Personally, I regret to
say that I was not up when they left."
Beatrice leaned quite close to her father.
"Do you see anything of the man Pritchard?" she inquired.
The professor was suddenly flabby. He set down his glass,
spilling half its contents. He stole a quick glance at
Tavernake.
"My child," he exclaimed, "you ought to consider my nerves! You
know very well that the sudden mention of any one whom I dislike
so intensely is bad for me. I am surprised at you, Beatrice.
You show a culpable lack of consideration for my infirmities."
"I am sorry, father," she whispered, "but is he here?"
"He is," the professor admitted. "Between ourselves," he added,
a white, scared look upon his pale face, "he is spoiling my whole
peace of mind. My enjoyment of the comforts which Elizabeth is
able to provide for me is interfered with by that man's constant
presence. He seldom speaks, and yet he seems always to be
watching. I do not trust him, Beatrice. I am a judge of men and
I tell you that I do not trust him."
"I wish that Elizabeth would go away," Beatrice said in a low
tone. "Of course, I have no right--to say things. Nothing
serious has perhaps ever happened. And yet--and yet, for her own
sake, I do not think that she should stay here in London with
Pritchard close at hand."
The professor raised his glass with shaking fingers.
"Elizabeth knows what is best," he declared, "I am sure that
Elizabeth knows what is best, but I, too, am beginning to wish
that she would go away.
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