THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 10301, 4 November 1911, Page 2

THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE.

(By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.) Author of "The Mysterious Mr Sabin," "The Secret Conspirators," etc. [Ai-r, Rights Reserved.] CHAPTER I. They stood upon the roof of a London boarding-house in the neighbourhood of Russell Square—one of those grim shelters, the refuge of Transatlantic curiosity and British penury. The girl—she represented the former race—was leaning against the frail palisading with gloomy expression, and eyes set as though in fixed contemplation of the uninspiring panorama. The young man—he was unmistabably, uncompromisingly English—stood with his back to tho chimney back a few feet away, watching his companion. The silence between them was as yet unbroken, had lasted, indeed,, since she had stolen away from the shabby drawing-room below, where a florid lady with a raucous voice had been shouting a music-hall ditty. Close upon her heels, but without si>eech of any sort, he had followed. They were almost strangers, except for the occasional word or two of greeting which the etiquette of the establishment demanded. Yet she had accepted his espionage without any protest of word or look.' He had followed her with a very definite object. Had she surmised it he wondered ? She had net turned her head, or vouchsafed even a. single question or remark to him since he had pushed his way through the trap-door almost at her heels and stepped out on to the leads. Yet it seemed to him that she must guess. Below them, what seemed to be the phantasm of a painted city, a wilderness ef housetops, of smoke-wreathed spires and chimneys, stretched away to a murky blcod-red horizon. Even as they stood there, a deeper colour stained the sky, an angry sun began to sink into the piled up masses of thick, vaporous clouds. The girl watched with an air of sullen yet absorbed interest. Her companion's eyes were still fixed wholly and critically upon her. Who was she, he wondered? Why had she left her own country to come to a city where she seemed to have no friends, no manner of interest? In that caravansary of the world's stricken ones she had ben an almost unnoticed figuro, silent, indisposed for conversation, not in any obvious manner attractive. Her clothes,, notwithstanding their air of having come from a first-class dressmaker, were shabby and out of fashion; their extreme ueatness was in itself pathetic. She was thin, yet not without a certain buoyant lightness of movement always at variance with her tired eyes, her ceaseless air of dejection. And withal she was a rebel. It was written in her attitude, it was evident in her lowering, militant expression, the smouldering fire in her eyes proclaimed it. Her long, rather narrow face was gripped botween ho 1" hands; her elbows rested upon the brick parapet. She' gazed at that world of blood-red mists, of unshapely, grotesque buildings, of strangu, tawdry colours; she listened to the medley of sounds—crude, shrill, insistent, something like the groaning of a world stripped naked—and ehe had all the time the air of one who hates the thing she looks upon. , Tavernake, whose curiosity concerning his companion remained unappeased, decided that tho moment for speech had arrived. Ho took a step forward upon the soft, pulpy leads. Even then he hesitated before ho finally committed himself. About his appearance there was little, that was remarkable save the general air of determin ation which gave character to his undistinguished features. He was something above the medium height, broadset, and with rather more thick black hair than he knew how to arrange advantageously. He wore a shirt which was somewhat frayed, and an indifferent tie; his boqts were heavy and clumsy; he wore also a suit of readymade clothes with the air of one who know that they wore ready-made and was satisfied with them. People of a nervous or sensitive disposition would, without doubt, have found him irritating but for a certain nameless gift—an almost Napoleonic concentration upon the things of the passing moment, which was in itself impressive and somehow disarmed criticism. "About that bracelet," ho said at last. She moved her head and looked at him. A young man of less assurance would have turned and fled. Not so Tavernake. Once sure of his ground he was immovable. There was murder in her eyes but ho was not oven disturbed. " I saw you take it from the little table by the piano, you know," he continued. "It was rather a rash thing to do. Mrs Fitzgerald -was looking for it beforo 1 reached the stairs. I expecte she has called th* pohco In by now."

Slowly her had stole into the depths of her pocket and emerged. Something flashed for a moment high over her head. The young man caught herwrist just in timo, caught it in a veritable grip of iron Then, indeed, the evil fires flashed from her eyes, )ier teeth gleamed white, her bosom rose and fell in a storm or angry, unuttered sobs. She was drv-eyed and still speechless, but for all lhat she was a tigress. A strangely-cut silhouette they formed there upon the house-tops, with a background of empty sky, their imt sinking in the warm leads.

" I think I had better tains it," he said. " Let go." Her fingers yielded the bracelet—a tawdry, ill-designed affair of rabies and diamonds. He looked at it disapprovingly. "That's an ugly thing to go to prison for," he remarked, slipping it into his pocket. '" ft was a stupid thing to do, anyhow. You couldn't have got away with it—unless," h© added, looking over the parapet as though struck with a sudden idea, " unless you had a confederate below." He heard the rush of her skirts, and he was only just in time. Nothing, in fact, but a considerable amount of presence of mind and the full exercise of a strength which was continually providing surprises for his acquaintances, was sufficient to save her. Their struggles upon the very edge of the roof dislodged a brick from the palisading, which went hurtling down into the street. Thev both paused to watch it, his arms still gripping her, and one foot pressed against an iron rod. It was immediately after they had seen it pitch harmlessly into the road that a new sensation came to this phlegmatic young man. For the first time in his life, he -realised that it was possible to feel a certain pleasurable emotion in the closo grasp of a being of the opjKraite sex. Consequently, although sho had now ceased to struggle, he kept his arms locked around her, looking into her face with an interest, intense enough, but more analytical than emotional, as though seeking to discover the meaning of this curious throbbing of his pulses. She herself, as though exhausted, remained quite passive. shivering a little in his grasp, and breathing like a hunted animal whose last hour lias come. Their eyes met; then she tore herself away. "You are a hateful person," she said, deliberately, "a hateful, interfering person. T detest you." "I think that vo will go down now," ho replied. He raised thi> trapdoor and glanced at her signifienntTv. She held her skirts closoly together and passed through if without looking at him. She stepped lightly down the- ladder, and withou! hesitation descended _ also a flight of nnearpetod attic stairs. Here, however, upon the landing she awaited him with obvious reluctance. " Aro you going; to sand for the

