The Tempting of Tavernake. E. Phillips Oppenheim

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