She smiled at him, a delightful mixture of graciousness and condescension.

“You are very good,” she answered.  “The house sounds rather large for me but it depends so much upon circumstances.  If you are ready, Mr.—­”

“Tavernake,” he told her.

“Mr. Tavernake,” she continued, “my car is waiting outside and we might go on at once.”

He bowed and held open the door for her, an office which he performed a little awkwardly.  Mr. Dowling himself escorted her out on to the pavement.  Tavernake stopped behind to get his hat, and passing out a moment afterwards, would have seated himself in front beside the chauffeur but that she held the door of the car open and beckoned to him.

“Will you come inside, please?” she insisted.  “There are one or two questions which I might ask you as we go along.  Please direct the chauffeur.”

He obeyed without a word; the car glided off.  As they swung round the first corner, she leaned forward from among the cushions of her seat and looked at him.  Then Tavernake was conscious of new things.  As though by inspiration, he knew that her visit to the office of Messrs. Dowling, Spence & Company had been no chance one.

She remembered him, remembered him as the companion of Beatrice during that strange, brief meeting.  It was an incomprehensible world, this, into which he had wandered.  The woman’s face had lost her languid, gracious expression.  There was something there almost akin to tragedy.  Her fingers fell upon his arm and her touch was no light one.  She was gripping him almost fiercely.

“Mr. Tavernake,” she said, “I have a memory for faces which seldom fails me.  I have seen you before quite lately.  You remember where, of course.  Tell me the truth quickly, please.”

The words seemed to leap from her lips.  Beautiful and young though she undoubtedly was, her intense seriousness had suddenly aged her face.  Tavernake was bewildered.  He, too, was conscious of a curious emotional disturbance.

“The truth?  What truth do you mean?” he demanded.

“It was you whom I saw with Beatrice!”

“You saw me one night about three weeks ago,” he admitted slowly.  “I was in a chemist’s shop in the Strand.  You were signing his book for a sleeping draught, I think.”

She shivered all over.

“Yes, yes!” she cried.  “Of course, I remember all about it.  The young lady who was with you—­what was she doing there?  Where is she now?”

“The young lady was my sister,” Tavernake answered stiffly.

Mrs. Wenham Gardner looked, for a moment, as though she would have struck him.

“You need not lie to me!” she exclaimed.  “It is not worth while.  Tell me where you met her, why you were with her at all in that intimate fashion, and where she is now!”

Tavernake realized at once that so far as this woman was concerned, the fable of his relationship with Beatrice was hopeless.  She knew!