police?" she asked, without looking at him. " No," he answered. " If I had meant to give you away," he replied, "&l should have told Mrs Fitzgerald at once that I had seen you take her bracelet, instead of following you out on to the roof." " Do you mind telling mo what you do propose to do, thenP" she continued, still without looking at him, still without the slightest note of appeal in her tone. He withdrew the bracelet from his pocket and balanced it upon his finger. ''l am going to say that I took 'it for a joke," he declared. She hesitated. " Mrs Fitzgerald's sense of humour is not elastic," she warned him. " She will be very angry, of course," he assented, " but slie will not believe that 1 meant to steal it." The girl moved slowly a few steps away. " 1 suppose that I ought to thank you," she said, still with averted faco and sullen manner. "You have really been very decent. lam much obliged." "Are you not comiinr clown?"' lie asked. ' Wot at present," she answered. " I am going to my room." He looked around the landing on which they stood, at the miserable, uncarpeted floor, the ill-painted doors on which the long-forgotten varnish stood out in blisters, the jumble of dilapidated hot-water cans, a mop, and a medley of brooms and rags all thrown down together in a corner. " Hut these are th© servants' quarters, surely ?" h B remarked. "They are good, enough for me; my room is here," she told him, turning the handle or one of- tho doors and disappearing. The ptrompt turning of tho key sounded, he thought, a little ungracious. With the bracelet in his hand Tavernako descended three more flights of stairs, and entered the drawing-room of the private hotel conducted by Mrs Raithby Lawrence, whose husband, one learned from her frequent reiteration of the fact, had once occupied a'distinguished post in the Merchant Service of his country. The disturbance following upon tho disappearance of the bracelet was evidently at its height. There were at least a dozen occupants of the room, most of whom were standing up. The central figure of them all was Mrs Fitzgerald, large and florid, whose yellow hair with its varied shades frankly admitted its indebtedness to peroxide; a lady of tho dashing type, who_ had oncte made her mark in tho music-halls, but was now happily married to a commercial traveller who was seldom visible. Mrs Fitzgerald was talking. "In respectable boardinghouses, Mrs Lawrence," she declared, with great emphasis, "thefts may sometimes take placo, I will admit, jn tho servants' quarters, and with all their temptations, poor tilings, it's not so much to be wondered at. But no such thing as this has ever happened to me before—to have jewellery taken almost from mv person in the drawing-room, of what should be a well-conducted establishment. Mot a servant in the room, remember, from the moment I took it off until I got up from tho piano and found it missing. It's your guests you've got to look after, MYs Lawrence, sorry to say it though I am." Mi's Lawrence managed hero, through sheer loss of breath on tho part of her assailant, k> interpose n tearful protest. "1 am quite sure," she protested feebly, "that thero is not a person in rhis house who would dream of stealing anything, however valuable it was. 1 am most particular always about references." "Valuable, indeed I" Mrs Fitzgerald continued, \vi|h increased volubility. "' I'd have you understand that 1 am not one of those who wear trumpery jewellery. Thirty-Jive guineas that bracelet cost mo if it cost n penny, and if my husband were only at homo 1 could show you tho receipt." Then there came an interruption of almost tragical interest. Mrs Fitzgerald, her mouth still open, her stream of olonuojiro suddenly arrested, stood with her artificially darkened eyes rivotlcd upon tho .stolid, seli-coinnosod figure in the doorway. Everyone clso was gazing in the Name direction. Tuvernnke was holding tho bracelet,, hi the palm of his hand.

"Thirty-fire guineas!" he repeated. " If I Had known that it was worth as much as that, I do not think that I should have dared to touch it." "You—you took it I" Mrs Fitgerald gasped. "I am afraid," he admitted, "that it was rather a clumsy joke. I apologise, Sirs Fitzgerald. I hope you did not really imagine that it had been stolen." One was conscious of the little thrill of emotion which marked the termination of the episode. Most of the people not directly concerned were disappointed : they were being robbed of their excitement, their'hopes of a tragical denouement were frustrated. Mrs Lawrence's worn face plainly showed her relief. The lady with the yellow hair, on the other hand, who had now succeeded hi working herself up into a towering rage, snatched the bracelet from the young man's fingers, and 'with a purple flush in her cheeks was obviously struggling, with an. intense desire to box his eais.

