the applause which marked the conclusion of this effort, Tavernake felt
himself touched lightly upon the arm. He turned round. By his side was
standing the other dinner guest who had shown some interest in
Beatrice. He was a man apparently of about forty years of age, tall and
broad-shouldered, with black moustache, and dark, piercing eyes. Unlike
most of the guests, he wore a short dinner-coat and black tie, from
which, and his slight accent, Tavernake concluded that he was probably
an American.

"Say, you'll forgive my speaking to you," he said, touching Tavernake
on the arm. "My name is Pritchard. I saw you come in with the young
lady who was singing a few minutes ago, and if you won't consider it a
liberty, I'll be very glad indeed if you'll answer me one question."

Tavernake stiffened insensibly.

"It depends upon the question," he replied, shortly.

"Well, it's about the young lady, and that's a fact," Mr. Pritchard
admitted. "I see that her name upon the programme is given as Miss
Tavernake. I was seated at the other end of the room but she seemed to
me remarkably like a young lady from the other side of the Atlantic,
whom I am very anxious to meet."

"Perhaps you will kindly put your question in plain words," Tavernake
said.

"Why, that's easy," Mr. Pritchard declared. "Is Miss Tavernake really
her name, or an assumed one? I expect it's the same over here as in my
country--a singer very often sings under another name than her own, you
know," he added, noting Tavernake's gathering frown.

"The young lady in question is my sister, and I do not care to discuss
her with strangers," Tavernake announced.

Mr. Pritchard nodded pleasantly.

"Why, of course, that ends the matter," he remarked. "Sorry to have
troubled you, anyway."

He strolled off back to his seat and Tavernake returned thoughtfully to
the dressing-room. He found Beatrice alone and waiting for him.

"You've got rid of that fellow, then?" he inquired.

Beatrice assented.

"Yes; he didn't stay very long," she replied.

"Who was he?" Tavernake asked, curiously.

"From a musical comedy point of view," she said, "he was the most
important person in London. He is the emperor of stage-land. He can make
the fortune of any girl in London who is reasonably good-looking and who
can sing and dance ever so little."

"What did he want with you?" Tavernake demanded, suspiciously.

"He asked me whether I would like to go upon the stage. What do y