It was an incomprehensible
world, this, into which he had wandered. The woman's face had
lost her languid, gracious expression. There was something there
almost akin to tragedy. Her fingers fell upon his arm and her
touch was no light one. She was gripping him almost fiercely.
"Mr. Tavernake," she said, "I have a memory for faces which
seldom fails me. I have seen you before quite lately. You
remember where, of course. Tell me the truth quickly, please."
The words seemed to leap from her lips. Beautiful and young
though she undoubtedly was, her intense seriousness had suddenly
aged her face. Tavernake was bewildered. He, too, was conscious
of a curious emotional disturbance.
"The truth? What truth do you mean?" he demanded.
"It was you whom I saw with Beatrice!"
"You saw me one night about three weeks ago," he admitted slowly.
"I was in a chemist's shop in the Strand. You were signing his
book for a sleeping draught, I think."
She shivered all over.
"Yes, yes!" she cried. "Of course, I remember all about it. The
young lady who was with you--what was she doing there? Where is
she now?"
"The young lady was my sister," Tavernake answered stiffly.
Mrs. Wenham Gardner looked, for a moment, as though she would
have struck him.
"You need not lie to me!" she exclaimed. "It is not worth while.
Tell me where you met her, why you were with her at all in that
intimate fashion, and where she is now!"
Tavernake realized at once that so far as this woman was
concerned, the fable of his relationship with Beatrice was
hopeless.
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