Tavernake, in response to a somewhat urgent message, walked into his
solicitor's office almost as soon as they opened on the following
morning. The junior partner of the firm, who took an interest in him,
and was anxious, indeed, to invest a small amount in the Marston Rise
Building Company, received him cordially but with some concern.
“Look here, Tavernake,” he said, “I thought I'd better write a line and
ask you to come down. You haven't forgotten, have you, that our option
of purchase lasts only three days longer?”
Tavernake nodded.
“Well, what of it?” he asked.
“It's just as well that you should understand the situation,” the lawyer
continued. “Your old people are hard upon our heels in this matter,
and there will be no chance of any extension--not even for an hour. Mr.
Dowling has already put in an offer a thousand pounds better than yours;
I heard that incidentally yesterday afternoon; so you may be sure
that the second your option has legally expired, the thing will be off
altogether so far as you're concerned.”
“That's all very well,” Tavernake remarked, “but what about the plots
that already belong to me?”
“They have some sort of scheme for leaving those high and dry,” the
solicitor explained. “You see, the drainage and lighting will be largely
influenced by the purchaser of the whole estate. If Dowling gets it,
he means to treat your plots so that they will become practically
valueless. It's rather a mean sort of thing, but then he's a mean little
man.”
Tavernake nodded.
“Well,” he announced, “I was coming to see you, anyhow, this morning, to
talk to you about the money.”
“Your friend isn't backing out?” the lawyer asked, quickly.
“My friend has not said anything about backing out yet,” Tavernake
replied, “but circumstances have arisen during the last few days which
have altered my own views as to the expediency of business relations
with this person. I haven't any reason to suppose that the money won't
be forthcoming, but if I could get it from any other source, I should
prefer it.”
The solicitor looked blank.
“Of course,” he said, “I'll do what I can, if you like, but I may as
well tell you at once that I don't think I should have a ghost of a
chance of raising the whole amount.”
“I suppose,” Tavernake inquired, thoughtfully, “your firm couldn't do
anything?”
“We could do something, certainly,” the solicitor answered, “on account
of our own clients. We might, perhaps, manage up to five thousand
pounds. That would still leave us wanting seven, however, and I scarcely
see where we could get it.”
Tavernake was silent for a few moments.
“You haven't quarreled with your friend, have you?” the solicitor asked.
“No, there has been no quarrel,” Tavernake replied. “I have another
reason.”
“If I were you, I'd try and forget it,” his friend advised. “To tell you
the truth, I have been feeling rather anxious about this affair. It's
a big thing, you know, and the profit is as sure as the dividend on
Consols. I should hate to have that little bounder Dowling get in and
scoop it up.”
“It's a fine investment,” admitted Tavernake, “and, as you say, there
isn't the slightest risk. That's why I was hoping you might have been
able to manage it without my calling upon my friend.”
Mr. Martin shook his head.
“It isn't so easy to convince other people. All the same, I don't want
to get left. If you'll take my advice, you'll go and call on your friend
at once, and see exactly how matters stand. If everything's O.K. and you
can induce him to part a few hours before it is absolutely necessary, I
must confess that it would take a load off my mind. I don't like these
affairs that have to be concluded at the last possible moment.”
“Well,” Tavernake agreed, “I must try what I can do, then. There is
nothing else fresh, I suppose?”
“Nothing,” the solicitor answered. “Come back, if you can make any
definite arrangement, or telephone. The matter is really bothering me a
little. I don't want to have the other people slip in now.”...
Tavernake, instead of obeying his first impulse and making his way
direct to the Milan Court, walked to the flat in Kingsway, climbed up
the stone steps, and asked for Beatrice. She met him at her own door,
fully dressed.
“My dear Leonard!” she exclaimed, in surprise. “What an early caller!”
“I want a few words with you,” he said. “Can you spare me five minutes?”
“You must walk with me to the theatre,” she replied, “I am just off to
rehearsal.”
They descended the stairs together.
