Part 39 (1/2)

”You are perhaps right, my child,” he admitted. ”I will go and see my agents to-morrow. Up till now,” he went on, ”I have refused all offers.

I have felt that Elizabeth, the care of Elizabeth in her peculiar position, demanded my whole attention. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have over-estimated the necessity of being constantly at her right hand. She is a very clever woman Elizabeth,” he concluded, ”very clever indeed.”

”Where is she now, father?” Beatrice asked.

”She motored into the country early this morning with some friends,”

the professor said. ”They went to a party last night with Walter Crease, London correspondent to the New York Gazette,” he explained, turning a little away from Tavernake. ”They were all home very late, I understand, and Elizabeth complained of a headache this morning. Personally, I regret to say that I was not up when they left.”

Beatrice leaned quite close to her father.

”Do you see anything of the man Pritchard?” she inquired.

The professor was suddenly flabby. He set down his gla.s.s, spilling half its contents. He stole a quick glance at Tavernake.

”My child,” he exclaimed, ”you ought to consider my nerves! You know very well that the sudden mention of any one whom I dislike so intensely is bad for me. I am surprised at you, Beatrice. You show a culpable lack of consideration for my infirmities.”

”I am sorry, father,” she whispered, ”but is he here?”

”He is,” the professor admitted. ”Between ourselves,” he added, a white, scared look upon his pale face, ”he is spoiling my whole peace of mind.

My enjoyment of the comforts which Elizabeth is able to provide for me is interfered with by that man's constant presence. He seldom speaks, and yet he seems always to be watching. I do not trust him, Beatrice. I am a judge of men and I tell you that I do not trust him.”

”I wish that Elizabeth would go away,” Beatrice said in a low tone. ”Of course, I have no right--to say things. Nothing serious has perhaps ever happened. And yet--and yet, for her own sake, I do not think that she should stay here in London with Pritchard close at hand.”

The professor raised his gla.s.s with shaking fingers.

”Elizabeth knows what is best,” he declared, ”I am sure that Elizabeth knows what is best, but I, too, am beginning to wish that she would go away. Last night we met him at Walter Crease's.”

Once more he turned a little nervously towards Tavernake, who was looking down into the body of the restaurant with immovable face.

”We tried to persuade him then to go away. He is really in rather a dangerous position here. Jimmy Post has sworn that he will not be taken back to New York, and there are one or two others--a pretty desperate crew. We tried last night to reason with Pritchard.”

”It was no good?” she whispered.

”No good at all,” the professor answered, drily. ”Perhaps, if we had not been interrupted, we might have convinced him.”

”Tell me about it,” she begged.

The professor shook his head. Tavernake still had that air of paying no attention whatever to their conversation.

”It is not for you to know about, my dear,” he concluded. ”You have chosen very wisely to keep out of these matters. Elizabeth has such wonderful courage. My own nerve, I regret to say, is not quite what it was. Waiter, I will take a liqueur of the old brandy in a large gla.s.s.”

The brandy was brought, but the professor seemed haunted by memories and his spirits never wholly returned. Not until the lights were turned down and Tavernake had paid the bill, did he partially recover his former manner.

”Dear child,” he said, as they stood up together, ”I cannot tell you what the pleasure has been of this brief reunion.”

She rested her fingers upon his shoulders and looked up into his face.

”Father,” she begged, softly, ”come to me. I can keep you, if you don't mind for a short time being poor. You shall have all my salary except just enough for my clothes, and anything will do for me to wear. I will try so hard to make you comfortable.”