CHAPTER XXVI. A CRISIS
Pritchard was the first visitor who had ever found his way into Tavernake's lodgings. It was barely eight o'clock on the same morning. Tavernake, hollow-eyed and bewildered, sat up upon the sofa and gazed across the room.
“Pritchard!” he exclaimed. “Why, what do you want?”
Pritchard laid his hat and gloves upon the table. Already his first swift glance had taken in the details of the little apartment. The overcoat and hat which Tavernake had worn the night before lay by his side. The table was still arranged for some meal of the previous day. Apart from these things, a single glance assured him that Tavernake had not been to bed.
Pritchard drew up an easy-chair and seated himself deliberately.
“My young friend,” he announced, “I have come to the conclusion that you need some more advice.”
Tavernake rose to his feet. His own reflection in the looking-glass startled him. His hair was crumpled, his tie undone, the marks of his night of agony were all too apparent. He felt himself at a disadvantage.
“How did you find me out?” he asked. “I never gave you my address.”
Pritchard smiled.
“Even in this country, with a little help,” he said, “those things are easy enough. I made up my mind that this morning would be to some extent a crisis with you. You know, Tavernake, I am not a man who says much, but you are the right sort. You've been in with me twice when I should have missed you if you hadn't been there.”