be away from the office for more than a few minutes. Mr.
Tavernake has all the details at his fingers' ends, and I only hope,
Mrs. Gardner, that he will be able to persuade you to take the house.
Our client," he added, with a bow, "would, I am sure, be delighted to
hear that we had secured for him so distinguished a tenant."

She smiled at him, a delightful mixture of graciousness and
condescension.

"You are very good," she answered. "The house sounds rather large for me
but it depends so much upon circumstances. If you are ready, Mr.--"

"Tavernake," he told her.

"Mr. Tavernake," she continued, "my car is waiting outside and we might
go on at once."

He bowed and held open the door for her, an office which he performed
a little awkwardly. Mr. Dowling himself escorted her out on to the
pavement. Tavernake stopped behind to get his hat, and passing out
a moment afterwards, would have seated himself in front beside the
chauffeur but that she held the door of the car open and beckoned to
him.

"Will you come inside, please?" she insisted. "There are one or two
questions which I might ask you as we go along. Please direct the
chauffeur."

He obeyed without a word; the car glided off. As they swung round the
first corner, she leaned forward from among the cushions of her seat and
looked at him. Then Tavernake was conscious of new things. As though by
inspiration, he knew that her visit to the office of Messrs. Dowling,
Spence & Company had been no chance one.

She remembered him, remembered him as the companion of Beatrice during
that strange, brief meeting. It was an incomprehensible world, this,
into which he had wandered. The woman's face had lost her languid,
gracious expression. There was something there almost akin to tragedy.
Her fingers fell upon his arm and her touch was no light one. She was
gripping him almost fiercely.

"Mr. Tavernake," she said, "I have a memory for faces which seldom fails
me. I have seen you before quite lately. You remember where, of course.
Tell me the truth quickly, please."

The words seemed to leap from her lips. Beautiful and young though she
undoubtedly was, her intense seriousness had suddenly aged her face.
Tavernake was bewildered. He, too, was conscious of a curious emotional
disturbance.

"The truth? What truth do you mean?" he demanded.

"It was you whom I saw with Beatrice!"

"You saw me one night about three weeks ago," he admitted slowly. "I
was in a chemis