“I must go,” he declared.  “I must go, too.”

Elizabeth was sobbing quietly to herself.  She seemed scarcely to hear him.  On the threshold Tavernake turned back.

“That money,” he asked, “the money you were going to lend me—­was that his?”

She looked up and nodded.  Tavernake went slowly out.

CHAPTER XXVI

A CRISIS

Pritchard was the first visitor who had ever found his way into Tavernake’s lodgings.  It was barely eight o’clock on the same morning.  Tavernake, hollow-eyed and bewildered, sat up upon the sofa and gazed across the room.

“Pritchard!” he exclaimed.  “Why, what do you want?”

Pritchard laid his hat and gloves upon the table.  Already his first swift glance had taken in the details of the little apartment.  The overcoat and hat which Tavernake had worn the night before lay by his side.  The table was still arranged for some meal of the previous day.  Apart from these things, a single glance assured him that Tavernake had not been to bed.

Pritchard drew up an easy-chair and seated himself deliberately.

“My young friend,” he announced, “I have come to the conclusion that you need some more advice.”

Tavernake rose to his feet.  His own reflection in the looking-glass startled him.  His hair was crumpled, his tie undone, the marks of his night of agony were all too apparent.  He felt himself at a disadvantage.

“How did you find me out?” he asked.  “I never gave you my address.”

Pritchard smiled.

“Even in this country, with a little help,” he said, “those things are easy enough.  I made up my mind that this morning would be to some extent a crisis with you.  You know, Tavernake, I am not a man who says much, but you are the right sort.  You’ve been in with me twice when I should have missed you if you hadn’t been there.”

Tavernake seemed to have lost the power of speech.  He had relapsed again into his place upon the sofa.  He simply waited.

“How in the name of mischief,” Pritchard continued, impressively, “you came to be mixed up in the lives of this amiable trio, I cannot imagine!  I am not saying a word against Miss Beatrice, mind.  All that surprises me is that you and she should ever have come together, or, having come together, that you should ever have exchanged a word.  You see, I am here to speak plain truths.  You are, I take it, a good sample of the hard, stubborn, middle-class Briton.  These three people of whom I have spoken, belong—­Miss Beatrice, perhaps, by force of circumstances—­but still they do belong to the land of Bohemia.  However, when one has got over the surprise of finding you on intimate terms with Miss Beatrice, there comes a more amazing thing.  You, with hard common sense written everywhere in your face, have been prepared at any moment, for all I know are prepared now, to make an utter and complete idiot of yourself over Elizabeth Gardner.”