“I must live,” she murmured. “Give me a little money and let me go away.”
He laughed.
“Oh, I'll do better than that for you,” he answered, thrusting his hand into his waistcoat pocket and drawing out a pile of dollar bills. “Let's look at you. Gee whiz! Yes, you're shabby, aren't you? Take this,” he went on, slamming some notes down before her. “Go and get yourself a new frock and a hat fit to wear, and meet me at the Madison Square roof garden at eight o'clock. We'll have some dinner and I guess we can fix matters up.”
Then he smiled at her again, and Beatrice, whose hand was already upon the bills, suddenly felt her knees shake. A great black horror was upon her. She turned and fled out of the room, past the astonished clerk, into the lift, and was downstairs on the main floor before she remembered where she was, what she had done. The clerk, after gazing at her retreating form, hurried into the inner office.
“Young woman hasn't bolted with anything, eh?” he asked.
Mr. Cruxhall smiled wickedly.
“Why, no,” he replied, “I guess she'll come back!”
Tavernake left the meeting on that same afternoon with his future practically assured for life. He had been appointed surveyor to the company at a salary of ten thousand dollars a year, and the mine in which his savings were invested was likely to return him his small capital a hundredfold. Very kind things had been said of him and to him.
Pritchard and he had left the place together. When they had reached the street, they paused for a moment.
“I am going to make a call near here,” Pritchard said. “Don't forget that we are dining together, unless you find something better to do, and in the meantime”—he took a card from his pocket and handed it to Tavernake—“I don't know whether I am a fool or not to give you this,” he added. “However, there it is. Do as you choose about it.”