Pritchard smiled.

“When your report’s in shape and the dollars are being scooped in, they’ll send you back fast enough—­that is, if you still want to go,” he remarked.  “I tell you, Leonard Tavernake, our city men here are out for the dollars.  Over on your side, a man makes a million or so and he’s had enough.  One fortune here only seems to whet the appetite of a New Yorker.  By the way,” he added, after a moment’s hesitation, “does it interest you to know that an old friend of yours is in New York?”

Tavernake’s head went round swiftly.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Mrs. Wenham Gardner.”

Tavernake set his teeth.

“No,” he said, slowly, “I don’t know that that interests me.”

“Glad of it,” Pritchard went on.  “I can tell you I don’t think things have been going extra well with the lady.  She’s spent most of what she got from the Gardner family, and she doesn’t seem to have had the best of luck with it, either.  I came across her by accident.  She is staying at a flashy hotel, but it’s in the wrong quarter—­second-rate—­quite second-rate.”

“I wonder whether we shall see anything of her,” Tavernake remarked.

“Do you want to?” Pritchard asked.  “She’ll probably be at Martin’s for lunch, at the Plaza for tea, and Rector’s for supper.  She’s not exactly the lady to remain hidden, you know.”

“We’ll avoid those places, then, if you are taking me around,” Tavernake said.

“You’re cured, are you?” Pritchard inquired.

“Yes, I am cured,” Tavernake answered, “cured of that and a great many other things, thanks to you.  You found me the right tonic.”

“Tonic,” Pritchard repeated, meditatively.  “That reminds me.  This way for the best cocktail in New York.” . . .

The night was not to pass, however, without its own especial thrill for Tavernake.  The two men dined together at Delmonico’s and went afterwards to a roof garden, a new form of entertainment for Tavernake, and one which interested him vastly.  They secured one of the outside tables near the parapets, and below them New York stretched, a flaming phantasmagoria of lights and crude buildings.  Down the broad avenues with their towering blocks, their street cars striking fire all the time like toys below, the people streamed like insects away to the Hudson, where the great ferry boats, ablaze with lights, went screaming across the dark waters.  Tavernake leaned over and forgot.  There was so much that was amazing in this marvelous city for a man who had only just begun to find himself.

The orchestra, stationed within a few yards of him, commenced to play a popular waltz, and Pritchard to talk.  Tavernake turned his fascinated eyes from the prospect below.

“My young friend,” Pritchard said, “you are up against it to-night.  Take a drink of your wine and then brace yourself.”

Tavernake did as he was told.