Tavernake rose to his feet and lit a cigarette—­a new habit with him, while Beatrice busied herself with a small coffee-making machine.  He sat in an easy-chair and smoked slowly.  He was still wearing his ready-made clothes, but his collar was of the fashionable shape, his tie well chosen and neatly adjusted.  He seemed somehow to have developed.

“Beatrice,” he asked, “what am I to tell your sister to-morrow?”

She shivered as she set his coffee-cup down by his side.

“Tell her, if you will, that I am well and not in want,” she answered.  “Tell her, too, that I refuse to send my address.  Tell her that the one aim of my life is to keep the knowledge of my whereabouts a secret from her.”

Tavernake relapsed into silence.  He was thinking.  Mysteries had no attraction for him—­he loathed them.  Against this one especially he felt a distinct grudge.  Nevertheless, some instinct forbade his questioning the girl.

“Apart from more personal matters, then,” he asked after some time, “you would not advise me to enter into any business negotiations with this lady?”

“You must not think of it,” Beatrice replied, firmly.  “So far as money is concerned, Elizabeth has no conscience whatever.  The things she wants in life she will have somehow, but it is all the time at other people’s expense.  Some day she will have to pay for it.”

Tavernake sighed.

“It is very unfortunate,” he declared.  “The commission on the letting of Grantham House would have been worth having.”

“After all, it is only your firm’s loss,” she reminded him.

“It does not appeal to me like that,” he continued.  “So long as I am manager for Dowling & Spence, I feel these things personally.  However, that does not matter.  I am afraid it is a disagreeable subject for you, and we will not talk about it any longer.”

She lit a cigarette with a little gesture of relief.  She came once more to his side.

“Leonard,” she said, “I know that I am treating you badly in telling you nothing, but it is simply because I do not want to descend to half truths.  I should like to tell you all or nothing.  At present I cannot tell you all.”

“Very well,” he replied, “I am quite content to leave it with you to do as you think best.”

“Leonard,” she continued, “of course you think me unreasonable.  I can’t help it.  There are things between my sister and myself the knowledge of which is a constant nightmare to me.  During the last few months of my life it has grown to be a perfect terror.  It sent me into hiding at Blenheim House, it reconciled me even to the decision I came to that night on the Embankment.  I had decided that sooner than go back, sooner than ask help from her or any one connected with her, I would do what I tried to do the time when you saved my life.”