" That's not good enough for a tale!" sho exclaimed, harshly. "I tell you I don't believe a word of it. Took it for a joke, indeed 1 I only wish my husband were here: he'd know what tt do." " Your husband couldn't do much more than get your bracelet, bade, ma'am," Mrs Lawrence replied, with acerbity. " Such a fuss, aDd calling everyone thieves), too! I'd be ashamed to bo so suspicious." Mrs Fitzgerald glared haughtily at ber hostess. '' It's all very well for those that don't possess any jewellery, and don't know the.value of it, to talk," she declared, with her eyes fixed upon a black jet ornament which hung from the other woman's neck. " What I say is this, and you may just as well "hear it from ma now as later. I don't believe this cock-and-bull story of Mr Tavernake's. Them as took my bracelet from that table meant keying it—only they hadn't the courage. And I'm not referring to you, Mr Tavernake," the lady continued, vigorously, " because I don't believe you took it, for all your talk about a. joke. And whom you may be shielding it wouldn't take me two guesses to name, and your motive must be clear to everyone. The common hussy i" "You are exciting yourself unnecessarily, Mrs Fitzgerald/' Tavernake remarked. " Lot me assure you that it was 1 who took your bracelet from that table." Mrs Fitzgerald regarded him scornfully. "Do you expect me to believe a tale like that?" she demanded. "Why not?" Tavernake replied. " Tt is the truth. I am sorry that you have been so upset——■" " It is not the truth 1"' More sensation ! Another unexpected entrance. Once more interest in the affair was revived. After all, the look-ers-on felt that they were not to be robbed of their tragedy. An old lady with vellow cheeks and jet black eyes leaned forward with her hand to her ear, anxious not to miss a syllable of what was coming. Tavernake bit bis lip: it was the girl from the roof who had entered the room. " I have no doubt." she oontmued, in a cool, clear tone, " that Mr* Fitzgerald's first guess would have been correct. I took the bracelot. I did not take it for a joke, I did not take it because I admired it—l think it is hideously ugly. I took it because I had no money.'' She paused and looked around at them all quietly, yet with something in her face from which they all shrank. She stood where the light fell full upon her shabbv black gown and dejectedlooking hat. The hollows in her pale cheeks and the faint rims under her eves wore clearly manifest j but notwithstanding her fragile appearance she held herself with composure and ovon dignity. Twenty—thirty seconds must havo passed while she stood there, slowly finishing the buttoning of her glove's. No one attempted to break the silence. She'dominated them all—tlioy felt that she had something more to say. Even Mrs Fitzgerald felt a weight upon her tongue. "It was a clumsy attempt, she went on. " I should have had no idea where to raise money upon the thing, but I apologise to you, nevertheless, Mrs Fitzgerald, for the anxiety which my removal of your .valuable property must have caused you," she added, turning to the owner of the bracelet.

