“Mrs. Wenham Gardner.”
Tavernake set his teeth.
“No,” he said, slowly, “I don't know that that interests me.”
“Glad of it,” Pritchard went on. “I can tell you I don't think things have been going extra well with the lady. She's spent most of what she got from the Gardner family, and she doesn't seem to have had the best of luck with it, either. I came across her by accident. She is staying at a flashy hotel, but it's in the wrong quarter—second-rate—quite second-rate.”
“I wonder whether we shall see anything of her,” Tavernake remarked.
“Do you want to?” Pritchard asked. “She'll probably be at Martin's for lunch, at the Plaza for tea, and Rector's for supper. She's not exactly the lady to remain hidden, you know.”
“We'll avoid those places, then, if you are taking me around,” Tavernake said.
“You're cured, are you?” Pritchard inquired.
“Yes, I am cured,” Tavernake answered, “cured of that and a great many other things, thanks to you. You found me the right tonic.”
“Tonic,” Pritchard repeated, meditatively. “That reminds me. This way for the best cocktail in New York.”...