The seconds passed; the woman beside him showed no sign of life.
Tavernake felt a fear run cold in his blood, such as in all his days
he had never known. This, indeed, was something belonging to a world of
which he knew nothing. What was it? Illness? Pain? Surprise? There was
only his instinct to tell him. It was terror, the terror of one who
looks beyond the grave.
“Mrs. Gardner!” he exclaimed. “Elizabeth!”
The sound of his voice seemed to break the spell. A half-choked sob came
through her teeth; the struggle for composure commenced.
“I am ill,” she murmured. “Give me my glass. Give it to me.”
Her fingers were feeling for it but it seemed as though she dared not
move her head. He filled it with wine and placed the stem in her hand.
Even then she spilled some of it upon the tablecloth. As she raised
it to her lips, the man who stood still upon the threshold of the
restaurant looked into her face. Slowly, as though his quest were over,
he came down the room.
“Go away,” she said to Tavernake. “Go away, please. He is coming to
speak to me. I want to be alone with him.”
Strangely enough, at that moment Tavernake saw nothing out of the common
in her request. He rose at once, without any formal leave-taking, and
made his way toward the other end of the cafe. As he turned the corner
towards the smoking-room, he glanced once behind. The man had approached
quite close to Elizabeth; he was standing before her table, they seemed
to be exchanging greetings.
Tavernake went on into the smoking-room and threw himself into an
easy-chair. He had been there perhaps for ten minutes when Pritchard
entered. Certainly it was a night of surprises! Even Pritchard, cool,
deliberate, slow in his movements and speech, seemed temporarily
flurried. He came into the room walking quickly. As the door swung
back, he turned round as though to assure himself that he was not being
followed. He did not at first see Tavernake. He sat on the arm of an
easy-chair, his hands in his pockets, his eternal cigar in the corner
of his mouth, his eyes fixed upon the doors through which he had issued.
Without a doubt, something had disturbed him. He had the look of a man
who had received a blow, a surprise of some sort over which he was still
ruminating. Then he glanced around the room and saw Tavernake.
“Hullo, young man!” he exclaimed. “So this is the way you follow my
advice!”
“I never promised to follow it,” Tavernake reminded him.
Pritchard wheeled an easy-chair across the room and called to the
waiter.
“Come,” he said, “you shall stand me a drink. Two whiskies and sodas,
Tim. And now, Mr. Leonard Tavernake, you are going to answer me a
question.”
“Am I?” Tavernake muttered.
“You came down in the lift with Mrs. Wenham Gardner half an hour ago,
you went into the restaurant and ordered supper. She is there still and
you are here. Have you quarreled?”
“No, we did not quarrel,” Tavernake answered. “She explained that she
was supping in the cafe only for the sake of meeting one man. She wanted
an escort. I filled that post until the man came.”
“He is there now?” Pritchard asked.
“He is there now,” Tavernake assented.
Pritchard withdrew the cigar from his mouth and watched it for a moment.
“Say, Tavernake,” he went on, “is that man who is now having supper with
Mrs. Wenham Gardner the man whom she expected?”
“I imagine so,” Tavernake replied.
“Didn't she seem in any way scared or disturbed when he first turned
up?”
“She looked as I have seen no one else on earth look before,” Tavernake
admitted. “She seemed simply terrified to death. I do not know why--she
didn't explain--but that is how she looked.”
“Yet she sent you away!”
“She sent me away. She didn't care what became of me. She was watching
the door all the time before he came. Who is he, Pritchard?”
“That sounds a simple question,” Pritchard answered gravely, “but it
means a good deal. There's mischief afoot to-night, Tavernake.”
“You seem to thrive on it,” Tavernake retorted, drily. “Any more
bunkum?”
Pritchard smiled.
“Come,” he said, “you're a sensible chap. Take these things for what
they're worth. Believe me when I tell you now that there is a great deal
more in the coming of this man than Mrs. Wenham Gardner ever bargained
for.”
“I wish you'd tell me who he is,” Tavernake begged. “All this mystery
about Beatrice and her sister, and that lazy old hulk of a father, is
most irritating.”
Pritchard nodded sympathetically.
“You'll have to put up with it a little longer, I'm afraid, my young
friend,” he declared. “You've done me a good turn; I'll do you one. I'll
give you some good advice. Keep out of this place so long as the old man
and his daughter are hanging out here. The girl 's clever--oh, she's
as clever as they make them--but she's gone wrong from the start. They
ain't your sort, Tavernake. You don't fit in anywhere. Take my advice
and hook it altogether.”
Tavernake shook his head.
“I can't do that just now,” he said. “Good-night! I'm off for the
present, at any rate.”
Pritchard, too, rose to his feet. He passed his arm through Tavernake's.
“Young man,” he remarked, “there are not many in this country whom I can
trust. You're one of them. There's a sort of solidity about you that I
rather admire. You are not likely to break out and do silly things. Do
you care for adventures?”
“I detest them,” Tavernake answered, “especially the sort I tumbled into
the other night.”
Pritchard laughed softly. They had left the room now and were walking
along the open space at the end of the restaurant, leading to the main
exit.
“That's the difference between us,” he declared thoughtfully. “Now
adventures to me are the salt of my life. I hang about here and watch
these few respectable-looking men and women, and there doesn't seem to
be much in it to an outsider, but, gee whiz! there's sometimes things
underneath which you fellows don't tumble to. A man asks another in
there to have a drink. They make a cheerful appointment to meet for
lunch, to motor to Brighton. It all sounds so harmless, and yet there
are the seeds of a conspiracy already sown. They hate me here, but they
know very well that wherever they went I should be around. I suppose
some day they'll get rid of me.”
“More bunkum!” Tavernake muttered.
They stood in front of the door and passed through into the courtyard.
On their right, the interior of the smaller restaurant was shielded from
view by a lattice-work, covered with flowers and shrubs. Pritchard came
to a standstill at a certain point, and stooping down looked through.
He remained there without moving for what seemed to Tavernake an
extraordinarily long time. When he stood up again, there was a distinct
change in his face. He was looking more serious than Tavernake had ever
seen him. But for the improbability of the thing, Tavernake would have
thought that he had turned pale.
“My young friend,” he said, “you've got to see me through this. You 've
a sort of fancy for Mrs. Wenham Gardner, I know. To-night you shall be
on her side.”
“I don't want any more mysteries,” Tavernake protested. “I'd rather go
home.”
“It can't be done,” Pritchard declared, taking his arm once more.
“You've got to see me through this. Come up to my rooms for a minute.”
They entered the Court and ascended to the eighth floor. Pritchard
turned on the lights in his room, a plainly furnished and somewhat bare
apartment. From a cupboard he took out a pair of rubber-soled shoes and
threw them to Tavernake.
“Put those on,” he directed.
“What are we going to do?” Tavernake asked.
“You are going to help me,” Pritchard answered. “Take my word for it,
Tavernake, it's all right. I could tackle the job alone, but I'd rather
not. Now drink this whiskey and soda and light a cigarette. I shall be
ready in five minutes.”
“But where are we going?” Tavernake demanded.
“You are going,” Pritchard replied, “on an errand of chivalry. You are
going to become once more a rescuer of woman in distress. You are going
to save the life of your beautiful friend Elizabeth.”