some engagements he would come away with me, so I went
to an agent and we have been touring like this for quite a long
time."

"But what a life for you!" Tavernake exclaimed.  "Couldn't you
have stayed on at the theatre and found him something in London?"

She shook her head.

"In London," she said, "he would never have got out of his old
habits.  And then," she went on, hesitatingly, "you understand
that the public want something else besides the hypnotism--"

Tavernake interrupted her ruthlessly.

"Of course I understand," he declared, "I was there to-night.  I
understood at once why you were not very anxious for me to go.
The people cared nothing at all about your father's performance.
They simply waited for you.  You would get the same money if you
went round without him."

She nodded, a trifle shamefacedly.

"I am so afraid some one will tell him," she confessed.  "They
nearly always ask me to leave out his part of the performance.
They have even offered me more money if I would come alone.  But
you see how it is.  He believes in himself, he thinks he is very
clever and he believes that the public like his show.  It is the
only thing which helps him to keep a little self-respect.  He
thinks that my singing is almost unnecessary."

Tavernake looked into that faint glimmer of miserable fire.  He
was conscious of a curious feeling in his throat.  How little he
knew of life!  The pathos of what she had told him, the thought
of her bravely traveling the country and singing at third-rate
music-halls, never taking any credit to herself, simply that her
father might still believe himself a man of talent, appealed to
him irresistibly.  He suddenly held out his hand.

"Poor little Beatrice!" he exclaimed.  "Dear little sister!"

The hand he gripped was cold, she avoided his eyes.

"You--you mustn't," she murmured.  "Please don't!"

He held out his other hand and half rose, but her lips suddenly
ceased to quiver and she waved him back.

"No, Leonard," she begged, "please don't do or say anything
foolish.  Since we do meet again, though, like this, I am going
to ask you one question.  What made you come to me and ask me to
marry you that day?"

He looked away; something in her eyes accused him.

"Beatrice," he confessed, "I was a thick-headed ignorant fool,
without understanding.  I came to you for safety.  I was afraid
of Elizabeth, I was afraid of what I felt for her.  I wanted to
escape from it."

She smiled piteously.

"It wasn't a very brave thing to do, was it?" she faltered.

"It was mean," he admitted.  "It was worse than that.  But,
Beatrice," he went on, "I was missing you horribly.  You did
leave a big empty place when you went away.  I am not going to
excuse myself about Elizabeth.  I lived through a time of the
strangest, most marvelous emotions one could dream of.  Then the
thing came to an end and I felt as though the bottom had gone out
of life.  I suppose--I loved her," he continued hesitatingly.  "I
don't know.  I only know that she filled every thought of my
brain, that she lived in every beat of my heart, that I would
have gone down into Hell to help her.  And then I understood.
That morning she told me something of the truth about herself,
not meaning to--unconsciously - justifying herself all the time,
not realizing that every word she said was damnable.  And then
there didn't seem to be anything else left, and I had only one
desire.  I turned my back upon everything and I went back to the
place where I was born, a little fishing village.  For the last
thirty miles I walked.  I shall never forget it.  When I got
there, what I wanted was work, work with my hands.  I wanted to
build something, to create anything that I could labor upon.  I
became a boat builder--I have been a boatbuilder ever since."

"And now?" she asked.

"Beatrice!"

She turned and faced him.  She looked into his eyes very
searchingly, very wistfully.

"Beatrice," he said, "I ask you once more, only differently.
Will you marry me now?  I'll find some work, I'll make enough
money for us.  Do you remember," he went on, "how I used to talk,
how I used to feel that I had only to put forth my strength and I
could win anything?  I'll feel like that again, Beatrice, if
you'll come to me."

She shook her head slowly.  She looked away from him with a sigh.
She had the air of one who has sought for something which she has
failed to find.

"You mustn't think of that again, Leonard," she told him.  "It
would be quite impossible.  This is the only way I can save my
father.  We have a tour that will take us the best part of
another year."

"But you are sacrificing yourself!" he declared.  "I will keep
your father."

"It isn't that only," she replied.  "For one thing, I couldn't
let you; and for another, it isn't only the money, it's the work.
As long as he's made to think that the public expect him every
night, he keeps off drinking too much.  There is nothing else in
the whole world which would keep him steady.  Don't look as
though you didn't understand, Leonard.  He is my father, you
know, and there isn't anything more terrible than to see any one
who has a claim on us give way to anything like that.  You mayn't
quite approve, but please believe that I am doing what I feel to
be right."

The little fire had gone out.  Beatrice glanced at the clock and
put on her jacket again.

"I am sorry, Leonard," she said, "but I think I must go and fetch
father now.  You can walk with me there, if you will.  It has
been very good to see you again.  For the rest I don't know what
to say to you.  Do you think that it is quite what you were meant
for--to build boats?"

"I don't seem to have any other ambition," he answered, wearily.
"When I read in the paper this morning that you and your father
were here, things seemed suddenly different.  I came at once.  I
didn't know what I wanted until I saw you, but I know now, and it
isn't any good."

"No good at all," she declared cheerfully.  "It won't be very
long, Leonard, before something else comes along to stir you.  I
don't think you were meant to build boats all your life."

He rose and took up his hat.  She was waiting for him at the
door.  Again they passed down the narrow street.

"Tell, me, Beatrice," he begged, "is it because you don't like me
well enough that you won't listen to what I ask?"

For a moment she half closed her eyes as though in pain.  Then
she laughed, not perhaps very naturally.  They were standing now
by the door of the public house.

"Leonard," she said, "you are very young in years but you are a
baby in experience.  Mind, there are other reasons why I could
not--would not dream of marrying you, other reasons which are
absolutely sufficient, but--do you know that you have asked me
twice and you have never once said that you cared, that you have
never once looked as though you cared?  No, don't, please," she
interrupted, "don't explain anything.  You see, a woman always
knows--too well, sometimes."

She nodded, and passed in through the swinging-doors.  Standing
out there in the narrow, crooked street, Tavernake heard the
clapping and applause which greeted her entrance, he heard her
father's voice.  Some one struck a note at the piano--she was
going to sing.  Very slowly he turned away and walked down the
cobbled hill.




CHAPTER IV

PRITCHARD'S GOOD NEWS


Late in the afternoon of the following day, Ruth came home from
the village and found Tavernake hard at work on his boat.  She
put down her basket and stopped by his side.

"So you are back again," she remarked.

"Yes, I am back again."

"And nothing has happened?"

"Nothing has happened," he assented, wearily.  "Nothing ever will
happen now."

She smiled.

"You mean that you will stay here and build boats all your life?"

"That is what I mean to do," he announced.

She laid her hand upon his shoulder.

"Don't believe it, Leonard," she said.  "There is other work for
you in the world somewhere, just as there is for me."

He shook his head and she picked up her basket again, smiling.

"Your time will come as it comes to the rest of us," she
declared, cheerfully.  "You won't want to sit here and bury your
talents in the sands all your days.  Have you heard what is going
to happen to me?"

"No!  Something good, I hope."

"My father's favorite niece is coming to live with us--there are
seven of them altogether, and farming doesn't pay like it used
to, so Margaret is coming here.  Father says that if she is as
handy as she used to be I may go back to the schools almost at
once."

Tavernake was silent for a moment.  Then he got up and threw down
his tools.

"Great Heavens!" he exclaimed.  "If I am not becoming the most
selfish brute that ever breathed!  Do you know, the first thought
I had was that I should miss you?  You are right, young woman, I
must get out of this."

She disappeared into the house, smiling, and Tavernake called out
to Nicholls, who was sitting on the wall.

"Mr. Nicholls," he asked, "how much notice do you want?"

Matthew Nicholls removed his pipe from his mouth.

"Why, I don't know that I'm particular," he replied, "being as
you want to go.  Between you and me, I'm gettin' fat and lazy
since you came.  There ain't enough work for two, and that's all
there is to it, and being as you're young and active, why, I've
left it to you, and look at my arms."

He held them up.

"Used to be all muscle, now they're nothin' but bloomin' pap.
And no' but two glasses of beer a day extra have I drunk, just to
pass the time.  You can stay if you will, young man, but you can
go out fishin' and leave me the work, and I'll pay you just the
same, for I'm not saying that I don't like your company.  Or you
can go when you please, and that's the end of it."

Matthew Nicholls spat upon the stones and replaced his pipe in
his mouth.  Tavernake came in and sat down by his side.

"Look here," he said, "I believe you are right.  I'll stay
another week but I'll take things easy.  You get on with the boat
now.  I'll sit here and have a smoke."

Nicholls grunted but obeyed, and for the next few days Tavernake
loafed.  On his return one afternoon from a long walk, he saw a
familiar figure sitting upon the sea wall in front of the
workshop, a familiar figure but a strange one in these parts.  It
was Mr. Pritchard, in an American felt hat, and smoking a very
black cigar.  He leaned over and nodded to Tavernake, who was
staring at him aghast.

"Hallo, old man!" he called out.  "Run you to earth, you see!"

"Yes, I see!" Tavernake exclaimed.

"Come right along up here and let's talk," Pritchard continued.

Tavernake obeyed.  Pritchard looked him over approvingly.
Tavernake was roughly dressed in those days, but as a man he had
certainly developed.

"Say, you're looking fine," his visitor remarked.  "What wouldn't
I give for that color and those shoulders!"

"It is a healthy life," Tavernake admitted.  "Do you mean that
you've come down here to see me?"

