“You are really interested in the matter, then?” he inquired.
“Yes, yes,” she told him, “of course I am interested. I want you to come and see me directly you have heard. It is important. Supposing you are able to find your client to-night, shall you have seen the young lady before then?”
“I am afraid not,” he answered.
“You must try,” she begged, laying her fingers upon his shoulder. “Mr. Tavernake, do please try. You can't realize what all this anxiety means to me. I am not at all well and I am seriously worried about—about that young lady. I tell you that I must have an interview with her. It is not for my sake so much as hers. She must be warned.”
“Warned?” Tavernake repeated. “I really don't understand.”
“Of course you don't!” she exclaimed impatiently. “Why should you understand? I don't want to offend you, Mr. Tavernake,” she went on hurriedly. “I would like to treat you quite frankly. It really isn't your place to make difficulties like this. What is this young lady to you that you should presume to consider yourself her guardian?”
“She is a boarding-house acquaintance,” Tavernake confessed, “nothing more.”
“Then why did you tell me, only a moment ago, that she was your sister?” Mrs. Gardner demanded.
Tavernake threw open the door before which they had been standing.
“This,” he said, “is the famous dancing gallery. Lord Clumber is quite willing to allow the pictures to remain, and I may tell you that they are insured for over sixty thousand pounds. There is no finer dancing room than this in all London.”