And if, sir," he proceeded, "during your stay in
New York you will mention my name at the Goat's Club, or the
Mosquito Club, you will, I think, find yourself received with a
hospitality which will surprise you."
Tavernake thanked him and paid the bill. They walked slowly down
the room, and Tavernake was curiously reluctant to release the
little hand which clasped his.
"I have kept this to the last," Beatrice said, in a low tone.
"Elizabeth is in London."
He was curiously unmoved.
"Yes?" he murmured.
"I should like you--I think it would be well for you to go and
see her," she went on. "You know, Leonard, you were such a
strange person in those days. You may imagine things. You may
not realize where you are. I think that you ought to go and see
her now, now that you have lived through some suffering, now that
you understand things better. Will you?"
"Yes, I will go," Tavernake promised.
Beatrice glanced round towards where her father was standing.
"I don't want him to know," she whispered. "I don't want either
him or myself to be tempted to take any of her money. She is
living at Claridge's Hotel. Go there and see her before you
leave for your new life."
He stood at the door and watched them go down the Strand, the
professor, flamboyant, walking erect with flying coat-tails, and
his big cigar held firmly between his teeth; Beatrice, a wan
figure in her black clothes, clinging to his arm. Tavernake
watched them until they disappeared, conscious of a curious
excitement, a strange pain, a sense of revelation.
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