The Tempting of Tavernake Part 37

"By accident," he answered. "I was sitting alone up in the balcony at Imano's, and he wanted my table because he could see you from there, so we shared it, and then we began talking. I knew who he was, of course; I had seen him in your sister's room. He told me that he had engaged the table for every night this week."

She looked across the road.

"I can't go out with those people now," she declared. "Wait here for me."

She went back to her friends and talked to them for a moment or two.

Tavernake could hear Grier's protesting voice and Beatrice's light laugh. Evidently they were trying uselessly to persuade her to change her mind. Soon she came back to him.

"I am sorry," he said reluctantly. "I am afraid that I have spoiled your evening."

"Don't be foolish, please," she replied taking his arm. "Do you believe that my father will be up in the balcony at Imano's to-night?"

Tavernake nodded.

"He told me so."

"We will go and sit up there," she decided. "He knows where I am to be found now so it doesn't matter. I should like to see him."

They walked off together. Though she was evidently absent and distressed, Tavernake felt once more that sense of pleasant companions.h.i.+p which her near presence always brought him.

"There is something else I must ask you," she began presently. "I want to know if you have seen Pritchard lately."

"I was with him last night," Tavernake answered.

She s.h.i.+vered.

"He was asking questions?"

"Not about you," Tavernake a.s.sured her quickly. "It is your sister in whom he is interested."

Beatrice nodded, but she seemed very little relieved. Tavernake could see that the old look of fear was back in her face.

"I am sorry, Beatrice," he said, regretfully. "I seem just now to be always bringing you reminiscences of the people whom it terrifies you to hear about."

She shook her head.

"It isn't your fault, Leonard," she declared, "only it is rather strange that you should be mixed up with them in any way, isn't it? I suppose some day you'll find out everything about me. Perhaps you'll be sorry then that you ever even called yourself my brother."

"Don't be foolish," he answered, brusquely.

She patted his hand.

"Is the speculation going all right?" she asked.

"I am hoping to get the money together this week," he replied. "If I get it, I shall be well off in a year, rich in five years."

"There is just a doubt about your getting it, then?" she inquired.

"Just a doubt," he admitted. "I have a solicitor who is doing his best to raise a loan, but I have not heard from him for two days. Then I have also a friend who has promised it to me, a friend upon whom I am not quite sure if I can rely."

They turned into the Strand.

"Tell me about my father, Leonard," she begged.

He hesitated; it was hard to know exactly how to speak of the professor.

"Perhaps if you have talked with him at all," she went on, "it will help you to understand one of the difficulties I had to face in life."

"He is, I should imagine, a little weak," Tavernake suggested, hesitatingly.

"Very," she answered. "My mother left him in my charge, but I cannot keep him."

"Your sister--" he began.

She nodded.

"My sister has more influence than I. She makes life easier for him."

They reached the restaurant and made their way upstairs. Tavernake appropriated the same table and once more the head waiter protested.

"If the gentleman comes again to-night," Tavernake said, "you will find that he will be only too glad to have supper with us."

Then the professor came. He made his usual somewhat theatrical entrance, carrying his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, brandis.h.i.+ng his silver-topped cane. When he saw Tavernake and Beatrice, he stopped short. Then he held out both hands, which Beatrice immediately seized.

There were tears in his eyes, tears running down his cheeks. He sat down heavily in the chair which Tavernake was holding for him.

"Beatrice," he exclaimed, "why, this is most affecting! You have come here to have supper with your old father. You trust me, then?"

"Absolutely," she replied, still clasping his hands. "If you give me away to Elizabeth, it will be the end. The next time I shall never be found."

"For some days," he a.s.sured her, "I have known exactly where you were to be found. I have never spoken of it. You are safe. My meals up here,"

he added, with a little sigh, "have been sad feasts. To-night we will be cheerful. Some quails, I think, quails and some Clicquot for you, my dear. You need it. Ah, this is a happiness indeed!"

"You know Mr. Tavernake, father," she remarked, after he had given a somewhat lengthy order to the waiter.

"I met and talked with Mr. Tavernake here the other night," the professor admitted, with condescension.

"Mr. Tavernake was very good to me at a time when I needed help,"

Beatrice told him.

The professor grasped Tavernake's hands.

"You were good to my child," he said, "you were good to me. Waiter, three c.o.c.ktails immediately," he ordered, turning round. "I must drink your health, Mr. Tavernake--I must drink your health at once."

Tavernake leaned forward towards Beatrice.

"I wonder," he suggested, "whether you would not rather be alone with your father."

She shook her head.