She stood with the card in her hand.  Some one else was singing now—­an ordinary modern ballad of love and roses, rapture and despair.  They heard the rising and falling of the woman’s voice; the clatter of the dinner had ceased.  Beatrice stood still thinking, her fingers clinching the card of Mr. Sidney Grier.

“You must bring him in,” she said to Tavernake finally.

Tavernake went outside.

“My sister will see you,” he remarked, with the air of one who brings good news.

Mr. Sidney Grier grunted.  He was not used to being kept waiting, even for a second.  Tavernake ushered him into the retiring room, and the other two musicians who were there stared at him as at a god.

“This is the gentleman whose card you have, Beatrice,” Tavernake announced.  “Mr. Sidney Grier—­Miss Tavernake!”

The man smiled.

“Your brother seems to be suspicious of me,” he declared.  “I found it quite difficult to persuade him that you might find it interesting to talk to me for a few minutes.”

“He does not quite understand,” Beatrice answered.  “He has not much experience of musical affairs or the stage, and your name would not have any significance for him.”

Tavernake went outside and listened idly to the song which was proceeding.  It was a class of music which secretly he preferred to the stranger and more haunting notes of Beatrice’s melodies.  Apparently the audience was of his opinion, for they received it with a vociferous encore, to which the young lady generously replied with a music-hall song about “A French lady from over the water.”  Towards the close of the applause which marked the conclusion of this effort, Tavernake felt himself touched lightly upon the arm.  He turned round.  By his side was standing the other dinner guest who had shown some interest in Beatrice.  He was a man apparently of about forty years of age, tall and broad-shouldered, with black moustache, and dark, piercing eyes.  Unlike most of the guests, he wore a short dinner-coat and black tie, from which, and his slight accent, Tavernake concluded that he was probably an American.

“Say, you’ll forgive my speaking to you,” he said, touching Tavernake on the arm.  “My name is Pritchard.  I saw you come in with the young lady who was singing a few minutes ago, and if you won’t consider it a liberty, I’ll be very glad indeed if you’ll answer me one question.”

Tavernake stiffened insensibly.

“It depends upon the question,” he replied, shortly.

“Well, it’s about the young lady, and that’s a fact,” Mr. Pritchard admitted.  “I see that her name upon the programme is given as Miss Tavernake.  I was seated at the other end of the room but she seemed to me remarkably like a young lady from the other side of the Atlantic, whom I am very anxious to meet.”

“Perhaps you will kindly put your question in plain words,” Tavernake said.