"That's so," Pritchard announced; "down here to see you, and for
no other reason.  Not but that the scenery isn't all it should
be, and that sort of thing," he went on, "but I am not putting up
any bluff about it.  It's you I am here to talk to.  Are you
ready?  Shall I go straight ahead?"

"If you please," Tavernake said, slowly filling his pipe.

"You dropped out of things pretty sudden," Pritchard continued.
"It didn't take me much guessing to reckon up why.  Between you
and me, you are not the first man who's been up against it on
account of that young woman.  Don't stop me," he begged.  "I know
how you've been feeling.  It was a right good idea of yours to
come here.  Others before you have tried the shady side of New
York and Paris, and it's the wrong treatment.  It's Hell, that's
what it is, for them.  Now that young woman--we got to speak of
her--is about the most beautiful and the most fascinating of her
sex--I'll grant that to start with--but she isn't worth the life
of a snail, much less the life of a strong man."

"You are, quite right," Tavernake confessed, shortly.  "I know I
was a fool--a fool!  If I could think of any adjective that would
meet the case, I'd use it, but there it is.  I chucked things and
I came here.  You haven't come down to tell me your opinion of
me, I suppose?"

"Not by any manner of means," Pritchard admitted.  "I came down
first to tell you that you were a fool, if it was necessary.
Since you know it, it isn't.  We'll pass on to the next stage,
and that is, what are you going to do about it?"

"It is in my mind at the present moment," Tavernake announced,
"to leave here.  The only trouble is, I am not very keen about
London."

Pritchard nodded thoughtfully.

"That's all right," he agreed.  "London's no place for a man,
anyway.  You don't want to learn the usual tricks of
money-making.  Money that's made in the cities is mostly made
with stained fingers.  I have a different sort of proposal to
make."

"Go ahead," Tavernake said.  "What is it?"

"A new country," Pritchard declared, altering the angle of his
cigar, "a virgin land, mountains and valleys, great rivers to be
crossed, all sorts of cold and heat to be borne with, a land rich
with minerals--some say gold, but never mind that.  There is oil
in parts, there's tin, there's coal, and there's thousands and
thousands of miles of forest.  You're a surveyor?"

"Passed all my exams," Tavernake agreed tersely.

"You are the man for out yonder," Pritchard insisted.  "I've two
years' vacation--dead sick of this city life I am--and I am going
to put you on the track of it.  You don't know much about
prospecting yet, I reckon?"

"Nothing at all!"

"You soon shall," Pritchard went on.  "We'll start from Winnipeg.
A few horses, some guides, and a couple of tents.  We'll spend
twenty weeks, my friend, without seeing a town.  What do you
think of that?"

"Gorgeous!" Tavernake muttered.

"Twenty weeks we'll strike westward.  I know the way to set about
the whole job.  I know one or two of the capitalists, too, and if
we don't map out some of the grandest estates in British
Columbia, why, my name ain't Pritchard."

"But I haven't a penny in the world," Tavernake objected.

"That's where you're lying," Pritchard remarked, pulling a
newspaper from his pocket.  "See the advertisement for yourself:
'Leonard Tavernake, something to his advantage.'  Well, down I
went to those lawyers--your old lawyer it was--Martin.  I told
him I was on your track, and he said--'For Heaven's sake, send
the fellow along!'  Say, Tavernake, he made me laugh the way he
described your bursting in upon him and telling him to take your
land for his costs, and walking out of the room like something
almighty.  Why, he worked that thing so that they had to buy your
land, and they took him into partnership.  He's made a pot of
money, and needs no costs from you, and there's the money for
your land and what he had of yours besides, waiting for you."

Tavernake smoked stolidly at his pipe.  His eyes were out
seaward, but his heart was beating to a new and splendid music.
To start life again, a man's life, out in the solitudes, out in
the great open spaces!  It was gorgeous, this!  He turned round
and grasped Pritchard by the shoulder.

"I say," he exclaimed, "why are you doing all this for me,
Pritchard?"

Pritchard laughed.

"You did me a good turn," he said, "and you're a man.  You've the
pluck--that's what I like.  You knew nothing, you were as green
and ignorant as a young man from behind the counter of a country
shop, but, my God! you'd got the right stuff, and I meant getting
even with you if I could.  You'll leave here with me to-morrow,
and in three weeks we sail."

Ruth came smiling out from the house.

"Won't you bring your friend in to supper, Mr. Tavernake?" she
begged.  "It's good news, I hope?" she added, lowering her voice
a little.

"It's the best," Tavernake declared, "the best!"




CHAPTER V

BEATRICE REFUSES


A week later Tavernake was in London.  A visit to his friend Mr.
Martin had easily proved the truth of Pritchard's words, and he
found himself in possession of a sum of money at least twice as
great as he had anticipated.  He stayed at a cheap hotel in the
Strand and made purchases under Pritchard's supervision.  For the
first few days he was too busy for reflection.  Then Pritchard
let him alone while he ran over to Paris, and Tavernake suddenly
realized that he was in the city to which he had thought never to
return.  He passed the back of the theatre where he had waited
for Beatrice, he looked up at the entrance of the Milan Court; he
lunched alone, and with a curious mixture of feelings, at the
little restaurant where he had supped with Beatrice.  It was
over, that part of his life, over and finished.  Yet, with his
natural truthfulness, he never attempted to disguise from himself
the pain at his heart.  Three times in one day he found himself,
under some pretext or another, in Imano's Restaurant.  Once, in
the middle of the street, he burst into a fit of laughter.  It
was while Pritchard was in London, and he asked him a question.

"Pritchard," he remarked, "you area man of experience.  Did any
one ever care for two women at the same time?"

Pritchard removed his cigar from his teeth and stared at his
companion.

"Why, my young friend," he replied, "I've found no trouble myself
in being fond of a dozen."

Tavernake smiled and said no more.  Pritchard was one of the good
fellows of the world, but there were things which were hidden
from him.  Yet Tavernake, who had fallen into a habit, during his
solitude, of analyzing his sensations, was puzzled by this one
circumstance, that when he thought of Elizabeth, though his heart
never failed to beat more quickly, the sense of shame generally
stole over him; and when he thought of Beatrice, a curious
loneliness, a loneliness that brought with it a pain, seemed
suddenly to make the hours drag and his pleasures flavorless.
For two days he was puzzled.  Then his habit of taking long walks
helped him toward a solution.  In a small outlying music-hall in
the east-end of London, he saw the same announcement that he had
noticed in the Norfolk newspaper,--"Professor Franklin" in large
type, and "Miss Beatrice Franklin" in small.

That night he attended the music-hall.  The scene was practically
a repetition of the one in Norwich, only with additions.  The
professor's bombastic performance met with scarcely any applause.
Its termination was, indeed, interrupted by catcalls and whistles
from the gallery.  Beatrice's songs, on the other hand, were
applauded more vociferously than ever.  She had hard work to
avoid a third encore.

At the end of the performance, Tavernake made his way to the
stage-door and waited.  The neighborhood was an unsavory one, and
the building itself seemed crowded in among a row of shops of the
worst order, fish stalls, and a glaring gin palace.  Long before
Beatrice came out, Tavernake could hear the professor's voice
down the covered passage, the professor's voice apparently raised
in anger.

"Undutiful behavior, that's what I call it--undutiful!"

They emerged into the street, the professor very much the same as
usual; Beatrice paler, with a pathetic droop about her mouth.
Tavernake came eagerly forward.

"Beatrice!" he cried, holding out his hand.

The professor drew back.  Beatrice stood still,--for a moment it
seemed as though she were about to faint.  Tavernake grasped her
hands.

"I am so sorry!" he exclaimed, clumsily.  "I ought not to have
come up like that."

She smiled a little wan smile.

"I am quite all right," she replied, "only the heat inside was
rather trying, and even out here the atmosphere isn't too good,
is it?  How did you find us out?"

"By chance again," Tavernake answered.  "I have news.  May I walk
with you a few steps?"

She glanced timidly toward her father.  The professor was holding
aloof in dignified silence.

"Perhaps," Tavernake said quickly, "you would take supper with
me?  I am going abroad, and I should like to say good-bye
properly.  A bottle of champagne and some supper.  What do you
say, Professor?"

The professor suffered his features to relax.

"A very admirable idea," he declared.  "Where shall we go?"

"Is it too late to get to Imano's?" Tavernake suggested.

The professor hesitated.

"A taxicab," he remarked, "would do it, if--"

He paused, and Tavernake smiled.

"A taxicab it shall be," he decided.  "I am in funds just for the
moment.  Come along, both of you, and I'll tell you all about
it."

He made her take his arm, although her fingers did no more than
touch his coat sleeve.

"Pritchard came and dug me out," he continued.  "I am going
abroad with him.  It's sort of prospecting in some new country at
the back of British Columbia.  We see what we can find and then
go to a financier's and start companies, mining companies and oil
fields--anything.  I am off in a week."

Beatrice half closed her eyes.  They had hailed a passing cab and
she sank back among the cushions with a sigh of relief.

"Dear Leonard," she murmured, "I am so glad, so very happy for
your sake.  This is the sort of thing which I hoped would
happen."

"And now tell me about yourselves," he went on.

There was a sudden silence.  Tavernake was conscious that
Beatrice's clothes were distinctly shabbier, that the professor's
hat was shiny.  The professor cleared his throat.