whose cheeks were once more hot with anger at the contempt in the girl's tone. ",I suppose I ought to thank you, Mr Tavernake, also, for your wellmejint effort to preserve my character. In future that shall be my sole charge. 1 Ha 3 anyone anything more to say to' me before I. go?" Somehow or other no one had. Mrs Fitzgerald was irritated and fuming,; but she contented herself with a snort.: Her speech was ready enough as a rule, but there wm a look in this girl's eyes from which she was glad enough to turn away. Mrs Laivrence made a weak attempt at a fareweii. "1 am sure." she began, "we are all sorry for what's occurred, and that you must go—not that perhaps it isn't better, under the circumstances," she added, hastily. "As regards " "There is nothing owing to you,," the girl interrupted calmly. "You may congratulate yourself upon that, for if there were you would not get it. Nor have I stolen anything else." "About your luggage ? n Mrs hem rence asked. " When I need it I will send for the girl replied. ' . She turned her back upon them, mM before they_ realised it she was gone. She had, indeed, something of . the grand manner. She had come to plead guilty to a theft, and she had left them all feeling a little like snubbed children. Mrs Fitzgerald, as soon as the spell of the girl's presence was removed, was one of the first to recover herself, She felt herself beginning to grow hot with renewed indignation. "A thief!" she exclaimed, looking around the room. '' Just an ordinary self-convicted thief! That's what I call her, and nothing else. And here we all stood like a lot of ninnies. Why', if I'd done my duty I'd have locked the door and sent for a policeman." "Too late now, anyway," Mrs ■. Lawrence declared. " She's gone for good, and no mistake. Walked right out of the house. I heard her dam the front door." " And a good job, too," Mrs Fitzgerald affirmed. "We don't want any of her sort here—not those who've rrob things of value about them. I bet she • didn't leave America for nothing." A little grey-haired lady, who had ' not as yet spoken, and who very seldom took part in any discussion at all, looked up from her knitting. She was desperately poor, but she had charitable instincts. "I wonder what made her want to steal, she remarked, quietly. "A bom thief," Mrs Fitzgerald de- . clared with conviction, "a" real bad lot. One of your sly-looking ones. I call her." The little lady sighed. , * /'When I was better off," she contmued, "I used to help at a soup kitchen in Poplar. I have never forgotten a certain lock wo used to see occasionally in the faces of some of the men i and women. I found out what it meant—it was hunger. Once or twice lately I have passed the girl who has just gone out, upon the stairs, 'and. sho almost frightened me. She had just the same look in her eyes. 1 noticed it yesterday—it was just before dinnertime, too— but she never came down." "She paid so much for her room and extra for meals," Mrs Lawrence said, thoughtfully. " She never would have a meal unless she paid for it at the time. To .tell you the truth,. I was feeling a bit uneasy about' her. She hasn't been in the dining-room for two days, and from what they tell me \ there's no signs of her having eaten anything in her room. As for getting anything our, why should she P It would be cheaper for her here than anywhere, if she'd got any. money at 1 all." There was an uncomfortable silence. The little old lady with the knitting looked down the street into the sultry darkness which had swallowed.the girl UP- '' I wonder whether Mr Tavemake knows anything about her," some one suggested. . , J Put Tavernake was not in the room, | CHAPTER 11. Tavernake caught her up in New Oxford Street, and fell at once into step with her. He wasted no time whatever upon preliminaries. "I should be glad," he said, "If ycu would tell me your name." Her first glance at him was* fierce enough to have terrified a different sort of man. Upon Tavernake .it had absolutely no ehect, "You need not unless you like, of course," he went on, "but I wish to talk to yoii for a few moments, and I thought that it would be more convenient if I addressed you by name. Ido not remember to have heard,it mentioned at Blenheim House, and Mi's Lawrence, as you know, does not introduce her guests." By this time' they had walked a scor« or so of paces together. The girl, after her first furious glance, had taken ab-' solutely no notice of him except to quicken her pace a little. Tavernaka, remained by her side, however, showing not the slightest sense of embarrass* ment or annoyance. He seemed per-, fectly content to wait, and he had not in the least the appearance oi a man who could be easily shaken off. . Flrom,' a lit of furious anger she passed' sud-; denly and without warning to a state I of high hysterical amusement. " You are a foolish, absurd person,'* she declared. '/Please go.away. •I do not wish you to walk with me.". Tavernake remained imperturbaMe, She remembered suddenly His intervention on her behalf. '' If you insist upon knowing," sh« said, my name at Blenheim House was Beatrice Burnay. I am obliged to you for what you did for me there, but that is finished. I d« not wish to have any conversation witbj you,, and I absolutely object to your company. Please leave mo at. once." "I am sorry," he answered, "but that is not possible." "Not possible?" she repeated, wonderingly. He shook his head. j " You have no money, you have eaten no dinner, and I do not believe that you have an idea where you are going to," be declared deliberately. Her face was onco more dark with anger. " Even if that wero the she insisted, " teU me what concern it is of yours ? Your r>eminding me of these facts is simply an impertinence." "I am sorry that you look upon ib in that light," he remarked, still without the least sign of discomposure. " Wo will, if you do not mind, waive the discussion for the moment. Do you prefer a small restaurant or a corner in a big one? There.is music at Frascati's, but there are not so -many-people in the smaller one*," She turned half round upon the pavement and looked at him- steadfastly His personality was at last bsjnvminfr to interest her. His square 'v V'"l measured speech, w-ere indice; a vh:-v----acter at least unußual. Sho n> o>uiii?-y 1 certain invincible qualities lu.'der an c .- terior absolutely commonpLnc?. " Are you as persistent about everything in life?" sho asked him. " Why not?" he replied. "I try always to bo consistent." "What is your name?" "Leonard Tavernake," he answered, promptly. " Are you well off—l mean moderately well off?" she inquired. " I have a quite sufficient income," he assured hsr. " Have you anyone dependent lipoid you?" "Not a soul," he declared. "I am my own master in every sense of the word." She laughed in an odd sort of way. _ " Then you shall pay for your persistence," she said—" I mean that I may as well rob j r ou of a sovereign r.» the restaurant people." " You must tell me now where yovj would like to go to," he insisted. "16 is getting late." "I do not like these foreign places," she replied. " I should prefer to go to the grill-room of a good restaurant." " We will tako a taxi-cab," he announced. "You have no objection 9" She shrugged her shouldej*.

M lf you have the money and don't Mind spending it," she said, ".'I will. Admit that I have had all the walking' I Want. Besides, the toe of my boot is worn through, and I find it painful. Yesterday I tramped ton miles trying to find a man who was getting up a concert party for the provinces.'' "And did you find him?" lie asked, hailing a cab. "Yea, I found him," she answered, Indifferently. " went through the usual programme. He heard mo sing, tried to kiss me, -and promised to let me know. Nobody ever refuses anything in my profession, you see. They promise to let you know."' " Are you n singer, then, or an actress?" "I am neither," she told him. "T gald 'my profession,' bemuse it js the only one to which T have ever tried to belong, 1 have never succeeded in obtaining an engagement in this country. I suppose that even if I bad persevered t should ever have had one."

"You have given up the idea, then?" lie remarked.

"I have given it up,'' she, admitted, fl little curtly. "Please do not think that because T am allowing you to ho my companion for a short time that you may ask me questions." They'drew up at their destination--b well-known restaurant in Regent Street. Tavernake paid the cabman. and they descended a flight of stairs into the grill-room. " 1 hope this place will suit you," he aaid. "I have not much experience of restaurants." She looked around and nodded. "Yes," she replied, "I think it will do."