“I have something to tell you,” Tavernake began, “something to tell you
which you won't like to hear.”
“Something which I won't like to hear,” she repeated, fearfully. “Go on,
Leonard. It can't be worse than it sounds.”
“I don't know why I've come to tell you,” he went on. “I never meant to.
It came into my mind all of a sudden and I felt that I must. It has to
do with your sister and the Marston Rise affair.”
“My sister and the Marston Rise affair!” Beatrice exclaimed,
incredulously.
Then a sudden light broke in upon her. She stopped short and clutched at
his hand.
“You don't mean that it was Elizabeth who was going to find you the
money?” she cried.
“I do,” he answered. “She offered it of her own accord. I do not know
why I talked to her of my own affairs, but she led me on to speak of
them. Your sister is a wonderful person,” he continued, dropping his
voice. “I don't know why, but she made me talk as no one else has ever
made me talk before. I simply had to tell her things. Then, when I had
finished, she showed me her bankbooks and suggested that she should
invest some of her money in the Rise.”
“But do you mean to tell me,” Beatrice persisted, “that it is her money
upon which you are relying for this purchase?”
Tavernake nodded.
“You see,” he explained, “Mr. Dowling dropped upon us before I was
prepared. As soon as he found out, he went to the owners of the estate
and made them a bid for it. The consequence was that they shortened my
option and gave me very little chance indeed to find the money. When
your sister offered it, it certainly seemed a wonderful stroke of
fortune. I could give her eight or ten per cent, whereas she would only
get four anywhere else, and I should make a profit for myself of over
ten thousand pounds, which I cannot do unless I find the money to buy
the estate.”
“But you mustn't touch that money, you mustn't have anything to do with
it!” Beatrice exclaimed, walking very fast and looking straight ahead.
“You don't understand. How should you?”
“Do you mean that the money was stolen?” Tavernake asked, after a
moment's pause.
“No, not stolen,” Beatrice replied, “but it comes--oh! I can't tell you,
only Elizabeth has no right to it. My own sister! It is all too awful!”
“Do you think that she has come by this money dishonestly?”
“I am not sure,” Beatrice murmured. “There are worse things, more
terrible things even than theft.”
The practical side of Tavernake's nature was very much to the fore
that morning. He began to wonder whether women, after all, strange and
fascinating creatures though they were, possessed judgment which could
be relied upon--whether they were not swayed too much by sentiment.
“Beatrice,” he said, “you must understand this. I have no time to raise
the money elsewhere. If I don't get it from your sister, supposing she
is still willing to let me have it, my chance has gone. I shall have to
take a situation in some one else's office as a clerk--probably not so
good a place as I held at Dowling & Spence's. On the other hand, the use
of that money for a very short time would be the start of my career. All
that you say is so vague. Why need I know anything about it? I met your
sister in the ordinary way of business and she has made an ordinary
business proposition to me, one by which she will be, incidentally, very
greatly benefited. I never thought of telling you this at all, but when
the time came I hated to go and draw that money from your sister without
having said anything to you. So I came this morning, but I want you, if
you possibly can, to look at the matter from my point of view.”
She was silent for several moments. Then she glanced at him curiously.
“Why on earth,” she asked, “should my sister make this offer to you? She
isn't a fool. She doesn't usually trust strangers.”
“She trusted me, apparently,” Tavernake answered.
“Can you understand why?” Beatrice demanded.
“I think that I can,” he replied. “If one can rely upon one's
perception, she is surrounded by people whom she might find agreeable
companions but whom she is scarcely likely to have much confidence in.
Perhaps she realized that I wasn't like them.”
“And you want very much to take this money?” she said, half to herself.
“I want to very much indeed,” Tavernake admitted. “I was on my way
to see her this morning and to ask her to let me have it a day or two
before the time, but I felt, somehow, that there seemed to be a certain
amount of deceit in going to her and taking it without saying a word to
you. I felt that I had to come here first. But Beatrice, don't ask me to
give it up. It means such a long time before I can move again. It's the
first step that's so difficult, and I must--I must make a start. It's
such a chance, this. I have spent so many hours thinking about it. I
have planned and worked and sketched it all out as no one else could do.
