The Tempting of Tavernake. E. Phillips Oppenheim

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 indifference. 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