"You'll be soaked to the skin," he protested. "I want you to
come into the smoking-room here with me for a few minutes. We
will have a drink together and a little conversation, if you
don't mind."
"But I do mind," Tavernake declared. "I don't know who you are
and I don't want to know you, and I am not going to talk about
Mrs. Gardner, or any other lady of my acquaintance, with
strangers. Good-night!"
"One moment, please, Mr. Tavernake."
Tavernake hesitated. There was something curiously compelling in
the other's smooth, distinct voice.
"I'd like you to take this card," he said. "I told you my name
before but I expect you've forgotten it,--Pritchard--Sam
Pritchard. Ever heard of me before?"
"Never!"
"Not to have heard of me in the United States," the other
continued, with a grim smile, "would be a tribute to your
respectability. Most of the crooks who find their way over here
know of Sam Pritchard. I am a detective and I come from New
York."
Tavernake turned and looked the man over. There was something
convincing about his tone and appearance. It did not occur to
him to doubt for a moment a word of this stranger's story.
"You haven't anything against her--against either of them?" he
asked, quickly.
"Nothing directly," the detective answered. "All the same, you
have been calling upon Mrs. Wenham Gardner this evening, and if
you are a friend of hers I think that you had better come along
with me and have that talk.
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