"I do not wish," he said, "to intrude our private matters upon
one who, although I will not call him a stranger, is assuredly
not one of our old friends.  At the same time, I admit that a
little trouble has arisen between Beatrice and myself, and we
were discussing it at the moment you arrived.  I shall appeal to
you now.  As an unprejudiced member of the audience to-night, Mr.
Tavernake, you will give me your honest opinion?"

"Certainly," Tavernake promised, with a sinking premonition of
what was to come.

"What I complain of," the professor began, speaking with
elaborate and impressive slowness, "is that my performance is
hurried over and that too long a time is taken up by Beatrice's
songs.  The management remark upon the applause which her efforts
occasionally ensure, but, as I would point out to you, sir," he
continued, "a performance such as mine makes too deep an
impression for the audience to show their appreciation of it by
such vulgar methods as hand-clapping and whistling.  You follow
me, I trust, Mr. Tavernake?"

Why, yes, of course," Tavernake admitted.

"I take a sincere and earnest interest in my work," the professor
declared, "and I feel that when it has to be scamped that my
daughter may sing a music-hall ditty, the result is, to say the
least of it, undignified.  For some reason or other, I have been
unable to induce the management to see entirely with me, but my
point is that Beatrice should sing one song only, and that the
additional ten minutes should be occupied by me in either a
further exposition of my extraordinary powers as a hypnotist, or
in a little address to the audience upon the hidden sciences.
Now I appeal to you, Mr. Tavernake, as a young man of common
sense.  What is your opinion?"

Tavernake, much too honest to be capable in a general way of
duplicity, was on the point of giving it, but he caught
Beatrice's imploring gaze.  Her lips were moving.  He hesitated.

"Of course," he began, slowly, "you have to try and put yourself
into the position of the major part of the audience, who are
exceedingly uneducated people.  It is very hard to give an
opinion, Professor.  I must say that your entertainment this
evening was listened to with rapt interest."

The professor turned solemnly towards his daughter.

"You hear that, Beatrice?" he said severely.  "You hear what Mr.
Tavernake says?  'With rapt interest!'"

"At the same time," Tavernake went on, "without a doubt Miss
Beatrice's songs were also extremely popular.  It is rather a
pity that the management could not give you a little more time."

"Failing that, sir," the professor declared, "my point is, as I
explained before, that Beatrice should give up one of her songs.
What you have said this evening more than ever confirms me in my
view."

Beatrice smiled thankfully at Tavernake.

"Well," she suggested, "at any rate we will leave it for the
present.  Sometimes I think, though, father, that you frighten
them with some of your work, and you must remember that they come
to be amused."

"That," the professor admitted, "is the most sensible remark you
have made, Beatrice.  There is indeed something terrifying in
some of my manifestations, terrifying even to myself, who
understand so thoroughly my subject.  However, as you say, we
will dismiss the matter for the present.  The thought of this
supper party is a pleasant one.  Do you remember, Mr. Tavernake,
the night when you and I met in the balcony at Imano's?"

"Perfectly well," Tavernake answered.

"Now I shall test your memory," the professor continued, with a
knowing smile.  "Can you remember, sir, the brand of champagne
which I was then drinking, and which I declared, if you
recollect, was the one which best agreed with me, the one brand
worth drinking?"

"I am afraid I don't remember that," Tavernake confessed.
"Restaurant life is a thing I know so little of, and I have only
drunk champagne once or twice in my life."

"Dear, dear me!" the professor exclaimed.  "You do astonish me,
sir.  Well, that brand was Veuve Clicquot, and you may take my
word for it, Mr. Tavernake, and you may find this knowledge
useful to you when you have made a fortune in America and have
become a man of pleasure; there is no wine equal to it.  Veuve
Clicquot, sir, if possible of the year 1899, though the year 1900
is quite drinkable."

"Veuve Clicquot," Tavernake repeated.  "I'll remember it for this
evening."

The professor beamed.

"My dear," he said to Beatrice, "Mr. Tavernake will think that I
had a purpose in testing his memory."

Beatrice smiled.

"And hadn't you, father?" she asked.

They all laughed together.

"Well, it is pleasant," the professor admitted, "to have one's
weaknesses ministered to, especially when one is getting on in
life," he added, with a ponderous sigh.  "Never mind, we will
think only of pleasant subjects this evening.  It will be quite
interesting, Mr. Tavernake, to hear you order the supper."

"I sha'n't attempt it," Tavernake answered.  "I shall pass it on
to you."

"This reminds me," the professor declared, "of the old days.  I
feel sure that this is going to be a thoroughly enjoyable
evening.  We shall think of it often, Mr. Tavernake, when you lie
sleeping under the stars.  Why, what a wonderful thing these
taxicabs are!  You see, we have arrived."

They secured a small table in a corner at Imano's, and Tavernake
found himself curiously moved as he watched Beatrice take off her
worn and much mended gloves and look around uneasily at the other
guests.  Her clothes were indeed shabby, and there were hollows
now in her cheeks.

Again he felt that pain, a pain for which he could not account.
Suddenly America seemed so far away, the loneliness of the great
continent became an actual and appreciable thing.  The professor
was very much occupied ordering the supper.  Tavernake leaned
across the table.

"Do you remember our first supper here, Beatrice?" he asked.

She nodded, with an attempt at brightness which was a little
pitiful.

"Yes," she replied, "I remember it quite well.  And now, please,
Leonard, don't talk to me again until I have had a glass of wine.
I am tired and worn out, that is all."

Even Tavernake knew that she was struggling against the tears
which already dimmed her eyes.  He filled her glass himself.  The
professor set his own down empty with the satisfied smile of a
connoisseur.

"I think," he said, "that you will agree with me about this
vintage.  Beatrice, this is what will bring color into your
cheeks.  My little girl," he continued, turning to Tavernake,
"will soon need a holiday.  I am hoping presently to be able to
arrange a short tour by myself, and if so, I shall send her to
the seaside.  Now I want you particularly to try the fish salad
--the second dish there.  Beatrice, let me help you."

Presently the orchestra began to play.  The warmth of the room,
the wine and the food--Tavernake had a horrible idea once that
she had eaten nothing that day--brought back some of the color to
Beatrice's cheeks and a little of the light to her eyes.  She
began to talk something in the old fashion.  She avoided,
however, any mention of that other supper they had had together.
As time went on, the professor, who had drunk the best part of
two bottles of wine and was talking now to a friend, became
almost negligible.  Tavernake leaned across the table.

"Beatrice," he whispered, "you are not looking well.  I am afraid
that life is getting harder with you."

She shook her head.

"I am doing what I must," she answered.  "Please don't sympathize
with me.  I am hysterical, I think, tonight.  It will pass off."

"But, Beatrice," he ventured, timidly, "could one do nothing for
you?  I don't like these performances, and between you and me, we
know they won't stand your father's show much longer.  It will
certainly come to an end soon.  Why don't you try and get back
your place at the theatre?  You could still earn enough to keep
him."

"Already I have tried," she replied, sorrowfully.  "My place is
filled up.  You see," she added, with a forced laugh, "I have
lost some of my looks, Leonard.  I am thinner, too.  Of course, I
shall be all right presently, but it's rather against me at these
west-end places."

Again he felt that pain at his heart.  He was sure now that he
was beginning to understand!

"Beatrice," he whispered, "give it up--marry me I will take care
of him."

The flush of color faded from her cheeks.  She shivered a little
and looked at him piteously.

"Leonard," she pleaded, "you mustn't.  I really am not very
strong just now.  We have finished with all that--it distresses
me."

"But I mean it," he begged.  "Somehow, I have felt all sorts of
things since we came in here.  I think of that night, and I
believe--I do believe that what came to me before was madness.
It was not the same."

She was trembling now.

"Leonard," she implored, "if you care for me at all, be quiet.
Father will turn round directly and I can't bear it.  I shall be
your very faithful friend; I shall think of you through the long
days before we meet again, but don't--don't spoil this last
evening."

The professor turned round, his face mottled, his eyes moist, a
great good-humor apparent in his tone.

"Well, I must say," he declared, "that this has been a most
delightful evening.  I feel immensely better, and you, too, I
hope, Beatrice?"

She nodded, smiling.

"I trust that when Mr. Tavernake returns," the professor
continued, "he will give us the opportunity of entertaining him
in much the same manner.  It will give me very much pleasure,
also Beatrice.  And if, sir," he proceeded, "during your stay in
New York you will mention my name at the Goat's Club, or the
Mosquito Club, you will, I think, find yourself received with a
hospitality which will surprise you."

Tavernake thanked him and paid the bill.  They walked slowly down
the room, and Tavernake was curiously reluctant to release the
little hand which clasped his.

"I have kept this to the last," Beatrice said, in a low tone.
"Elizabeth is in London."

He was curiously unmoved.

"Yes?" he murmured.

"I should like you--I think it would be well for you to go and
see her," she went on.  "You know, Leonard, you were such a
strange person in those days.  You may imagine things.  You may
not realize where you are.  I think that you ought to go and see
her now, now that you have lived through some suffering, now that
you understand things better.  Will you?"

"Yes, I will go," Tavernake promised.

Beatrice glanced round towards where her father was standing.

"I don't want him to know," she whispered.  "I don't want either
him or myself to be tempted to take any of her money.  She is
living at Claridge's Hotel.  Go there and see her before you
leave for your new life."

