ed for a moment in
his speech.

"Have I got your table, Professor?" Tavernake asked, slowly.

"You have, sir," the professor answered. "I did not recognize you when
I came in or I would have addressed you personally. I have particular
reasons for occupying a front table here every night this week."

The thoughts began to crowd in upon Tavernake's brain. He hesitated.

"Why not sit down with me?" he suggested.

The professor acquiesced without a word. The head waiter, with a sigh
of relief, took his hat and overcoat and accepted his order. Tavernake
leaned across the table.

"Professor," he said, "why do you insist upon sitting up here?"

The professor moved his head slowly downwards.

"My young friend, I speak to you in confidence?"

"In confidence," Tavernake repeated.

"I come here secretly," the professor continued, "because it is the only
chance I have of seeing a very dear relative of mine. I am obliged to
keep away from her just now, but from here I can watch, I can see that
she is well."

"You mean your daughter Beatrice," Tavernake said, calmly.

The professor trembled all over.

"You know!" he muttered.

"Yes, I know," Tavernake answered. "I have been able to be of some
slight assistance to your daughter Beatrice."

The professor grasped his hand.

"Yes, yes," he said, "Elizabeth is very angry with you because you
will not tell her where to find the little girl. You are right, Mr.
Tavernake. You must never tell her."

"I don't intend it," Tavernake declared.

"Say, this is a great evening for me!" the professor went on, eagerly.
"I found out by accident myself. I was at the bar and I saw her come in
with a lot of others."

"Why don't you go and speak to her?" Tavernake asked.

The professor shivered.

"There has been a disagreement," he explained. "Beatrice and Elizabeth
have quarreled. Mind you, Beatrice was right."

"Then why don't you go to her instead of staying with Elizabeth?"
Tavernake demanded, bluntly.

The professor temporarily collapsed. He drank heavily of the whiskey and
soda by his side, and answered gloomily.

"My young friend," he said, "Beatrice, when she left us, was penniless.
Mind you, Elizabeth is the one with brains. It is Elizabeth who has the
money. She has a strong will, too. She keeps me there whether I will or
not, she makes me do many things--many things, surely--which I hate. But
Elizabeth has her way. If I had gone with Beatrice, if I were to go to
h