“You'll be soaked to the skin,” he protested. “I want you to come into the smoking-room here with me for a few minutes. We will have a drink together and a little conversation, if you don't mind.”
“But I do mind,” Tavernake declared. “I don't know who you are and I don't want to know you, and I am not going to talk about Mrs. Gardner, or any other lady of my acquaintance, with strangers. Good-night!”
“One moment, please, Mr. Tavernake.”
Tavernake hesitated. There was something curiously compelling in the other's smooth, distinct voice.
“I'd like you to take this card,” he said. “I told you my name before but I expect you've forgotten it,—Pritchard—Sam Pritchard. Ever heard of me before?”
“Never!”
“Not to have heard of me in the United States,” the other continued, with a grim smile, “would be a tribute to your respectability. Most of the crooks who find their way over here know of Sam Pritchard. I am a detective and I come from New York.”
Tavernake turned and looked the man over. There was something convincing about his tone and appearance. It did not occur to him to doubt for a moment a word of this stranger's story.
“You haven't anything against her—against either of them?” he asked, quickly.
“Nothing directly,” the detective answered. “All the same, you have been calling upon Mrs. Wenham Gardner this evening, and if you are a friend of hers I think that you had better come along with me and have that talk.”