He stood at the door and watched them go down the Strand, the
professor, flamboyant, walking erect with flying coat-tails, and
his big cigar held firmly between his teeth; Beatrice, a wan
figure in her black clothes, clinging to his arm.  Tavernake
watched them until they disappeared, conscious of a curious
excitement, a strange pain, a sense of revelation.  When at last
they were out of sight and he turned back for his coat and hat,
his feet were suddenly leaden.  The band was playing the last
selection--it was the air which Beatrice had sung only that night
at the east-end music-hall.  With a sudden overpowering impulse
he turned and strode down the Strand in the direction where they
had vanished.  It was too late.  There was no sign of them.




CHAPTER VI

UNDERSTANDING COMES TOO LATE


Tavernake's first impression of Elizabeth was that he had never,
even in his wildest thoughts, done her justice.  He had never
imagined her so wonderfully, so alluringly beautiful.  She had
received him, after a very long delay, in her sitting-room at
Claridge's Hotel--a large apartment furnished more like a
drawing-room.  She was standing, when he entered, almost in the
center of the room, dressed in a long lace cloak and a hat with a
drooping black feather.  She looked at him, as the door opened,
as though for a moment half puzzled.  Then she laughed softly and
held out her hands.

"Why, of course I remember you!" she exclaimed.  "And to think
that when I had your card I couldn't imagine where I had heard
the name before!  You are my dear estate agent's clerk, who
wouldn't take my money, and who was so wretchedly rude to me
twelve months ago."

Tavernake was quite cool.  He found himself wondering whether
this was a pose, or whether she had indeed forgotten.  He decided
that it was a pose.

"I was also," he reminded her, "one night in your rooms at the
Milan Court when your husband--"

She stopped him with an imperative gesture.

"Spare me, please," she begged.  "Those were such terrible days
--so dull, too!  I remember that you were quite one of the
brightest spots.  You were absolutely different from every one I
had ever met before, and you interested me immensely."

She looked at him and slowly shook her head.

"You look very nice," she said.  "Your clothes fit you and you
are most becomingly tanned, but you don't look half so awkward
and so adorable."

"I am sorry," he replied, shortly.

"And you came to see me!" she went on.  "That was really nice of
you.  You were quite fond of me, once, you know.  Tell me, has it
lasted?"

"That is exactly what I came to find out," he answered
deliberately.  "So far, I am inclined to think that it has not
lasted."

She made a little wry face and drew his arm through hers.

"Come and sit down and tell me why," she insisted.  "Be honest,
now.  Is it because you think I am looking older?"

"I have thought of you for many hours a day for months,"
Tavernake said, slowly, "and I never imagined you so beautiful as
you seem now."

She clapped her hands.

"And yon mean it, too!" she exclaimed.  "There is just the same
delightfully convincing note in your tone.  I am sure that you
mean it.  Please go on adoring me, Mr. Tavernake.  I have no one
who interests me at all just now.  There is an Italian Count who
wants to marry me, but he is terribly poor; and a young
Australian, who follows me everywhere, but I am not sure about
him.  There is an English boy, too, who is going to commit
suicide if I don't say 'yes' to him this week.  On the whole, I
think I am rather sorry that people know I am a widow.  Tell me,
Mr. Tavernake, are you going to adore me, too?"

"I don't think so," Tavernake answered.  "I rather believe that I
am cured."

She shrugged her shoulders and laughed musically.

"But you say that you still think I am beautiful," she went on,
"and I am sure my clothes are perfect--they came straight from
Paris.  I hope you appreciate this lace," she added, drawing it
through her fingers.  "My figure is just as good, too, isn't it?"

She stood up and turned slowly round.  Then she sat down
suddenly, taking his hand in hers.

"Please don't say that you think I have grown less attractive,"
she begged.

"As regards your personal attractions," Tavernake replied, "I
imagine that they are at least as great as ever.  If you want the
truth, I think that the reason I do not adore you any longer is
because I saw your sister last night."

"Saw Beatrice!" she exclaimed.  "Where?"

"She was singing at a miserable east-end music-hall so that her
father might find some sort of employment," Tavernake said.  "The
people only forbore to hiss her father's turn for her sake.  She
goes about the country with him.  Heaven knows what they earn,
but it must be little enough!  Beatrice is shabby and thin and
pale.  She is devoting the best years of her life to what she
imagines to be her duty."

"And how does this affect me?" Elizabeth asked, coldly.

"Only in this way," Tavernake answered.  "You asked me how it was
that I could find you as beautiful as ever and adore you no
longer.  The reason is because I know you to be wretchedly
selfish.  I believed in you before.  Everything that you did
seemed right.  That was because I was a fool, because you had
filled my brain with impossible fancies, because I saw you and
everything that you did through a distorted mirror."

"Have you come here to be rude?" she asked him.

"Not in the least," he replied.  "I came here to see whether I
was cured."

She began to laugh, very softly at first, but soon she threw
herself back among the cushions and laid her hand caressingly
upon his shoulder.

"Oh, you are just the same!" she cried.  "Just the same dear,
truthful bundle of honesty and awkwardness and ignorance.  So you
are going to be victim of Beatrice's bow and spear, after all."

"I have asked your sister to marry me," Tavernake admitted.  "She
will not."

"She was very wise," Elizabeth declared, wiping the tears from
her eyes.  "As an experience you are delightful.  As a husband
you would be terribly impossible.  Are you going to stay and take
me out to dinner this evening?  I'm sure you have a dress suit
now."

Tavernake shook his head.

"I am sorry," he said.  "I have already an engagement."

She looked at him curiously.  Was it really true that he had
become indifferent?  She was not used to men who escaped.

"Tell me," she asked, abruptly, "why did you come?  I don't
understand.  You are here, and you pass your time being rude to
me.  I ask you to take me to dinner and you refuse.  Do you know
that scarcely a man in London would not have jumped at such a
chance?"

"Very likely," Tavernake answered.  "I have no experience in such
matters.  I only know that I am going to do something else."

"Something you want to do very much?" she whispered.

"I am going down to a little music-hall in Whitechapel,"
Tavernake said, "and I am going to meet your sister and I am
going to put her in a cab and take her to have some supper, and I
am going to worry her until she promises to be my wife."

"You are certainly a devoted admirer of the family," she laughed.
"Perhaps you were in love with her all the time."

"Perhaps I was," he admitted.

She shook her head.

"I don't believe it," she said.  "I think you were quite fond of
me once.  You have such absurdly old-fashioned ideas or I think
that you would be fond of me now."

Tavernake rose to his feet.

"I am going," he declared.  "This will be good-bye.  To-morrow I
am going to British Columbia."

The laughter faded for a moment from her face.  She was suddenly
serious.

"Don't go," she begged.  "Listen.  I know I am not good like
Beatrice, but I do like you--I always did.  I suppose it is that
wonderful truthfulness of yours.  You are a different type from
the men one meets.  I am rather a reckless person.  It is such a
comfort sometimes to meet any one like you.  You seem such an
anchorage.  Stay and talk to me for a little time.  Take me out
to-night.  You asked me to go with you once, you know, and I
would not.  To-night it is I who ask you."

He shook his head slowly.

"This is good-bye!" he said, firmly.  "I suppose, after all, you
were not unkind to me in those days, but you taught me a very
bitter lesson.  I came to you to-day in fear and trembling.  I
was afraid, perhaps, that the worst was not over, that there was
more yet to come.  Now I know that I am free."

She stamped her foot.

"You shall not go away like that," she declared.

He smiled.

"Do you think I do not understand?" he continued.  "It is only
because I am able to go, because the touch of your fingers, that
look in your eyes, do not drive me half mad now, that you want me
to stay.  You would like to try your powers once more.  I think
not.  I am satisfied that I am cured indeed, but perhaps it is
safer to risk nothing."

She pointed to the door.

"Very well, then," she ordered, "you can go."

He bowed, and already his fingers were on the handle.  Suddenly
she called to him.

"Leonard!  Leonard!"

He turned round.  She was coming towards him with her arms
outstretched, her eyes were full of tears, there were sobs in her
voice.

"I am so lonely," she begged.  "I have thought of you so much.
Don't go away unkindly.  Stay with me for this evening, at any
rate.  You can see Beatrice at any time.  It is I who need you
most now."

He looked around at the splendid apartment; he looked at the
woman whose fingers, glittering with jewels, rested upon his
shoulders.  Then he thought of Beatrice in her shabby black gown
and wan little face, and very gently he removed her hands.

"No," he said, "I do not think that you need me any more than I
need you.  This is a caprice of yours.  You know it and I know
it.  Is it worth while to play with one another?"

Her hands fell to her sides.  She turned half away but she said
nothing.  Tavernake, with a sudden impulse which had in it
nothing of passion--very little, indeed, of affection--lifted her
fingers to his lips and passed out of the room.  He descended the
stairs, filled with a wonderful sense of elation, a buoyancy of
spirit which he could not understand.  As he walked blithely to
his hotel, however, he began to realize how much he had dreaded
this interview.  He was a free man, after all.  The spell was
broken.  He could think of her now as she deserved to be thought
of, as a consummate woman of the world, selfish, heartless,
conscienceless.  He was well out of her toils.  It was nothing to
him if even he had known that at that moment she was lying upon
the sofa to which she had staggered as he left the room, weeping
bitterly.

For over an hour Tavernake endured the smells and the bad
atmosphere of that miserable little music-hall, watching eagerly
each time the numbers were changed.  Then at last, towards the
end of the program, the manager appeared in front.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "I regret very much to
inform you that owing to the indisposition of the young lady,
Miss Beatrice Franklin and her father are unable to appear
to-night.  I have pleasure in announcing an extra turn, namely
the Sisters De Vere in their wonderful burlesque act."

