those black moments, to have thrown a thunderbolt from his place, he would have wrecked every table in the room, he would have watched with joy the white, startled faces of the revelers as they fled away into the night.  It was a new torture, indescribable, bitter.  Indeed, this curiosity of his, of which he had spoken to Beatrice as they had walked together down Oxford Street on that first evening, was being satisfied with a vengeance!  He was learning of those other things of life.  He had sipped at the sweetness; he was drinking the bitters!

An altercation by his side distracted him.  Again there was the head waiter and a protesting guest.  Tavernake looked up and recognized Professor Franklin.  With his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, the professor, in fluent phraseology and a strong American accent, was making himself decidedly disagreeable.

“You had better send for your manager right away, young man,” he declared.  “On Tuesday night he brought me here himself and I engaged this table for the week.  No, I tell you I won’t have any other!  I guess my order was good enough.  You send for Luigi right here.  You know who I am?  Professor Franklin’s my name, from New York, and if I say I mean to have a thing, I expect to get it.”

For the first time he recognized Tavernake, and paused for a moment in his speech.

“Have I got your table, Professor?” Tavernake asked, slowly.

“You have, sir,” the professor answered.  “I did not recognize you when I came in or I would have addressed you personally.  I have particular reasons for occupying a front table here every night this week.”

The thoughts began to crowd in upon Tavernake’s brain.  He hesitated.

“Why not sit down with me?” he suggested.

The professor acquiesced without a word.  The head waiter, with a sigh of relief, took his hat and overcoat and accepted his order.  Tavernake leaned across the table.

“Professor,” he said, “why do you insist upon sitting up here?”

The professor moved his head slowly downwards.

“My young friend, I speak to you in confidence?”

“In confidence,” Tavernake repeated.

“I come here secretly,” the professor continued, “because it is the only chance I have of seeing a very dear relative of mine.  I am obliged to keep away from her just now, but from here I can watch, I can see that she is well.”

“You mean your daughter Beatrice,” Tavernake said, calmly.

The professor trembled all over.

“You know!” he muttered.

“Yes, I know,” Tavernake answered.  “I have been able to be of some slight assistance to your daughter Beatrice.”

The professor grasped his hand.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “Elizabeth is very angry with you because you will not tell her where to find the little girl.  You are right, Mr. Tavernake.  You must never tell her.”