Tavernake shook his head.
“With Miss Beatrice,” he answered.
Pritchard set down his glass.
“Say, Tavernake,” he inquired, “you are friendly with that young lady, Miss Beatrice, aren't you?”
“I certainly am,” Tavernake answered. “I have a very great regard for her.”
“Then I can tell you how to do her a good turn,” Pritchard continued, earnestly. “Keep her away from that old blackguard. Keep her away from all the gang. Believe me, she is looking for trouble by even speaking to them.”
“But the man's her father,” Tavernake objected, “and he seems fond of her.”
“Don't you believe it,” Pritchard went on. “He's fond of nothing and nobody but himself and easy living. He's soft, mind you, he's got plenty of sentiment, he 'll squeeze a tear out of his eye, and all that sort of thing, but he'd sell his soul, or his daughter's soul, for a little extra comfort. Now Elizabeth doesn't know exactly where her sister is, and she daren't seem anxious, or go around making inquiries. Beatrice has her chance to keep away, and I can tell you it will be a thundering sight better for her if she does.”
“Well, I don't understand it at all,” Tavernake declared. “I hate mysteries.”
Pritchard set down his empty glass.