There was a murmur of disapprobation mingled with some cheering.
Tavernake left his place and walked around to the back of the
hall.  Presently the manager came out to him.

"I am sorry to trouble you, sir," Tavernake said,"but I heard
your announcement just now from the front.  Can you give me the
address of Professor Franklin?  I am a friend, and I should like
to go and see them."

The manager pointed to the stage-doorkeeper.

"This man will give it you," he announced, shortly.  "It's quite
close.  I shall look in myself after the show to know how the
young lady is."

Tavernake procured the address and set out in the taxicab which
he had kept waiting.  The driver listened to the direction
doubtfully.

"It's a poor sort of neighborhood, sir," he remarked.

"We've got to go there," Tavernake told him.

They reached it in a few minutes, a miserable street indeed.
Tavernake knocked at the door of the house to which he was
directed, with sinking heart.  A man, collarless and half
dressed, in carpet slippers, opened the door after a few moments'
waiting.

"Well, what is it?" he asked, gruffly.

"Is Professor Franklin here?" Tavernake inquired.

The man seemed as though he were about to slam the door, but
thought better of it.

"If you're a friend of the professor's, as he calls himself," he
said, "and you've any money to shell out, why, you're welcome,
but if you're only asking out of curiosity, let me tell you that
he used to lodge here but he's gone, and if I'd had my way he'd
have gone a week ago, him and his daughter, too."

"I don't understand," Tavernake protested.  "I thought the young
lady was ill."

"She may be ill or she may not," the man replied, sulkily.  "All
I know is that they couldn't pay their rent, couldn't pay their
food bill, couldn't pay for the drinks the old man was always
sending out for.  So tonight I spoke up and they've gone."

"At least you know where to!" Tavernake exclaimed.

"I ain't no sort of an idea," the man declared.  "Take my word
for it straight, guvnor, I know no more about where they went to
than the man in the moon, except that I'm well shut of them, and
there's a matter of eighteen and sixpence, if you care to pay
it."

"I'll give you a sovereign," Tavernake promised, "if you will
tell me where they are now."

"What's the good of making silly conditions like that!" the man
grumbled.  "If I knew where they were, I'd earn the quid soon
enough, but I don't, and that's the long and the short of it!
And if you ain't going to pay the eighteen and six, well, I've
answered all the questions I feel inclined to."

"I'll make it two pounds," Tavernake promised.  "I'm going to
sail for America to-morrow morning early, and I must see them
first."

The man leaned forward.

"Look here," he said, "if I knew where they was, a quid would be
quite good enough for me, but I don't, and that's straight.  If
you want to look for them, I should try one of the doss houses.
As likely there as anywhere."

He slammed the door and Tavernake turned away.  A sudden despair
had seized him.  He looked up and down the street, he looked away
beyond and thought of the miles and miles of streets, the myriads
of chimneys, the huge branches of the great city stretching far
and wide.  At eight o'clock the next morning, he must leave for
Southampton.  Was it too late, after all, that he had discovered
the truth?




CHAPTER VII

IN A VIRGIN COUNTRY


One night Tavernake began to laugh.  He had grown a long brown
beard and the hair was over his ears.  He was wearing a gray
flannel shirt, a handkerchief tied around his neck, and a pair of
worn riding breeches held up by a belt.  He had kicked his boots
off at the end of a long day, and was lying in the moonlight
before a fire of pine logs, whose smoke went straight to the
star-hung sky.  No word had been spoken for the last hour.
Tavernake's fit of mirth came with as little apparent reason as
the puffs of wind which every now and then stole down from the
mountain side and made faint music in the virgin forests.

Pritchard turned over on his side and looked at him.  Cigars had
for many weeks been an unknown thing, and he was smoking a
corn-cob pipe full of coarse tobacco.

"Stumbled across a joke anywhere?" he asked.

"I'm afraid no one but myself would see the humor of it,"
Tavernake answered.  "I was thinking of those days in London; I
was thinking of Beatrice's horror when she discovered that I was
wearing ready-made clothes, and the amazement of Elizabeth when
she found that I hadn't a dress suit.  It's odd how cramped life
gets back there."

Pritchard nodded, pressing the tobacco down into the bowl of his
pipe with his forefinger.

"You're right, Tavernake," he agreed.  "One loses one's sense of
proportion.  Men in the cities are all alike.  They go about in
disguise."

"I should like," Tavernake said, inconsequently, "to have Mr.
Dowling out here."

"Amusing fellow?" Pritchard inquired.

Tavernake shook his head, smiling.

"Not in the least," he answered, "only he was a very small man.
Out here it is difficult to keep small.  Don't you feel it,
Pritchard?  These mountains make our hills at home seem like
dust-heaps.  The skies seem loftier.  Look down into that valley.
It's gigantic, immense."

Pritchard yawned.

"There's a little place in the Bowery," he began,--

"Oh, I don't want to know any more about New York," Tavernake
interrupted.  "Lean back and close your eyes, smell the cinnamon
trees, listen to that night bird calling every now and then
across the ravine.  There's blackness, if you like; there's
depth.  It's like a cloak of velvet to look into.  But you can't
see the bottom--no, not in the daytime.  Listen!"

Pritchard sat up.  For a few moments neither spoke.  A dozen
yards or so off, a scattered group--the rest of the party--were
playing cards around a fire.  The green wood crackled, an
occasional murmur of voices, a laugh or an exclamation, came to
their ears, but for the rest, an immense, a wonderful silence, a
silence which seemed to spread far away over that weird, half-
invisible world!  Tavernake listened reverently.

"Isn't it marvelous!" he exclaimed.  "We haven't seen a human
being except our own party, for three days.

There probably isn't one within hearing of us now.  Very likely
no living person has ever set foot in this precise spot."

"Oh, it's big," Pritchard admitted, "it's big and it's restful,
but it isn't satisfying.  It does for you for a time because you
started life wrong and you needed a reaction.  But for me--ah,
well!" he added, "I hear the call right across these thousands of
miles of forests and valley and swamp.  I hear the electric cars
and the clash of the overhead railway, I see the flaring lights
of Broadway and I hear the babel of tongues.  I am going back to
it, Tavernake.  There's plenty to go on with.  We've done more
than carry out our program."

"Back to New York!" Tavernake muttered, disconsolately.

"So you're not ready yet?" Pritchard demanded.

"Heavens, no!" Tavernake answered.  "Who would be?  What is there
in New York to make up for this?"

Pritchard was silent for a moment.

"Well," he said, "one of us must be getting back near
civilization.  The syndicate will be expecting to hear from us.
Besides, we've reports enough already.  It's time something was
decided about that oil country.  We've done some grand work
there, Tavernake."

Tavernake nodded.  He was lying on his side and his eyes were
fixed wistfully southward, over the glimmering moonlit valley,
over the great wilderness of virgin pine woods which hung from
the mountains on the other side, away through the cleft in the
hills to the plains beyond, chaotic, a world unseen.

"If you like to go on for a bit," Pritchard suggested, slowly,
"there's no reason why you shouldn't take McCleod and Richardson
with you, and Pete and half the horses, and strike for the tin
country on the other side of the Yolite Hills.  So long as we are
here, it's quite worth it, if you can stick it out."

Tavernake drew a long breath.

"I'd like to go," he admitted, simply.  "I know McCleod is keen
about prospecting further south.  You see, most of our finds so
far have been among the oil fields."

"Settled," Pritchard declared.  "To-morrow, then, we part.  I'm
for the valley, and I reckon I'll strike the railway to Chicago
in a week.  Gee whiz!  New York will seem good!"

"You think that the syndicate will be satisfied with what we have
done so far?" Tavernake asked.

His companion smiled.

"If they aren't, they'll be fools.  I reckon there's enough oil
fields here for seven companies.  There'll be a bit for us, too,
Tavernake, I guess.  Don't you want to come back to New York and
spend it?"

Tavernake laughed once more, but this time his laugh was not
wholly natural.

"Spend it!" he repeated.  "What is there to spend it on?
Uncomfortable clothes, false plays, drinks that are bad for you,
food that's half poisoned, atmosphere that stifles.  My God,
Pritchard, is there anything in the world like this!  Stretch out
your arms, man.  Lie on your back, look up at the stars, let that
wind blow over your face.  Listen."

They listened, and again they heard nothing, yet again there
seemed to be that peculiar quality about the silence which spoke
of the vastness of space.

Pritchard rose to his feet.

"New York and the fleshpots for me," he declared.  "Keep in
touch, and good luck old man!"

Next day at dawn they parted, and Tavernake, with his three
companions, set his face towards an almost undiscovered tract of
land.  Their progress was slow, for they were all the time in a
country rich with possibilities.  For weeks they climbed, climbed
till they reached the snows and the wind stung their faces and
they shivered in their rugs at night.  They came to a land of
sparser vegetation, of fewer and wilder animals, where they heard
the baying of wolves at night, and saw the eyes of strange
animals glisten through the thicket as the flames of their
evening fire shot up toward the sky.  Then the long descent
began, the long descent to the great plain.  Now their faces were
bronzed with a sun ever hotter, ever more powerful.  No longer
the snow flakes beat their cheeks.  They came slowly down into a
land which seemed to Tavernake like the biblical land of Canaan.
Three times in ten days they had to halt and make a camp, while
Tavernake prepared a geographical survey of likely-looking land.

