"She will not come to me; very well, I must go to her. You must
take me there."
"I cannot do that," Tavernake answered.
"Why not?"
"Beatrice has refused absolutely to permit me to tell you or any
one else of her whereabouts," he declared. "Without her
permission I cannot do it."
"Do you mean that?" she asked.
"Of course," he answered uncomfortably.
There was another silence. When she spoke again, her voice had
changed for the second time. Tavernake felt his heart sink as he
listened.
"Very well," she said. "I thought that you were my friend, that
you wished to help me."
"I do," he replied, "but you would not have me break my word?"
"You are breaking your word with me," she told him.
"It is a different thing," he insisted.
"You will not take me there?" she said once more.
"I cannot," Tavernake answered.
"Very well, good-bye!"
"Don't go," he begged. "Can't I see you somewhere for a few
minutes this evening?"
"I am afraid not," Elizabeth replied coolly.
"Are you going out?" he persisted.
"I am going to the Duke of York's Theatre with some friends," she
answered. "I am sorry. You have disappointed me."
She rang off and he turned away from the telephone booth into the
street. It seemed to him, as he walked down the crowded
thoroughfare, that some reflection of his own self-contempt was
visible in the countenances of the men and women who were
hurrying past him. Wherever he looked, he was acutely conscious
of it.
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