"Say, Tavernake," he inquired, "you are friendly with that young
lady, Miss Beatrice, aren't you?"
"I certainly am," Tavernake answered. "I have a very great
regard for her."
"Then I can tell you how to do her a good turn," Pritchard
continued, earnestly. "Keep her away from that old blackguard.
Keep her away from all the gang. Believe me, she is looking for
trouble by even speaking to them."
"But the man's her father," Tavernake objected, "and he seems
fond of her."
"Don't you believe it," Pritchard went on. "He's fond of nothing
and nobody but himself and easy living. He's soft, mind you,
he's got plenty of sentiment, he 'll squeeze a tear out of his
eye, and all that sort of thing, but he'd sell his soul, or his
daughter's soul, for a little extra comfort. Now Elizabeth
doesn't know exactly where her sister is, and she daren't seem
anxious, or go around making inquiries. Beatrice has her chance
to keep away, and I can tell you it will be a thundering sight
better for her if she does."
"Well, I don't understand it at all," Tavernake declared. "I
hate mysteries."
Pritchard set down his empty glass.
"Look here," he remarked, "this affair is too serious, after all,
for us to talk round like a couple of gossips. I have given you
your warning, and if you're wise you 'll remember it."
"Tell me this one thing," Tavernake persisted. "Tell me what is
the cause of the quarrel between the two? Can't something be
done to bring them together again?"
Pritchard shook his head.
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