“What is this service?” Tavernake asked.
Pritchard for the moment evaded the point.
“I dare say you can understand, Mr. Tavernake,” he said, “that in my profession one has to sometimes go a long way round to get a man or a woman just where you want them. Now we merely glanced at that table as we came in, and I can tell you this for gospel truth—there isn't one of that crowd that I couldn't, if I liked, haul back to New York on some charge or another. You wonder why I don't do it. I'll tell you. It's because I am waiting—waiting until I can bring home something more serious, something that will keep them out of the way for just as long as possible. Do you follow me, Mr. Tavernake?”
“I suppose I do,” Tavernake answered, doubtfully. “You are only talking of the men, of course?”
Pritchard smiled.
“My young friend,” he agreed, “I am only talking of the men. At the same time, I guess I'm not betraying any confidence, or telling you anything that Mrs. Wenham Gardner doesn't know herself, when I say that she's doing her best to qualify for a similar position.”
“You mean that she is doing something against the law!” Tavernake exclaimed, indignantly. “I don't believe it for a moment. If she is associating with these people, it's because she doesn't know who they are.”
Pritchard flicked the ash from his cigar.
“Well,” he said, “every man has a right to his own opinions, and for my part I like to hear any one stick up for his friends. It makes no odds to me. However, here are a few facts I am going to bring before you. Four months ago, one of the turns at a vaudeville show down Broadway consisted of a performance by a Professor Franklin and his two daughters, Elizabeth and Beatrice. The professor hypnotized, told fortunes, felt heads, and the usual rigmarole. Beatrice sang, Elizabeth danced. People came to see the show, not because it was any good but because the girls, even in New York, were beautiful.”
“A music-hall in New York!” Tavernake muttered.