The man smiled.
“Come,” he said, “that's honest, at any rate. Are you in a hurry for a few minutes?”
“I am in no particular hurry,” Tavernake answered. “What do you want?”
“A few nights ago,” the stranger continued, lowering his voice a little, “I met you with a young lady whose appearance, for some reason which we needn't go into, interested me. To-night I happened to overhear you inquiring, only a few minutes ago, for the sister of the same young lady.”
“What you heard doesn't concern me in the least,” Tavernake retorted. “I should say that you had no business to listen.”
His companion smiled.
“Well,” he declared, “I have always heard a good deal about British frankness, and it seems to me that I'm getting some. Anyway, I'll tell you where I come in. I am interested in Mrs. Wenham Gardner. I am interested, also, in her sister, whom I think you know—Miss Beatrice Franklin, not Miss Tavernake!”
Tavernake made no immediate reply. The man was an American, without a doubt. Perhaps he knew something of Beatrice. Perhaps this was one of the friends of that former life concerning which she had told him nothing.
“You are not, by any chance, proposing,” Tavernake said at last, “to discuss either of these ladies with me? I do not know you or what your business may be. In any case, I am going now.”
The other laid his hand on Tavernake's shoulder.