She was very shabbily dressed, and lie, although'his appearance was hy no means ordinary, was certainly not of the type who inspire immediate respect in even the grill-room of a fashionable restaurant. Nevertheless they'received prompt and almost officious Tavernake, as he watched his companion's air, her manner of seating herself and accepting the attentions of the headwater, felt that nameless _ impulse which was responsible for lm having followed her from Blenheim House, and which he could only call curiosity, becoming stronger. An exceedingly mat-ter-of-fact he was also by instinct and habit observant. He never doubted but that she belonged to a. class of society from which the guests at the boarding-house, where thev had both jived, were seldom recruited, and of which be himself knew little. He was not in the least nsneb, this young man, but he found the fart interesting,- Life with him was already very much the same as a lodger account—a matter of debits and credits, and he had never failed to include amongst the latter that curious gift, of breeding for which he himself, denied it by heritage, hud somehow substituted a complete and exceedingly rare naturalness. •':'".l should like," sho announced, raying down the carte, "a fried sole, some outlets, an ice,and black coffee." The waiter bowed. " And for monsieur?" Tavernake glanced at his watch; it was already ten o'clock. " I will take the same," he declared. "And to drink?" She seemed indifferent. " Any light wine," she answered carelessly, 'white or red." Tavernake took up the wine list at random and ordered Santerne. They were left alone in their corner for a few minutes, almost the only occupants of the place. "You are sure that you can afford this?" she asked, looking at him criticrtlly. "It may cost yen a sovereign or thirty shillings." He studied the prices on the menu. " I can afford it quite well, and I have plenty of mouev with me." he assured her; "but I do not think it will cost more than eighteen shillings. Whilst we are. waiting for the sole, shall we talk? I-can tell you, if you choose to hear, why I followed you from the boarding-house." " T don't mind listening to you," sho told him. "or T will talk with you about anything you like. There is only one subject which I cannot discuss — that subject is myself and iny own doings." Tavernake was silent for a moment. " That makes conversation a little iifJGcult." he remarked. She leaned back in her chair. " After this evening," she said, " 1 70 out of your life a3 completely and anally as though I had never existed. i have a fancy to take my poor secrets with me. If you wish to talk, tell ma about yourself. Yon have gone out of your way to he kind to me. I wonder whv? * It doesn't seem to be vour role?" He smiled slowly. His face was fashioned updn broad lines, and the relaxing of his lips lightened it wonderfully. He had good teeth, clear grey eyes, and coarse black hair, which he wore a trifle long; his forehead was too massive for good looks. "No," he admitted, " I do not think that benevolence is one of my characteristics."

Her. dark eyes were,tnrned full upon him; her red lips, redder than ever they seemed against the pallor of her cheeks and her deep brown hair curled slightly. There was something almost Insolent in her tone. "You understand, I hope," she continued, "that you have nothing whatever to look for" from me in return for this sum which, you propose to expend for my entertainment?" " I understand that," he replied. *' Not even gratitude;" she persisted. " T. really do not feel grateful to you. Fnu are probably doing this to gratify same interest or curiosity, I warn you that' I am quite inacapable of any of the proper sentiments of life." "Your gratitude would be of no value to me whatever," he assured her. She was still not wholly satisfied, flis complete stolidity frustrated everv effort she made to, penetrate beneatli the surface. " Tf I believed," she went on, "that pou were one of those men—the world is f ull'of them, you know—who will help n woman lvith. a reasonable appearance io long as it does not seriously interfere prith their own comfort ——" "Your sex has nothing whatever to do with it." he interrupted. "As to your appearance, T have not even conm'dered it. I could not tell you whether you are beautiful or ugly—J. am no judge of these matters. What 1 have done I have done because it pleased me to do it." " Do you always do what pleases jrou ?" she asked. " Nearly always," he admitted. , She looked him oven- again attentively, with an interest obviously impersonal, a, trifle supercilious. "I suppose," she remarked, "you aonsider yourself one of the strong people of the world ?" "I do not know about that." he answered. "I do not often think about myself." "I mean," she explained, "that you are one of those people who struggle hard to get just what they want "in life." His jaw suddenly tightened, and she W"' the likeness to .Napoleon. " T do more than struggle." he affirmed ; "1 succeed. If f make up my mind to do a thing 1 do it: if I make lip my mind to get a thing, I get it. Tt. means hard work sometimes, but that is a 11.." For the first time a really natural interest shone out in her eves. The half-sulky contempt with which she had received his advances parked away. She became at that moment a human being, self-forgetting, the heritage of her charms, for she really had a furious, but very ptSgnant attractfvenesr!. suddenly evident. Tfc was only a momentary lapse, and it was entirely wasted. Not even, one of the waiters happened to be looking that wny. and Tavernake was thinking wholly of himself. I " It is a good deal to say—that,' ihe remarked, reflectively. _ "It's a good deal, but it is not too much," he declared. "Every man who takes life seriously should say it." Then she laughed—actually laughed —and he had a vision of flashing

white, teeth, of a mouth breaking into pleasant curves, of dark mirth-lit eyes, lustreless no longer, provocative, inspiring. A vague impression as of something' pleasant warmed his blood. It was a rare thing for him to be so stirred, but even then it was not sufficient to disturb the focus of bis thoughts. "Tell me,'' she demanded, "what do you do ? What is your profession or work ?"

" I am with a firm of auctioneers and estate agents," he answered readily.—"Messrs Dowling, Spence and Company, the name is. Our offices are in Waterloo Place.'' "You find it interesting?" "Of course," he answered. "Interesting? "Why not? 1 work s{. it." " Are vnii a partner?" she inquired " No,"' he admitted. " Six years ago I was a carpenter; then T became an errand boy in Mr Bowling's office—l had to learn tha business, you see. Today 1 am a sort of manager. In eighteen months' time—perhaps before that if they do not offer me a partnership— I shallfstart for myself." Once more the subtlest of smiles flickered at the corner of her lips. "Do they know yet?" she asked, with faint iron. " Not yet," he replied, with absolute seriousness. "They might tell me to go. and I have a. fow things to learn yet. T would rather make experiments for someone else than for myself. I can use the results later; they will help me to make money.'' Sho laughed softly, and wiped thi> tears out of her eyes'. They were really very beautiful eyes notwithstanding tb© dark rims encircling them. " If only I had met you beforol" she murmured. " Why?" he asked. She shook her bead. "Don't ask me," she begged. "It would not he good for your conceit, if you have any, to tell' you.'' " I have no conceit and 1 am not inquisitive,'' he said, "but I do not see why you laughed." Their period of waiting came to an end at this point. The fish was brought, and their conversation became disjointed. Tn the silence which followed, the old shadow crept over her face. Once only it lifted. It was whilst they were waiting for the cutlets. She leaned towards him. her elbows upon the tablecloth, her facp supported by her fingers. " T think that it i.s time we left these generalities," die insisted, "and you told me something rather more personal, something which T am very anxious to know. Tell me exactly why so selfcentred a person as yourself should interest himself in a fellow-creature at all. It seems odd to me." "It odd," be admitted, frankly. "I will try to explain it to you, bu,t "it will sound very ha Id. and T do not think that you will understand. I watched you a few nights ago out on the roof at Blenheim House. You were looking across the housetops, and you didn't seem to be seeing anything at all really, and yet all the time I knew that you were seeing things I couldn't, you were understanding and appreciating something which 1 knew nothing of, and it worried me. I tried to talk to you that evening, but you were rude."