McCleod came up to Tavernake one day with a dull-looking lump in
his hand, glistening in places.

"Copper," he announced, shortly.  "It's what I've been looking
for all the time.  No end to it.  There's something bigger than
oil here."

They spent a month in the locality, and every day McCleod became
more enthusiastic.  After that it was hard work to keep him from
heading homeward at once.

"I tell you, sir," he explained to Tavernake, "there's millions
there, millions between those four stakes of yours.  What's the
good of more prospecting?  There's enough there in a square acre
to pay the expenses of our expedition a thousand times over.
Let's get back and make reports.  We can strike the railway in
ten days from here--perhaps sooner."

"You go," Tavernake said.  "Leave me Pete and two of the horses."

The man stared at him in surprise.

"What's the good of going on alone?" he asked.  "You're not a
mining expert or an oil man.  You can't go prospecting by
yourself."

"I can't help it," Tavernake answered.  "It's something in my
blood, I suppose.  I am going on.  Think!  You'll strike that
railway and in a month you will be back in New York.  Don't you
imagine, when you're there, when you hear the clatter and turmoil
of it, when you see the pale crowds chivvying one another about
to pick the dollars from each other's pockets,--don't you believe
you'll long for these solitudes, the big empty places, great
possibilities, the silence?  Think of it, man.  What is there
beyond those mountains, I wonder?"

McCleod sighed.

"You're right," he said.  "One may never get so far out again.
Our fortunes will keep, I suppose, and anyhow we ought to strike
a telegraph station in about a fortnight.  We'll go right ahead,
then."

In ten days they dropped ten thousand feet.  They came to a land
where their throats were always dry, where the trees and shrubs
seemed like property affairs from a theatre, where they plunged
their heads into every pool that came to wash their noses and
mouths from the red dust that seemed to choke them up.  They
found tin and oil and more copper.  Then, by slow stages, they
passed on to a land of great grassy plains, of blue grass, miles
and miles of it, and suddenly one day they came to the telegraph
posts, rough pine trees unstripped of their bark, with a few
sagging wires.  Tavernake looked at them as Robinson Crusoe might
have looked at Man Friday's footsteps.  It was the first sign of
human life which they had seen for months.

"It's a real world we are in, after all!" he sighed.  "Somehow or
other, I thought--I thought we'd escaped."




CHAPTER VIII

BACK TO CIVILIZATION


Pritchard, trim and neat, a New Yorker from the careful
arrangement of his tie to the tips of his patent boots, gazed
with something like amazement at the man whom he had come to meet
at the Grand Central Station.  Tavernake looked, indeed, like
some splendid bushman whose life has been spent in the kingdom of
the winds and the sun and the rain.  He was inches broader round
the chest, and carried himself with a new freedom.  His face was
bronzed right down to the neck.  His beard was fullgrown, his
clothes travel-stained and worn.  He seemed like a breath of real
life in the great New York depot, surrounded by streams of
black-coated, pale-cheeked men.

Pritchard laughed softly as he passed his arm through his
friend's.

"Come, my Briton," he said, "my primitive man, I have rooms for
you in a hotel close here.  A bath and a mint julep, then I'll
take you to a tailor's.  What about the big country?  It's better
than your salt marshes, eh?  Better than your little fishing
village?  Better than building boats?"

"You know it," Tavernake answered.  "I feel as though I'd been
drawing in life for month after month.  Have I got to wear boots
like yours--patent?"

"Got to be done," Pritchard declared.

"And the hat--oh, my Heavens!" Tavernake groaned.  "I'll never
become civilized again."

"We'll see," Pritchard laughed.  "Say, Tavernake, it was a great
trip of ours.  Everything's turning out marvelously.  The oil and
the copper are big, man--big, I tell you.  I reckon your five
thousand dollars will be well on the way to half a million.  I'm
pretty near there myself."

It was not until later on, when he was alone, that Tavernake
realized with how little interest he listened to his companion's
talk of their success.  It was so short a time ago since the
building up of a fortune had been the one aim upon which every
nerve of his body was centered.  Curiously enough, now he seemed
to take it as a matter of course.

"On second thoughts, I'll send a tailor round to the hotel,"
Pritchard declared.  "I've rooms myself next yours.  We can go
out and buy boots and the other things afterwards."

By nightfall, Tavernake's wardrobe was complete.  Even Pritchard
regarded him with a certain surprise.  He seemed, somehow, to
have gained a new dignity.

"Say, but you look great!" he exclaimed.  "They won't believe it
at the meeting to-morrow that you are the man who crossed the
Yolite Mountains and swam the Peraneek River.  That's a wonderful
country you were in, Tavernake, after you left the tracks."

They were in Broadway, with the roar of the city in their ears,
and Tavernake, lifting his face starwards, suddenly seemed to
feel the silence once more, the perfume of the pine woods, the
scent of nature herself, freed through all these generations of
any presence of man.

"I'll never keep away from it," he said, softly.  "I'll have to
go back."

Pritchard smiled.

"When your report's in shape and the dollars are being scooped
in, they'll send you back fast enough--that is, if you still want
to go," he remarked.  "I tell you, Leonard Tavernake, our city
men here are out for the dollars.  Over on your side, a man makes
a million or so and he's had enough.  One fortune here only seems
to whet the appetite of a New Yorker.  By the way," he added,
after a moment's hesitation, "does it interest you to know that
an old friend of yours is in New York?"

Tavernake's head went round swiftly.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Mrs. Wenham Gardner."

Tavernake set his teeth.

"No," he said, slowly, "I don't know that that interests me."

"Glad of it," Pritchard went on.  "I can tell you I don't think
things have been going extra well with the lady.  She's spent
most of what she got from the Gardner family, and she doesn't
seem to have had the best of luck with it, either.  I came across
her by accident.  She is staying at a flashy hotel, but it's in
the wrong quarter--second-rate--quite second-rate."

"I wonder whether we shall see anything of her," Tavernake
remarked.

"Do you want to?" Pritchard asked.  "She'll probably be at
Martin's for lunch, at the Plaza for tea, and Rector's for
supper.  She's not exactly the lady to remain hidden, you know."

"We'll avoid those places, then, if you are taking me around,"
Tavernake said.

"You're cured, are you?" Pritchard inquired.

"Yes, I am cured," Tavernake answered, "cured of that and a great
many other things, thanks to you.  You found me the right tonic."

"Tonic," Pritchard repeated, meditatively.  "That reminds me.
This way for the best cocktail in New York." . . .

The night was not to pass, however, without its own especial
thrill for Tavernake.  The two men dined together at Delmonico's
and went afterwards to a roof garden, a new form of entertainment
for Tavernake, and one which interested him vastly.  They secured
one of the outside tables near the parapets, and below them New
York stretched, a flaming phantasmagoria of lights and crude
buildings.  Down the broad avenues with their towering blocks,
their street cars striking fire all the time like toys below, the
people streamed like insects away to the Hudson, where the great
ferry boats, ablaze with lights, went screaming across the dark
waters.  Tavernake leaned over and forgot.  There was so much
that was amazing in this marvelous city for a man who had only
just begun to find himself.

The orchestra, stationed within a few yards of him, commenced to
play a popular waltz, and Pritchard to talk.  Tavernake turned
his fascinated eyes from the prospect below.

"My young friend," Pritchard said, "you are up against it
to-night.  Take a drink of your wine and then brace yourself."

Tavernake did as he was told.

"What is this danger?" he asked.  "What's wrong, anyway?"

Pritchard had no need to answer.  As Tavernake set his glass
down, his eyes fell upon the little party who had just taken the
table almost next to theirs.  There were Walter Crease, Major
Post, two men whom he had never seen before in his life--heavy of
cheek, both, dull-eyed, but dressed with a rigid observance of
the fashion of the city, in short dinner coats and black ties.
And between them was Elizabeth.  Tavernake gripped the sides of
his chair and looked.  Yes, she had altered.  Her eyebrows were a
trifle made up, there was a tinge in her hair which he did not
recognize, a touch of color in her cheeks which he doubted.  Yet
her figure and her wonderful presence remained, that art of
wearing her clothes as no other woman could.  She was easily the
most noticeable-looking of her sex among all the people there.
Tavernake heard the sound of her voice and once more the thrill
came and passed.  She was the same Elizabeth.  Thank God, he
thought, that he was not the same Tavernake!

"Do you wish to go?" Pritchard asked.

Tavernake shook his head.

"Not I!" he answered.  "This place is far too fascinating.  Can't
we have some more wine?  This is my treat.  And, Pritchard, why
do you look at me like that?  You are not supposing for a moment
that I am capable of making an ass of myself again?"

Pritchard smiled in a relieved fashion.

"My young friend," he said, "I have lived in the world so long
and seen so many strange things, especially between men and
women, that I am never surprised at anything.  I thought you'd
shed your follies as your grip upon life had tightened, but one
is never sure."

Tavernake sighed.

"Oh, I have shed the worst of my follies!" he answered.  "I only
wish--"

He never finished his sentence.  Elizabeth had suddenly seen him.
For a moment she leaned forward as though to assure herself that
she was not mistaken.  Then she half sprang to her feet and sat
down again.  Her lips were parted--she was once more
bewilderingly beautiful.

"Mr. Tavernake," she cried, "come and speak to me at once."

Tavernake rose without hesitation, and walked firmly across the
few yards which separated them.  She held out both her hands.

"This is wonderful!" she exclaimed.  "You in New York!  And I
have wondered so often what became of you."

