Tavernake sat a few hours later at his evening meal in the tiny sitting-room of an apartment house in Chelsea. He wore a black tie, and although he had not yet aspired to a dinner coat, the details of his person and toilet showed signs of a new attention. Opposite to him was Beatrice.
“Tell me,” she asked, as soon as the small maid-servant who brought in their first dish had disappeared, “what have you been doing all day? Have you been letting houses or surveying land or book-keeping, or have you been out to Marston Rise?”
It was her customary question, this. She really took an interest in his work.
“I have been attending a rich American client,” he announced, “a compatriot of your own. I went with her to Grantham House in her own motor-car. I believe she thinks of taking it.”
“American!” Beatrice remarked. “What was her name?”
Tavernake looked up from his plate across the little table, across the bowl of simple flowers which was its sole decoration.
“She called herself Mrs. Wenham Garner!”
Away like a flash went the new-found peace in the girl's face. She caught at her breath, her fingers gripped the table in front of her. Once more she was as he had known her first—pale, with great terrified eyes shining out of a haggard face.
“She has been to you,” Beatrice gasped, “for a house? You are sure?”
“I am quite sure,” Tavernake declared, calmly.