“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.”