“She was very mysterious,” Tavernake answered. “She spoke of some danger of which you knew nothing. Before I came away, she offered me a hundred pounds to let her know where you were.”
Beatrice laughed softly.
“That is just like Elizabeth,” she declared. “You must have made her very angry. When she wants anything, she wants it very badly indeed, and she will never believe that every person has not his price. Money means everything to her. If she had it, she would buy, buy, buy all the time.”
“On the face of it,” Tavernake remarked, soberly, “her offer seemed rather an absurd one. If she is in earnest, if she is really so anxious to discover your whereabouts, she will certainly be able to do so without my help.”
“I am not so sure,” Beatrice replied. “London is a great hiding place.”
“A private detective,” he began,—
Beatrice shook her head.
“I do not think,” she said, “that Elizabeth will care to employ a private detective. Tell me, have you to see her upon this business again?”
“I am going to her flat at the Milan Court to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock.”
Beatrice leaned back in her chair. Presently she recommenced her dinner. She had the air of one to whom a respite has been granted. Tavernake, in a way, began to resent this continued silence of hers. He had certainly hoped that she would at least have gone so far as to explain her anxiety to keep her whereabouts secret.