“What you heard doesn’t concern me in the least,” Tavernake retorted.  “I should say that you had no business to listen.”

His companion smiled.

“Well,” he declared, “I have always heard a good deal about British frankness, and it seems to me that I’m getting some.  Anyway, I’ll tell you where I come in.  I am interested in Mrs. Wenham Gardner.  I am interested, also, in her sister, whom I think you know—­Miss Beatrice Franklin, not Miss Tavernake!”

Tavernake made no immediate reply.  The man was an American, without a doubt.  Perhaps he knew something of Beatrice.  Perhaps this was one of the friends of that former life concerning which she had told him nothing.

“You are not, by any chance, proposing,” Tavernake said at last, “to discuss either of these ladies with me?  I do not know you or what your business may be.  In any case, I am going now.”

The other laid his hand on Tavernake’s shoulder.

“You’ll be soaked to the skin,” he protested.  “I want you to come into the smoking-room here with me for a few minutes.  We will have a drink together and a little conversation, if you don’t mind.”

“But I do mind,” Tavernake declared.  “I don’t know who you are and I don’t want to know you, and I am not going to talk about Mrs. Gardner, or any other lady of my acquaintance, with strangers.  Good-night!”

“One moment, please, Mr. Tavernake.”

Tavernake hesitated.  There was something curiously compelling in the other’s smooth, distinct voice.

“I’d like you to take this card,” he said.  “I told you my name before but I expect you’ve forgotten it,—­Pritchard—­Sam Pritchard.  Ever heard of me before?”

“Never!”

“Not to have heard of me in the United States,” the other continued, with a grim smile, “would be a tribute to your respectability.  Most of the crooks who find their way over here know of Sam Pritchard.  I am a detective and I come from New York.”

Tavernake turned and looked the man over.  There was something convincing about his tone and appearance.  It did not occur to him to doubt for a moment a word of this stranger’s story.

“You haven’t anything against her—­against either of them?” he asked, quickly.

“Nothing directly,” the detective answered.  “All the same, you have been calling upon Mrs. Wenham Gardner this evening, and if you are a friend of hers I think that you had better come along with me and have that talk.”

“I will come,” Tavernake agreed, “but I come as a listener.  Remember that I have nothing to tell you.  So far as you are concerned, I do not know either of those ladies.”

Pritchard smiled.

“Well,” he said, “I guess we’ll let it go at that.  All the same, if you don’t mind, we’ll talk.  Come this way and we’ll get to the smoking-room through the hotel.  It’s under cover.”

Tavernake moved restlessly in his chair.