“What is this danger?” he asked.  “What’s wrong, anyway?”

Pritchard had no need to answer.  As Tavernake set his glass down, his eyes fell upon the little party who had just taken the table almost next to theirs.  There were Walter Crease, Major Post, two men whom he had never seen before in his life—­heavy of cheek, both, dull-eyed, but dressed with a rigid observance of the fashion of the city, in short dinner coats and black ties.  And between them was Elizabeth.  Tavernake gripped the sides of his chair and looked.  Yes, she had altered.  Her eyebrows were a trifle made up, there was a tinge in her hair which he did not recognize, a touch of color in her cheeks which he doubted.  Yet her figure and her wonderful presence remained, that art of wearing her clothes as no other woman could.  She was easily the most noticeable-looking of her sex among all the people there.  Tavernake heard the sound of her voice and once more the thrill came and passed.  She was the same Elizabeth.  Thank God, he thought, that he was not the same Tavernake!

“Do you wish to go?” Pritchard asked.

Tavernake shook his head.

“Not I!” he answered.  “This place is far too fascinating.  Can’t we have some more wine?  This is my treat.  And, Pritchard, why do you look at me like that?  You are not supposing for a moment that I am capable of making an ass of myself again?”

Pritchard smiled in a relieved fashion.

“My young friend,” he said, “I have lived in the world so long and seen so many strange things, especially between men and women, that I am never surprised at anything.  I thought you’d shed your follies as your grip upon life had tightened, but one is never sure.”

Tavernake sighed.

“Oh, I have shed the worst of my follies!” he answered.  “I only wish—­”

He never finished his sentence.  Elizabeth had suddenly seen him.  For a moment she leaned forward as though to assure herself that she was not mistaken.  Then she half sprang to her feet and sat down again.  Her lips were parted—­she was once more bewilderingly beautiful.

“Mr. Tavernake,” she cried, “come and speak to me at once.”

Tavernake rose without hesitation, and walked firmly across the few yards which separated them.  She held out both her hands.

“This is wonderful!” she exclaimed.  “You in New York!  And I have wondered so often what became of you.”

Tavernake smiled.

“It is my first night here,” he said.  “For two years I have been prospecting in the far west.”

“Then I saw your name in the papers,” she declared.  “It was for the Manhattan Syndicate, wasn’t it?”

Tavernake nodded, and one of the men of the party leaned forward with interest.

“You’re going to make millions and millions,” she assured him.  “You always knew you would, didn’t you?”

“I am afraid that I was almost too confident,” he answered.  “But certainly we have been quite fortunate.”