"You really are a curious person," she remarked. " Are you always worried, then, if you find that someone else is seeing things or understanding things which are outside vour comprehension?"

" Always," he replied, promptly. "You far-renohine." she affirmed. " You want to gather everything into your life. You cannot. You will only be unhacpy if vou try. No man can do it. You must learn your limitations or suffer all your davs.' y " Limitations!" He' repeated the words with measureless scorn. "If I learn them at all." he declared, with unexpected force, "it will be' with scars and bruises, for nothing cl.se wUI content me."

rto are. T should say, almost the same age," she remarked, slowly. "I am twenty-five," he told her.

'' T am twenty-two," she said. "Tt seems strange that two people whoso ideas of life are as far apart as the Poles should have come together like this, even for a moment. 1 do not understand it at all. Hid you expect that I rhonld tell you just what I saw in the clouds that night?" " No," he answered, " not exactly. I kave spoken of my first interest in you only. There are other .things. I told a lie about the bracelet, aiid I followed you out of ihe boardinghouse, and I brought you here for some other —for quite a different reason." " Tell me what it was," site demanded.

" T do not know it, myself," he declared, solemnly. " I really and honestly do not know it. Tt is because I hoped that it might wmo to me while we were together, that I am here with you at this moment. T do not. like impulses which I do not understand." She laughed at him a little scornfully. ''After all,' she said, "although it may not have dawned upon you yet, it is probably the same rotten reason. You are a man, and you have the poison somewhere in your blood. T am really not bad-looking, you know." He looked! at hor critically. She was a little over-slim, perhaps, but she was certainly wonderfully graceful. Even the poise of hor head, the manner in which she leaned back in her chair, had its individuality. Her features, too, were good, though her mouth had grown a. trifle hard. For the first time the dead pallor of her cheekf, was relieved by a touch of colour. Even Taveniako realised that there wero groat possibilities about her. Nevertheless, he shook his head. "1 do not agree with you in the least," he asserted firmly. " Your looks have nothing to do with it. I am sure that it is not that." " Let me cross-examine- you," she suggested. " Think carefully, now. Does it give yon no pleasure at all to ba sitting here alone with mo?" He answered her deliberately, it was obvious that he was speaking the truth. "1 am not conscious that it does," he declared. '' The only feeling T am aware of at the present moment in connection with you is the curiosity of which 1 have already spoken." She leaned a little towards him, extending her very shapely fingers. Once more the smile at her lips transformed her face. " Look at my hand," she said. "Tell me—wouldn't you like to hold it just for a minute if I gave it you?". Her eyes challenged his, softly and yet imperiously. His whole attention, however, seemed to be absorbed by her finger-nails. It seemed strange to him that a girl in her straits should have devoted so much rare to her hands. "No," he answered, deliberately. "T have no wish to hold vour hand. Why should T?" " Look at me," she insisted. He did so without embarrassment or hesitation- it was more than ever apparent that he was entirely truthful. She leaned back in her chair, laughing softly to herself. "Oh, my friend. Mr Leonard Tavornske." she exclaimed, " if you were not so crudely, so adorably, so miraculously truthful, what a prig, prig, prig you would be I The cutlets at, last, thank goodness! Your cross-examina-tion is oyer. I pronounce you 'Not Guilty!' " During the progress of the rest of the meal they talked very little. At its conclusion Tavernake discharged the lull, having carefully checked each item mid tipped the waiter the exact amount which the man had the right to expect. They ascended the stairs together to the. slrept, the girl lingering a few strps behind. On the pavement her finger touched his arm. " 1 wonder would you mind driving me down to the Embankment?" she n.iked, ;dmo.«t humbly. "ft was so close down there and 1 want some air." This was an extravagance which he had scarcely contemplated, but he did not hesitate. He called a taxi-cab and seated himself by her side. Her manner seemed to have grown quieter and more subdued, her tone was no longer semi-belligerent. " ■}' will .not much longer,"