Tavernake smiled.

"It is my first night here," he said.  "For two years I have been
prospecting in the far west."

"Then I saw your name in the papers," she declared.  "It was for
the Manhattan Syndicate, wasn't it?"

Tavernake nodded, and one of the men of the party leaned forward
with interest.

"You're going to make millions and millions," she assured him.
"You always knew you would, didn't you?"

"I am afraid that I was almost too confident," he answered.  "But
certainly we have been quite fortunate."

One of Elizabeth's companions intervened--he was the one who had
pricked up his ears at the mention of the Manhattan Syndicate.

"Say, Elizabeth," he remarked, "I'd like to meet your friend."

Elizabeth, with a frown, performed the introduction.

"Mr. Anthony Cruxhall - Mr. Tavernake!"

Mr. Cruxhall held out a fat white hand, on the little finger of
which glittered a big diamond ring.

"Say, are you the Mr. Tavernake that was surveyor to the
prospecting party sent out by the Manhattan Syndicate?" he
inquired.

"I was," Tavernake admitted, briefly.  "I still am, I hope."

"Then you're just the man I was hoping to meet," Mr. Cruxhall
declared.  "Won't you sit down with us right here?  I'd like to
talk some about that trip.  I'm interested in the Syndicate."

Tavernake shook his head.

"I've had enough of work for a time," he said.  "Besides, I
couldn't talk about it till after my report to the meeting
to-morrow."

"Just a few words," Mr. Cruxhall persisted.  "We'll have a bottle
of champagne, eh?"

"You will excuse me, I am sure," Tavernake replied, "when I tell
you that it would not be correct on my part to discuss my trip
until after I have handed in my report to the company.  I am very
glad to have seen you again, Mrs. Gardner."

"But you are not going!" she exclaimed, in dismay.

"I have left Mr. Pritchard alone," Tavernake answered.

Elizabeth smiled, and waved her hand to the solitary figure.

"Our friend Mr. Pritchard again," she remarked.  "Well, it is
really a curious meeting, isn't it?  I wonder,"--she lifted her
head to his and her eyes called him closer to hers--"have you
forgotten everything?"

He pointed over the roofs of the houses.  His back was to the
river and he pointed westward.

"I have been in a country where one forgets," he answered.  "I
think that I have thrown the knapsack of my follies away.  I
think that it is buried.  There are some things which I do not
forget, but they are scarcely to be spoken of."

"You are a strange young man," she said.  "Was I wrong, or were
you not once in love with me?"

"I was terribly in love with you," Tavernake confessed.

"Yet you tore up my cheque and flung yourself away when you found
out that my standard of morals was not quite what you had
expected," she murmured.  "Haven't you got over that quixoticism
a little, Leonard?"

He drew a deep sigh.

"I am thankful to say," he declared, earnestly, "that I have not
got over it, that, if anything, my prejudices are stronger than
ever."

She sat for a moment quite still, and her face had become hard
and expressionless.  She was looking past him, past the line of
lights, out into the blue darkness.

"Somehow," she said, softly, "I always prayed that you might
remember.  You were the one true thing I had ever met, you were
in earnest.  It is past, then?"

"It is past," Tavernake answered, bravely.

The music of a Hungarian waltz came floating down to them.  She
half closed her eyes.  Her head moved slowly with the melody.
Tavernake looked away.

"Will you come and see me just once?" she asked, suddenly.  "I am
staying at the Delvedere, in Forty-Second Street."

"Thank you very much," Tavernake replied.  "I do not know how
long I shall be in New York.  If I am here for a few days, I
shall take my chance at finding you at home."

He bowed, and returned to Pritchard, who welcomed him with a
quiet smile.

"You're wise, Tavernake," he said, softly.  "I could hear no
words, but I know that you have been wise.  Between you and me,"
he added, in a lower tone, "she is going downhill.  She is in
with the wrong lot here.  She can't seem to keep away from them.
They are on the very fringe of Bohemia, a great deal nearer the
arm of the law than makes for respectable society.  The man to
whom I saw you introduced is a millionaire one day and a thief
the next.  They're none of them any good.  Did you notice, too,
that she is wearing sham jewelry?  That always looks bad."

"No, I didn't notice," Tavernake answered.

He was silent for a moment.  Then he leaned a little forward.

"I wonder," he asked, "do you know anything about her sister?"

Pritchard finished his wine and knocked the ash from his cigar.

"Not much," he replied.  "I believe she had a very hard time.
She took on the father, you know, the old professor, and did her
best to keep him straight.  He died about a year ago and Miss
Beatrice tried to get back into the theatre, but she'd missed her
chance.  Theatrical business has been shocking in London.  I
heard she'd come out here.  Wherever she is, she keeps right away
from that sort of set," he wound up, moving his head towards
Elizabeth's friends.

"I wonder if she is in New York," Tavernake said, with a strange
thrill at his heart.

Pritchard made no reply.  His eyes were fixed upon the little
group at the next table.  Elizabeth was leaning back in her
chair.  She seemed to have abandoned the conversation.  Her eyes
were always seeking Tavernake's.  Pritchard rose to his feet
abruptly.

"It's time we were in bed," he declared.  "Remember the meeting
to-morrow."

Tavernake rose to his feet.  As they passed the next table,
Elizabeth leaned over to him.  Her eyes pleaded with his almost
passionately.

"Dear Leonard," she whispered, "you must--you must come and see
me.  I shall stay in between four and six every evening this
week.  The Delvedere, remember."

"Thank you very much," Tavernake answered.  "I shall not forget."




CHAPTER IX

FOR ALWAYS


Once again it seemed to Beatrice that history was repeating
itself.  The dingy, oblong dining-room, with its mosquito
netting, stained tablecloth, and hard cane chairs, expanded until
she fancied herself in the drawing-room of Blenheim House.
Between the landladies there was little enough to choose.  Mrs.
Raithby Lawrence, notwithstanding her caustic tongue and
suspicious nature, had at least made some pretense at gentility.
The woman who faced her now--hard-featured, with narrow,
suspicious eyes and a mass of florid hair--was unmistakably and
brutally vulgar.

"What's the good of your keeping on saying you hope to get an
engagement next week?" she demanded, with a sneer.  "Who's likely
to engage you?  Why, you've lost your color and your looks and
your weight since you came to stay here.  They don't want such as
you in the chorus.  And for the rest, you're too high and mighty,
that's my opinion of you.  Take what you can get, and how you can
get it, and be thankful,--that's my motto.  Day after day you
tramp about the streets with your head in the air, and won't take
this and won't take that, and meanwhile my bill gets bigger and
bigger.  Now where have you been to this morning, I should like
to know?"

Beatrice, who was faint and tired, shaking in every limb, tried
to pass out of the room, but her questioner barred the way.

"I have been up town," she answered, nervously.

"Hear of anything?"

Beatrice shook her head.

"Not yet.  Please let me go upstairs and lie down.  I am tired
and I need to rest."

"And I need my money," Mrs. Selina P. Watkins declared, without
quitting her position, "and it's no good your going up to your
room because the door's locked."

"What do you mean?" Beatrice faltered.

"I mean that I've done with you," the lodging-house keeper
announced.  "Your room's locked up and the key's in my pocket,
and the sooner you get out of this, the better I shall be
pleased."

"But my box--my clothes," Beatrice cried.

"I'll keep 'em a week for you," the woman answered.  "Bring me
the money by then and you shall have them.  If I don't hear
anything of you, they'll go to the auction mart."

Something of her old spirit fired the girl for a moment.  She was
angry, and she forgot that her knees were trembling with fatigue,
that she was weak and aching with hunger.

"How dare you talk like that!" she exclaimed.  "You shall have
your money shortly, but I must have my clothes.  I cannot go
anywhere without them."

The woman laughed harshly.

"Look here, my young lady," she said, "you'll see your box again
when I see the color of your money, and not before.  And now out
you go, please,--out you go!  If you're going to make any
trouble, Solly will have to show you the way down the steps."

The woman had opened the door, and a colored servant, half
dressed, with a broom in her hand, came slouching down the
passage.  Beatrice turned and fled out of the greasy, noisome
atmosphere, down the wooden, uneven steps, out into the ugly
street.  She turned toward the nearest elevated as though by
instinct, but when she came to the bottom of the stairs she
stopped short with a little groan.  She knew very well that she
had not a nickel to pay the fare.  Her pockets were empty.  All
day she had eaten nothing, and her last coin had gone for the car
which had brought her back from Broadway.  And here she was on
the other side of New York, in the region of low-class lodging
houses, with the Bowery between her and Broadway.  She had
neither the strength nor the courage to walk.  With a
half-stifled sob she took off her one remaining ornament, a cheap
enameled brooch, and entered a pawnbroker's shop close to where
she had been standing.

"Will you give me something on this, please?" she asked,
desperately.

A man who seemed to be sorting a pile of ready-made coats, paused
in his task for a moment, took the ornament into his hand, and
threw it contemptuously upon the counter.

"Not worth anything," he answered.

"But it must be worth something," Beatrice protested.  "I only
want a very little."

Something in her voice compelled the man's attention.  He looked
at her white face.

"What's the trouble?" he inquired.

"I must get up to Fifth Avenue somehow," she declared.  "I can't
walk and I haven't a nickel."

He pushed the brooch back to her and threw a dime upon the
counter.

"Well," he said, "you don't look fit to walk, and that's a fact,
but the brooch isn't worth entering up.  There's a dime for you.
Now git, please, I'm busy."

