“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!