“She looked as I have seen no one else on earth look before,” Tavernake admitted. “She seemed simply terrified to death. I do not know why—she didn't explain—but that is how she looked.”
“Yet she sent you away!”
“She sent me away. She didn't care what became of me. She was watching the door all the time before he came. Who is he, Pritchard?”
“That sounds a simple question,” Pritchard answered gravely, “but it means a good deal. There's mischief afoot to-night, Tavernake.”
“You seem to thrive on it,” Tavernake retorted, drily. “Any more bunkum?”
Pritchard smiled.
“Come,” he said, “you're a sensible chap. Take these things for what they're worth. Believe me when I tell you now that there is a great deal more in the coming of this man than Mrs. Wenham Gardner ever bargained for.”
“I wish you'd tell me who he is,” Tavernake begged. “All this mystery about Beatrice and her sister, and that lazy old hulk of a father, is most irritating.”
Pritchard nodded sympathetically.
“You'll have to put up with it a little longer, I'm afraid, my young friend,” he declared. “You've done me a good turn; I'll do you one. I'll give you some good advice. Keep out of this place so long as the old man and his daughter are hanging out here. The girl 's clever—oh, she's as clever as they make them—but she's gone wrong from the start. They ain't your sort, Tavernake. You don't fit in anywhere. Take my advice and hook it altogether.”