She patted the back of his hand caressingly.

“You mustn’t talk like that, Leonard,” she said.  “I shouldn’t make you a good wife.  I am not going to marry any one.”

“And why?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“That is my secret,” she told him, looking into the fire.

“You mean to say that, you will never marry?” he persisted.

“Oh, I suppose I shall change, like other women,” she answered.  “Just at present, I feel like that.”

“Is it because your sister’s marriage—­”

She caught hold of both his hands; her eyes were suddenly full of terror.

“You mustn’t talk about Elizabeth,” she begged, “you please mustn’t talk about her.  Promise that you won’t.”

“But I came here to talk about her,” he replied.

Beatrice, for a moment, said nothing.  Then she threw down his hands and laughed once more.  As she flung herself back in her place, it seemed to Tavernake that he saw once more the girl who had stood upon the roof of the boarding-house.

“You came to talk about Elizabeth!” she exclaimed.  “I forgot.  Well, go on, what is it?”

“Your sister is in trouble!”

“Are you her confidant?” Beatrice asked.

“I am not exactly that,” he admitted, “but she has asked me to come and see you.”

Beatrice had suddenly grown hard, her lips were set together, even her attitude was uncompromising.

“Say exactly what you have to say,” she told him.  “I will not interrupt.”

“It sounds foolish,” Tavernake declared, “because I know so little, but it seems that your sister is being annoyed by a man named Pritchard, an American detective.  She tells me that he suspects her of being concerned in some way with the disappearance of her husband.  One of his reasons is that you left her abruptly and went into hiding, that you will not see or speak to her.  She wishes you to be reconciled.”

“Is that all?” Beatrice asked.

“It is all,” he replied, “so long as you understand its significance.  If you go to see your sister, or let her come to see you, this man Pritchard will have one of his causes for suspicion removed.”

“So you came as Elizabeth’s ambassador,” Beatrice said, half as though to herself.  “Well, here is my answer.  I will not go to Elizabeth.  If she finds out my whereabouts and comes here, then I shall go away again and hide.  I shall never willingly exchange another word with her as long as I live.”

Tavernake looked at her doubtfully.

“But she is your sister!” he explained.

“She is my sister,” Beatrice repeated, “and yet what I have said to you I mean.”

There was a short silence.  Tavernake felt unaccountably ill at ease.  Something had sprung up between them which he did not understand.  He was swift to recognize, however, the note of absolute finality in her tone.