“Madam,” he replied, “I made the acquaintance of the young lady with whom I was that evening, at the boarding-house where we both lived.”

“What were you doing in the chemist’s shop?” she demanded.

“The young lady had been ill,” he proceeded deliberately, wondering how much to tell.  “She had been taken very ill indeed.  She was just recovering when you entered.”

“Where is she now?” the woman asked eagerly.  “Is she still at that boarding-house of which you spoke?”

“No,” he answered.

Her fingers gripped his arm once more.

“Why do you answer me always in monosyllables?  Don’t you understand that you must tell me everything that you know about her.  You must tell me where I can find her, at once.”

Tavernake remained silent.  The woman’s voice had still that note of wonderful sweetness, but she had altogether lost her air of complete and aristocratic indifferenoe.  She was a very altered person now from the distinguished client who had first enlisted his services.  For some reason or other, he knew that she was suffering from a terrible anxiety.

“I am not sure,” he said at last, “whether I can do as you ask.”

“What do you mean?” she exclaimed sharply.

“The young lady,” he continued, “seemed, on the occasion to which you have referred, to be particularly anxious to avoid recognition.  She hurried out of the place without speaking to you, and she has avoided the subject ever since.  I do not know what her motives may have been, but I think that I should like to ask her first before I tell you where she is to be found.”

Mrs. Wenham Gardner leaned towards him.  It was certainly the first time that a woman in her apparent rank of life had looked upon Tavernake in such a manner.  Her forehead was a little wrinkled, her lips were parted, her eyes were pathetically, delightfully eloquent.

“Mr. Tavernake, you must not—­you must not refuse me,” she pleaded.  “If you only knew the importance of it, you would not hesitate for a moment.  This is no idle curiosity on my part.  I have reasons, very serious reasons indeed, for wishing to discover that poor girl’s whereabouts at once.  There is a possible danger of which she must be warned.  No one can do it except myself.”

“Are you her friend or her enemy?” Tavernake asked.

“Why do you ask such a question?” she demanded.

“I am only going by her expression when she saw you come into the chemist’s shop,” Tavernake persisted doggedly.

“It is a cruel suggestion, that,” the woman cried.  “I wish to be her friend, I am her friend.  If I could only tell you everything, you would understand at once what a terrible situation, what a hideous quandary I am in.”

Once more Tavernake paused for a few moments.  He was never a quick thinker and the situation was certainly an embarrassing one for him.

“Madam,” he replied at length, “I beg that you will tell me nothing.  The young lady of whom you have spoken permits me to call myself her friend, and what she has not told me herself I do not wish to learn from others.  I will tell her of this meeting with you, and if it is her desire, I will bring you her address myself within a few hours.  I cannot do more than that.”