I must have that money.”
They walked on in silence until they reached the stage door. Beatrice
was thinking of her companion as she had seen him so often, poring over
his plans, busy with ruler and india-rubber, absolutely absorbed in the
interest of his task. She remembered the first time he had talked
about this scheme of his, how his whole face had changed, the almost
passionate interest with which he had worked the thing out even to its
smallest details. She realized how great a part of his life the thing
had become, what a terrible blow it would be to him to have to abandon
it. She turned and faced him.
“Leonard,” she said, “perhaps, after all, you are right. Perhaps I give
way too much to what, after all, is only a sentimental feeling. I am
thankful that you came and told me; I shall always be thankful for that.
Take the money, but pay it back as soon as you can.”
“I shall do that,” he answered. “I shall do that you may rely upon it.”
She laid her hand upon his arm.
“Leonard,” she begged, “I know that Elizabeth is very beautiful and very
fascinating, and I don't wonder that you like to go and see her, but I
want to ask you to promise me one thing.”
He felt as though he were suddenly turned into stone. It was not
possible--it could not be possible that she had guessed his secret!
“Well?” he demanded.
“Don't let her introduce you to her friends; don't spend too much time
there,” she continued. “Elizabeth is my sister and I don't--really I
don't want to say anything that doesn't sound kind, but her friends are
not fit people for you to know, and Elizabeth--well she hasn't very much
heart.”
He was silent for several moments.
“How did you know I liked going to see your sister?” he asked,
abruptly.
She smiled.
“My dear Leonard,” she said, “you are not very clever at hiding your
feelings. When you came to see me the other day, do you imagine I
believed for a single moment that you asked me to marry you simply
because you cared? I think, Leonard, that it was because you were
afraid, you were afraid of something coming into your life so big,
so terrifying, that you were ready to clutch at the easiest chance of
safety.”
“Beatrice, this is absurd!” he exclaimed.
She shook her head.
“No, it isn't that,” she declared. “Do you know, my dear Leonard, what
there was about you from the very first which attracted me?”
“No,” he answered.
“It was your honesty,” she continued. “You remember that night upon the
roof at Blenheim House? You were going to tell a lie for me, and I know
how you hated it. You love the truth, you are truthful naturally; I
would rely upon you wherever I was. I know that you would keep your
word, I know that you would be honest. A woman loves to feel that about
a man--she loves it--and I don't want you to be brought near the people
who sneer at honesty and all good things. I don't want you to hear their
point of view. You may be simple and commonplace in some respects; I
want you to stay just as you are. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Tavernake replied gravely.
A call boy shouted her name down the stone passage. She patted him on
the shoulder and turned away.
“Run along now and get the money,” she said. “Come and see me when it's
all over.”
Tavernake left her with a long breath of relief and made his way towards
the Strand. At the corner of Wellington Street he came face to face
with Pritchard. They stopped at once. There seemed to be something
embarrassing about this meeting. Pritchard patted him familiarly on the
shoulder.
“How goes it, old man?” he asked.
“I am all right,” Tavernake answered, somewhat awkwardly. “How are you?”
“I guess I'd be the better for a drink,” Pritchard declared. “Come
along. Pretty well done up the other night, weren't we? We'll step into
the American Bar here and try a gin fizz.”
They found themselves presently perched upon two high stools in a
deserted corner of the bar to which Pritchard had led the way. Tavernake
sipped his drink tentatively.
“I should like,” he said, “to ask you a question or two about Wednesday
night.”
Pritchard nodded.
“Go right ahead,” he invited.
“You seem to take the whole affair as a sort of joke,” Tavernake
remarked.
“Well, isn't that what it was?” the detective asked, smiling.
Tavernake shrugged his shoulders.
“There didn't seem to me to be much joke about it!” he exclaimed.