she promised. "I suppose lam not so strong a.s I used to be. I have had soareely anything to eat for two days, and conversation has become an unknown luxury. I think—-it seems ab* aurd- -but I think I am feeling a littlo faint." "The air will soon revive you," be said. "' As to our conversation, T am disappointed. I think that you are very foolish not to tell me more about yourself." She closed her eyes, ignoring his re. mark. They turned presently into n. narrower thoroughfare. She turned towa-rds him. "You have been very good to me," she admitted, almost timidly, " and I am afraid that 1 have not been very gracious. TV© shall not see one another again after this evening. "I wonderwould you care to kiss me?" He op-ened his lips and closed them again. He 6a*t quite still, his eyes fixed upon the road ahead, until he had strangled something absolutely absurd, something unrecognisablo. '•' I would rather not," he decided quietly. " I know you mean to be kind, "but that sort of thing—well, I don't understand it. Besides." he added, with a sudden naive relief, as he clutched at a fugitive but plausible thought, " if I did you would .not believe the things which I have been telling you.'' He had a curious idea, that sh? was disappointed os she turned her head away, but she salrl nothing. Arrived at the Embankment, the cab came slowly to n standstill. The girl descended. There was something new in her manner; sho looked away from him when ahe spoke. " You had better leave me here," she said. "I. am going to sit upon that seat." Then came those few second*' hesitation which were to oount for a great deal in his life. The impulse which ba-de him stay with her wa.s unaccountable, but it conquered. " If you do not object." he remarked, with some stiffness, "I should like to sit hero with you for a little time. There is certainly a breeze."

She made no comment, but walked on. Ho paid the man, and followed Iter to the empty seat. Opposite, some illumiuated advertisements blazed their unsightly message across tho murky sky. Between the two curving rows of yellow lights, the river flowed—black, turgid, hopeless. Even here, though they had escaped from its absolute thrall, the far-away roar of the city beat upon their ear?. She listened to it for a mo<ment, and then pressed her hands to the side of her head. "Oh. how I hate it!" She moaned. " The voices, always the voices, calling, threatening;, heating you away! Take my hands, Leonard Tavernake, hold mo,'' He did as she bade him. clumsily, »s yet without comprehension. "You are not well," he muttered. Her eyes opened, ttnd a flash of her old manner returned. She smiled at him, feebly but derisively. "You foolish hoy!" she cried. "Onirt yon s?e that f am dying? Holdi my hands tightly and watch—watch. is one more thing you can see—• that you cannot understand." He saw the empty phial slip from her r.leeve and fall to the pavement. "With a cry he sprang up, and. carrying her in his arms, wished out into the road. CHAPTER. ITT. Tt. was a quarter-past eleven, and the theatres were dispersing their usual nightly crowds. The most human thoroughfare in any of the world's greatest cities was at its best and brightest. Everywhere commissionaires were blowing their whistles, the streets were thronged with slowly moving vehicles, tho pavements were stirring with life. Tho little crowd which had gathered in front of the chemist's shop was swept away. After all. none of thsm knew exactly what they bad been waiting for. T/h«>re was a rumour that a woman has fainted or had met with an accident. Certainly she had been carried into the shop and into tho inner room, the door of which was still closed. A few pussers-by had feathered together and stared and waited for a few minutes, but had finally lost interest and melted nwav. A human thoroughfare, this, indeed, one of the pulses of the Srent city beating time night and. day to the tragedies of life. The chemist's assistant, with impassive features, was serving; a, couple of casual customers from behind tho oountar. Only a few yards away, beyind the closed door, tie chemist himself and a hastily summoned doctor foup'ht with Death for the body of +h<s girl who lay upon tho floor, faint moans coming every now and then from h«r blue lips. Tavernake, whose forced inaction during that terrible struggle had become a burden to him, slipped softly from the room as soon as the doctor had whispered that tho acute crisis was over, and passed through the shop cut into the street, a solemn, da«ed figure amongst the light-hearted crowd. Even in those grim moments, the man's individualism spoke up to him. He was puzzled at his own action. He asked himself a question—not, indeed, with regret, but with something more than curiosity and actual self-probing'—as though by concentrating his mind upon his recent course of action, bo would be able to understand the motive* which had influenoed u him. Why had he chosen to burden himself with the care of this desperate young Woman? Supposing she lived, what was to become of her? He had aoquired a certain definite responsibility with regard to her future, for whatever the doctor and his assistant might do, it was hie own promptitude and presence of mind which had given her the first chance of life. Without a doubt, he had behaved foolishly. Why not vanish into the crowd and have done with it? What was it to him, after all, whether this girl lived or died? He had done bis duty- more than his duty. Why not disappear now and let her take her chance? His common-sense spoke to him loudly; such thoughts as these beat upon his brain. Just for once in his life, however, his common-sens© exercised au altogether subordinate position. Ho knew very well, even while he listened to these voices, that he was only counting the minutes until he could return. Having absolutely decided that the only reasonable course left for him to pursue was to return home and leave the girl to her fate, he found himself back inside the shop within a quarter of an hour. The chemist bad just come out from the inner room, and looked up at his entrance. " She'll do now," he announced. Tavernake nodded. He was amazed at his own sense of relief. The doctor joined them, his black bap in bis band, prepared for departure. He addressed himself to Tavernake as the responsible person. " The young lady will be all ri<;ht now." he said. " but she may be rather queer for a day or two. Fortunately. she made the usual mistake of people who are ignorant of medicine and its effects--she took enough poison to kill a whole household. You had better fake cure of her, young man," he added drily. " She'll bo gettn# into trouble if she tries this sort of thing apain." " Will she need any special attention during the next few days?" Tavernake :;pkod. "The circumstances under which I brought her here are a little unusual, and T am not quite sure - -" "Take her homo to bed," the doctor interrupted, " and you'll find she'll sleep it off. She seems to have a splendid constitution, although she has let herself run down. If you need any further advice, and your own medical man is not available. 1 will come and see her if yon send for me. Camden, my name is; telephone number 734,'Gerrard." " f should be triad to know ihe amount of your fee. if you phase," Tavernake said. "' My fee is two guineas," the doctor answered. Ta.verna.ke paid him and. he went away. Already the shadow of tho tragedy was passing. The chemist had joined his assistant, a.nd was busy dispensing drugs behind his counter. " You can go in to the young lady, if .you likej," he .remarked to Tuybv-