Beatrice clutched the coin and, almost forgetting to thank him,
found her way up the iron stairs on to the platform of the
elevated.  Soon she was seated in the train, rattling and shaking
on its way through the slums into the heart of the wonderful
city.  There was only one thing left for her to try, a thing
which she had had in her mind for days.  Yet she found herself,
even now she was committed to it, thinking of what lay before her
with something like black horror.  It was her last resource,
indeed.  Strong though she was, she knew by many small signs that
her strength was almost at an end.  The days and weeks of
"disappointments, the long fruitless trudges from office to
office, the heart-sickness of constant refusals, poor food, the
long fasts, had all told their tale.  She was attractive enough
still.  Her pallor seemed to have given her a wonderful delicacy.
The curve of her lips and the soft light in her gray eyes, were
still as potent as ever.  When she thought, though, what a poor
asset her appearance had been, the color flamed in her cheeks.

In Broadway she made her way to a very magnificent block of
buildings, and passing inside took the lift to the seventh floor.
Here she got out and knocked timidly at a glass-paneled door, on
which was inscribed the name of Mr. Anthony Cruxhall.  A very
superior young man bade her enter and inquired her business.

"I wish to see Mr. Cruxhall for a moment, privately," she said.
"I shall not detain him for more than a minute.  My name is
Franklin--Miss Beatrice Franklin."

The young man's lips seemed about to shape themselves into a
whistle, but something in the girl's face made him change his
mind.

"I guess the boss is in," he admitted.  "He's just got back from
a big meeting, but I am not sure about his seeing any one to-day.
However, I'll tell him that you're here."

He disappeared into an inner room.  Presently he came out again
and held the door open.

"Will you walk right in, Miss Franklin?" he invited.

Beatrice went in bravely enough, but her knees began to tremble
when she found herself in the presence of the man she had come to
visit.  Mr. Anthony Cruxhall was not a pleasant-looking person.
His cheeks were fat and puffy, he wore a diamond ring upon the
finger of his toowhite hand, and a diamond pin in his somewhat
flashily arranged necktie.  He was smoking a black cigar, which
he omitted to remove from between his teeth as he welcomed his
visitor.

"So you've come to see me at last, little Miss Beatrice!" he
said, with a particularly unpleasant smile.  "Come and sit down
here by the side of me.  That's right, eh?  Now what can I do for
you?"

Beatrice was trembling all over.  The man's eyes were hateful,
his smile was hideous.

"I have not a cent in the world, Mr. Cruxhall," she faltered, "I
cannot get an engagement, I have been turned out of my rooms, and
I am hungry.  My father always told me that you would be a friend
if at any time it happened that I needed help.  I am very sorry
to have to come and beg, yet that is what I am doing.  Will you
lend or give me ten or twenty dollars, so that I can go on for a
little longer?  Or will you help me to get a place among some of
your theatrical people?  "

Mr. Cruxhall puffed steadily at his cigar for a moment, and
leaning back in his chair thrust his hand into his trousers'
pocket.

"So bad as that, is it?" he remarked.  "So bad as that, eh?"

"It is very bad indeed," she answered, looking at him quietly,
"or you know that I should not have come to you."

Mr. Cruxhall smiled.

"I remember the last time we talked together," he said, "we
didn't get on very well.  Too high and mighty in those days,
weren't you, Miss Beatrice?  Wouldn't have anything to say to a
bad lot like Anthony Cruxhall.  You're having to come to it, eh?"

She began to tremble again, but she held herself in.

"I must live," she murmured.  "Give me a little money and let me
go away."

He laughed.

"Oh, I'll do better than that for you," he answered, thrusting
his hand into his waistcoat pocket and drawing out a pile of
dollar bills.  "Let's look at you.  Gee whiz!  Yes, you're
shabby, aren't you?  Take this," he went on, slamming some notes
down before her.  "Go and get yourself a new frock and a hat fit
to wear, and meet me at the Madison Square roof garden at eight
o'clock.  We'll have some dinner and I guess we can fix matters
up."

Then he smiled at her again, and Beatrice, whose hand was already
upon the bills, suddenly felt her knees shake.  A great black
horror was upon her.  She turned and fled out of the room, past
the astonished clerk, into the lift, and was downstairs on the
main floor before she remembered where she was, what she had
done.  The clerk, after gazing at her retreating form, hurried
into the inner office.

"Young woman hasn't bolted with anything, eh?" he asked.

Mr. Cruxhall smiled wickedly.

"Why, no," he replied, "I guess she'll come back!"

Tavernake left the meeting on that same afternoon with his future
practically assured for life.  He had been appointed surveyor to
the company at a salary of ten thousand dollars a year, and the
mine in which his savings were invested was likely to return him
his small capital a hundredfold.  Very kind things had been said
of him and to him.

Pritchard and he had left the place together.  When they had
reached the street, they paused for a moment.

"I am going to make a call near here," Pritchard said.  "Don't
forget that we are dining together, unless you find something
better to do, and in the meantime"--he took a card from his
pocket and handed it to Tavernake--"I don't know whether I am a
fool or not to give you this," he added.  "However, there it is.
Do as you choose about it."

He walked away a little abruptly.  Tavernake glanced at the
address upon the card: 1134, East Third Street.  For a moment he
was puzzled.  Then the light broke in upon him suddenly.  His
heart gave a leap.  He turned back into the place to ask for some
directions and once more stopped short.  Down the stone corridor,
like one who flies from some hideous fate, came a slim black
figure, with white face and set, horrified stare.  Tavernake held
out his hands and she came to him with a great wondering sob.

"Leonard!" she cried.  "Leonard!"

"There's no doubt about me," he answered, quickly.  "Am I such a
very terrifying object?"

She stood quite still and struggled hard.  By and by the
giddiness passed.

"Leonard," she murmured, "I am ill."

Then she began to smile.

"It is too absurd," she faltered, "but you've got to do it all
over again."'

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Get me something to eat at once," she begged.  "I am starving.
Somewhere where it's cool.  Leonard, how wonderful!  I never even
knew that you were in New York."

He called a carriage and took her off to a roof garden.  There,
as it was early, they got a seat near the parapet.  Tavernake
talked clumsily about himself most of the time.  There was a lump
in his throat.  He felt all the while that tragedy was very near.
By degrees, though, as she ate and drank, the color came back to
her cheeks, the fear of a breakdown seemed to pass away.  She
became even cheerful.

"We are really the most amazing people, Leonard," she declared.
"You stumbled into my life once before when I was on the point of
being turned out of my rooms.  You've come into it again and you
find me once more homeless.  Don't spend too much money upon our
dinner, for I warn you that I am going to borrow from you."

He laughed.

"That's good news," he remarked, "but I'm not sure that I'm going
to lend anything."

He leaned across the table.  Their dinner had taken long in
preparing and the dusk was falling now.  Over them were the
stars, the band was playing soft music, the hubbub of the streets
lay far below.  Almost they were in a little world by themselves.

"Dear Beatrice," he said, "three times I asked you to marry me
and you would not, and I asked you because I was a selfish brute,
and because I knew that it was good for me and that it would save
me from things of which I was afraid.  And now I am asking you
the same thing again, but I have a bigger reason, Beatrice.  I
have been alone most of the last two years, I have lived the sort
of life which brings a man face to face with the truth, helps him
to know himself and others, and I have found out something."

"Yes?" she faltered.  "Tell me, Leonard."

"I found out that it was you I cared for always," he continued,
"and that is why I am asking you to marry me now, Beatrice, only
this time I ask you because I love you, and because no one else
in the world could ever take your place or be anything at all to
me."

"Leonard!" she murmured.

"You are not sorry that I have said this?" he begged.

She opened her eyes again.

"I always prayed that I might hear you say it," she answered,
"but it seems--oh, it seems so one-sided!  Here am I starving and
penniless, and you--you, I suppose, are well on the way towards
the success you worshiped."

"I am well on the way," he said, earnestly, "towards something
greater, Beatrice.  I am well on the way towards understanding
what success really is, what things count and what don't.  I have
even found out," he whispered, "the thing which counts for more
than anything else in the world, and now that I have found it
out, I shall never let it go again."

He pressed her hand and she looked across the table at him with
swimming eyes.  The waiter, who had been approaching, turned
discreetly away.  The band started to play a fresh tune.  From
down in the streets came the clanging of the cars.  A curious,
cosmopolitan murmur of sounds, but between those two there was
the wonderful silence.





*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE ***

This file should be named ttave10.txt or ttave10.zip
Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, ttave11.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, ttave10a.txt

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.

Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our Web sites at:
http://gutenberg.net or
http://promo.net/pg

These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).


Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date.  This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext04 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext04

Or /etext03, 02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.   Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month:  1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):

eBooks Year Month

    1  1971 July
   10  1991 January
  100  1994 January
 1000  1997 August
 1500  1998 October
 2000  1999 December
 2500  2000 December
 3000  2001 November
 4000  2001 October/November
 6000  2002 December*
 9000  2003 November*
10000  2004 January*


The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.

As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.

In answer to various questions we have received on this:

We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states.  If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.

While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.

International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.

Donations by check or money order may be sent to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109

Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154.  Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law.  As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.

We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information online at:

http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html


***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.


**The Legal Small Print**


(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.

To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause:  [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     eBook or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word
     processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
     gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
     the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
     legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
     periodic) tax return.  Please contact us beforehand to
     let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com

[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees.  Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart.  Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*