“Didn’t hear her name,” the boy replied.  “She’s all right, though, I can tell you—­a regular slap-up beauty.  Such a motor-car, too!  Flowers and tables and all sorts of things inside.  By Jove, won’t the governor tear his hair if she goes before you get there!”

Tavernake quickened his steps and in a few moments knocked at the door of the private office and entered.

His chief welcomed him with a gesture of relief.  The distinguished client of the firm, whose attention he was endeavoring to engage, had glanced toward the newcomer, at his first appearance, with an air of somewhat bored unconcern.  Her eyes, however, did not immediately leave his face.  On the contrary, from the moment of his entrance she watched him steadfastly.  Tavernake, stolid, unruffled, at that time without comprehension, approached the desk.

“This is—­er—­Mr. Tavernake, our manager,” Mr. Dowling announced, obsequiously.  “In the absence of my son, he is in charge of the letting department.  I have no doubt that he will be able to suggest something suitable.  Tavernake,” he continued, “this lady,”—­he glanced at a card in front of him—­“Mrs. Wenham Gardner of New York, is looking for a town house, and has been kind enough to favor us with an inquiry.”

Tavernake made no immediate reply.  Mr. Dowling was shortsighted, and in any case it would never have occurred to him to associate nervousness, or any form of emotion, with his responsible manager.  The beautiful lady leaned back in her chair.  Her lips were parted in a slight but very curious smile, her fingers supported her cheek, her eyelids were contracted as she looked into his face.  Tavernake felt that their recognition was mutual.  Once more he was back again in the tragic atmosphere of that chemist’s shop, with Beatrice, half fainting, in his arms, the beautiful lady turned to stone.  It was an odd tableau, that, so vividly imprinted upon his memory that it was there before him at this very moment.  There was mystery in this woman’s eyes, mystery and something else.

“I don’t seem to have come across anything down here which—­er —­ particularly attracts Mrs.—­Mrs. Wenham Gardner,” Mr. Dowling went on, taking up a little sheaf of papers from the desk.  “I thought, perhaps, that the Bryanston Square house might have suited, but it seems that it is too small, far too small.  Mrs. Gardner is used to entertaining, and has explained to me that she has a great many friends always coming and going from the other side of the water.  She requires, apparently, twelve bedrooms, besides servants’ quarters.”

“Your list is scarcely up to date, sir,” Tavernake reminded him.  “If the rent is of no particular object, there is Grantham House.”

Mr. Dowling’s face was suddenly illuminated.