Tavernake, hollow-eyed and bewildered, sat up upon the
sofa and gazed across the room.
"Pritchard!" he exclaimed. "Why, what do you want?"
Pritchard laid his hat and gloves upon the table. Already his
first swift glance had taken in the details of the little
apartment. The overcoat and hat which Tavernake had worn the
night before lay by his side. The table was still arranged for
some meal of the previous day. Apart from these things, a single
glance assured him that Tavernake had not been to bed.
Pritchard drew up an easy-chair and seated himself deliberately.
"My young friend," he announced, "I have come to the conclusion
that you need some more advice."
Tavernake rose to his feet. His own reflection in the
looking-glass startled him. His hair was crumpled, his tie
undone, the marks of his night of agony were all too apparent.
He felt himself at a disadvantage.
"How did you find me out?" he asked. "I never gave you my
address."
Pritchard smiled.
"Even in this country, with a little help," he said, "those
things are easy enough. I made up my mind that this morning
would be to some extent a crisis with you. You know, Tavernake,
I am not a man who says much, but you are the right sort. You've
been in with me twice when I should have missed you if you hadn't
been there."
Tavernake seemed to have lost the power of speech. He had
relapsed again into his place upon the sofa. He simply waited.
"How in the name of mischief," Pritchard continued, impressively,
"you came to be mixed up in the lives of this amiable trio, I
cannot imagine! I am not saying a word against Miss Beatrice,
mind.
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