"See here," he said, "seems to me Pritchard is getting mighty
awkward. He hasn't got his posse around him in this country,
anyway."
There was a dead silence for several seconds. Then the little
old gentleman nodded solemnly.
"I am a trifle tired of Pritchard myself," he admitted, "and he
certainly knows too much. He carries too much in his head to go
around safely."
The eyes of Elizabeth were bright.
"He treats us like children," she declared. "To-night he has
told the whole of my affairs to a perfect stranger. It is
intolerable!"
The little party broke up soon after. Only Walter Crease and the
man called Jimmy Post were left talking, and they retired into
the window-seat, whispering together.
Tavernake, with his hands thrust deep in his overcoat pockets,
left the hotel and strode along the Strand. Some fancy seized
him before he had gone many paces, and turning abruptly to the
left he descended to the Embankment. He made his way to the very
seat upon which he had sat once before with Beatrice. With
folded arms he leaned back in the corner, looking out across the
river, at the curving line of lights, at the black, turgid
waters, the slowly-moving hulk of a barge on its way down the
stream. It was a new thing, this, for him to have to accuse
himself of folly, of weakness. For the last few days he had
moved in a mist of uncertainty, setting his heel upon all
reflection, avoiding every issue. To-night he could escape those
accusing thoughts no longer; to-night he was more than ever
bitter with himself.
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