Pritchard laughed gayly.
“You are not used to Americans, my young friend,” he said. “Over on this
side you are all so fearfully literal. You are not seriously supposing
that they meant to dose me with that stuff the other night, eh?”
“I never thought that there was any doubt about it at all,” Tavernake
declared deliberately.
Pritchard stroked his moustache meditatively.
“Well,” he remarked, “you are certainly green, and yet I don't know why
you shouldn't be. Americans are always up to games of that sort. I am
not saying that they didn't mean to give me a scare, if they could, or
that they wouldn't have been glad to get a few words of information out
of me, or a paper or two that I keep pretty safely locked up. It would
have been a better joke on me then. But as for the rest, as for really
trying to make me take that stuff, of course, that was all bunkum.”
Tavernake sat quite still in his chair for several minutes.
“Will you take another gin fizz, Mr. Pritchard?” he asked.
“Why not?”
Tavernake gave the order. He sat on his stool whistling softly to
himself.
“Then I suppose,” he said at last, “I must have looked a pretty sort of
an ass coming through the wall like a madman.”
Pritchard shook his head.
“You looked just about what you were,” he answered, “a d----d good sort.
I'm not playing up to you that it was all pretense. You can never trust
that gang. The blackguard outside was in earnest, anyway. After all, you
know, they wouldn't miss me if I were to drop quietly out. There 's no
one else they 're quite so much afraid of. There 's no one else knows
quite as much about them.”
“Well, we'll let it go at that,” Tavernake declared. “You know so much
of all these people, though, that I rather wish you 'd tell me something
I want very much to know.”
“It's by telling nothing,” the detective replied quickly, “that I know
as much as I do. Just one cocktail, eh?”
Tavernake shook his head.
“I drank my first cocktail last night,” he remarked. “I had supper with
the professor and his daughter.”
“Not Elizabeth?” Pritchard asked swiftly.
Tavernake shook his head.
“With Miss Beatrice,” he answered.
Pritchard set down his glass.
“Say, Tavernake,” he inquired, “you are friendly with that young lady,
Miss Beatrice, aren't you?”
“I certainly am,” Tavernake answered. “I have a very great regard for
her.”
“Then I can tell you how to do her a good turn,” Pritchard continued,
earnestly. “Keep her away from that old blackguard. Keep her away from
all the gang. Believe me, she is looking for trouble by even speaking to
them.”
“But the man's her father,” Tavernake objected, “and he seems fond of
her.”
“Don't you believe it,” Pritchard went on. “He's fond of nothing and
nobody but himself and easy living. He's soft, mind you, he's got plenty
of sentiment, he 'll squeeze a tear out of his eye, and all that sort
of thing, but he'd sell his soul, or his daughter's soul, for a little
extra comfort. Now Elizabeth doesn't know exactly where her sister is,
and she daren't seem anxious, or go around making inquiries. Beatrice
has her chance to keep away, and I can tell you it will be a thundering
sight better for her if she does.”
“Well, I don't understand it at all,” Tavernake declared. “I hate
mysteries.”
Pritchard set down his empty glass.
“Look here,” he remarked, “this affair is too serious, after all, for us
to talk round like a couple of gossips. I have given you your warning,
and if you're wise you 'll remember it.”
“Tell me this one thing,” Tavernake persisted. “Tell me what is the
cause of the quarrel between the two? Can't something be done to bring
them together again?”
Pritchard shook his head.
“Nothing,” he answered. “As things are at present, they are better
apart. Coming my way?”
Tavernake followed him out of the place. Pritchard took his arm as he
turned down toward the Strand.
“My young friend,” he said, “here is a word of advice for you. The
Scriptures say that you cannot serve God and mammon. Paraphrase that to
the present situation and remember that you cannot serve Elizabeth and
Beatrice.”
“What then?” Tavernake demanded.
The detective waited until he had lit the long black cigar between his
teeth.
“I guess you'd better confine your attentions to Beatrice,” he
concluded.