“I won't worry you much more,” the detective answered. “There are a few other circumstances which seem to need explanation, but they can wait. There is one serious one, however, and that is where you come in.”
“Indeed!” Tavernake remarked. “I was hoping you would come to that soon.”
“The two sisters, Beatrice and Elizabeth, have been together ever since we can learn anything of their history. Those people who don't understand the disappearance of Wenham Gardner would like to know why they quarreled and parted, why Beatrice is keeping away from her sister in this strange manner. I personally, too, should like to know from Miss Beatrice when she last saw Wenham Gardner alive.”
“You want me to ask Miss Beatrice these things?” Tavernake demanded.
“It might come better from you,” Pritchard admitted. “I have written her to the theatre but naturally she has not replied.”
Tavernake looked curiously at his companion.
“Do you really suppose,” he asked, “that, even granted there were any unusual circumstances in connection with that quarrel—do you seriously suppose that Beatrice would give her sister away?”
The detective sighed.
“No doubt, Mr. Tavernake,” he said, “these young ladies are friends of yours, and perhaps for that reason you are a little prejudiced in their favor. Their whole bringing-up and associations, however, have certainly not been of a strict order. I cannot help thinking that persuasion might be brought to bear upon Miss Beatrice, that it might be pointed out to her that a true story is the safest.”
“Well, if you've finished,” Tavernake declared, “I'd like to tell you what I think of your story. I think it's all d—d silly nonsense! This Wenham Gardner, by your own saying, was half mad. There was a quarrel and he's gone off to Paris or somewhere. As to your suggestions about Mrs. Gardner, I think they're infamous.”