“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.