ately leave
his face. On the contrary, from the moment of his entrance she watched
him steadfastly. Tavernake, stolid, unruffled, at that time without
comprehension, approached the desk.

"This is--er--Mr. Tavernake, our manager," Mr. Dowling announced,
obsequiously. "In the absence of my son, he is in charge of the letting
department. I have no doubt that he will be able to suggest something
suitable. Tavernake," he continued, "this lady,"--he glanced at a card
in front of him--"Mrs. Wenham Gardner of New York, is looking for a town
house, and has been kind enough to favor us with an inquiry."

Tavernake made no immediate reply. Mr. Dowling was shortsighted, and in
any case it would never have occurred to him to associate nervousness,
or any form of emotion, with his responsible manager. The beautiful
lady leaned back in her chair. Her lips were parted in a slight but
very curious smile, her fingers supported her cheek, her eyelids were
contracted as she looked into his face. Tavernake felt that their
recognition was mutual. Once more he was back again in the tragic
atmosphere of that chemist's shop, with Beatrice, half fainting, in his
arms, the beautiful lady turned to stone. It was an odd tableau, that,
so vividly imprinted upon his memory that it was there before him at
this very moment. There was mystery in this woman's eyes, mystery and
something else.

"I don't seem to have come across anything down here
which--er--particularly attracts Mrs.--Mrs. Wenham Gardner," Mr. Dowling
went on, taking up a little sheaf of papers from the desk. "I thought,
perhaps, that the Bryanston Square house might have suited, but it
seems that it is too small, far too small. Mrs. Gardner is used to
entertaining, and has explained to me that she has a great many friends
always coming and going from the other side of the water. She requires,
apparently, twelve bedrooms, besides servants' quarters."

"Your list is scarcely up to date, sir," Tavernake reminded him. "If the
rent is of no particular object, there is Grantham House."

Mr. Dowling's face was suddenly illuminated.

"Grantham House!" he exclaimed. "Precisely! Now I declare that it
had absolutely slipped my memory for the moment--only for the moment,
mind--that we have just had placed upon our books one of the most
desirable mansions in the west end of London. A most valued client,
too, one whom we are most anxious to oblige. Dear, dear me! It is
very fortunate--very for