na-ke. "I daresay she'll feel better to have someone with her." Tavernake parsed slowly into the inner room, closing the door behind him. He was scarcely prepared for so piteous a sight. The girl's face was white and drawn as she lay upon the couch to which they had lifted her. The fighting spirit was dead; she was in a state of absolute and complete collapse. She opened her eyes at bis coming, but closed them again almost immediately—less, it seemed, from any consciousness of his presence than from sheer exhaustion. "T am giad that you are better, he whispered, crossing the room to her side. "Thank you," she murmured, almost inaudibiy. Tavornake stood looking down upon her, and bis sense of perplexity increas. ed. Stretched on tho hard horsehair couch, she j'.eomed, indeed, pitifully thin, and younger than her years. The scowl, which had passed from her far*, had served in some measure as a disguise. " We shall have to leave here in a fow minutes," ne said, softly. " The} will want to close the shop." "T am so sorry." she faltered, "to havo given you all this trouble. Ton must send mo to a hospital or the workhouse—anywhere." ."You are sure that there are no friends to whom I could send?" he asked. " There is no one," she answered. She closed her eyes, and Tavernake sat quite, still on tlie end of her couch, his elbow upon his kneo, his head resting upon his hand. Presently, the rush of customers having ceased, the chemist came in. " I think, if T were you. I should take her home now." he remarked. " She'll probably drop off to sleep very soon and wake up stronger. I have* made up a prescription here in case of exhaustion." Tavernake stared at the man. Take her home I His senw of humour was faint enough, but he found himself trying to imagine the faces of Mrs Lawrence and Mrs Fitzgerald if be should return with her to the boarding-house at such an hour. < " I suppose you know where she lives?" the. chemist inquired, curiously. "Of course," Tavernake assented, " You are quite right. I dare say she is strong enough now to walk as far as the pavement." He paid the bill for the medicines, and thev lifted her from the couch. Between them she walked slowly into the outer shop. Then she began to drag on their arms, and she looked up at the chemist a little piteously. "May I sit down tor a moment?" she begged : " T feel faint " They placed be; in one of thf* cane chairs faffing the door. The chemist mixed her some sal volatile. "I am sorry," she murmured, "so sorry. In a few minutes-I shall be better " Outside, the throng of pedestrians had grown less, but from the groat restaurant opposite a constant stream of motor-cars and carnages was slowly bringing away the supper guests. Tavernake stood at the door, watching them idly. The traffic was momentarily blocked, and almost opposite to him a motor-car had come to a standstill, the simple magnificence of which filled him with wonder. The chauffeur and fooi> man both wore livery which was almost white. Inside, a swinging vase of flowers was suspended from the roof. A man and a woman leaned back in luxurious easy chairs. The man was dark, and had the look of a foreigner. Tin* woman was very fair. She Avore a lens; ermine cloak and a tiara of pearls on her head. Tavernake, whoso interest in the passing throngs was entirely superficial, found himself for some.reason curiously attracted by this glimpse into a world of luxury of wiiich he knew nothing; attracted, too, by the woman's delicate face and its uncommon type of beauty. Their eyes met as he stood there, stolid and motionless, framed in the doorway. Tavernake continued to stare, unmindful—perhaps unconscious—of the rudeness of bis actum. The woman, after a moment, glanced away at the shopwindow. A sudden thought soe/med to strike her. She spoke through the tubo at her side and turned to her companion. Meanwhile, the footman, leaning from bis place, held out bis arm in warninp;. and the car was slowly backed to the side of the pavement. The lady felt for a moment in a bag of white satin which lay upon the round tablein front of her, and handed a slip of paper through ths open window to tho servant, who hod already descended and was standing waiting. He canie at once towards the shop, passing Trtveruake, who remained in tiie doorway. " Will you make this up at onoe, please?" lie directed, handing the paper across to the oho mist. Tho chemist took it in his band, nnd turned away mechanically toward the dispensing room. Suddenly he paused, and, looking back, shook bis head. " For whom'is this prescription required?" be a«ked. " For my nystress," the man answered. " Her na/rne is there." " Where is she?" " Outside; she is waiting for it." " Tf she really wants this made up tonight," thx* chemist declared, she must come in and sign the book." The footman looked across the counter for a moment a little blankly. " Am I to tell hor that?" he inquired. "It's, only a sleeping draught. Her regular chemist makes it up all right." "That may be," the man behind the counter replied, " but you see, I am not hor regular chemist. You had better go and tell her so." The footman departed upon his errand without a glance at the girl who was sitting within a few feet of him. "I am very sorry, madam," he announced to his mistress, " that the chemist declines to make up the prescription unless you sign the book." "Very well, then, i will come." The woman," handed from the automobile by her servant, 'd'ted her white satin skirts in both Tmiid*. and stepped lightly across the pavement. Tavernake stood on one wide to let her pass. She satined to him to bt\ indeed, a creature of that other world of which he knew nothing. Her slow, graceful movements, the shimmer of her skirt, her silk stockings, ino Hashing of the diamond buckles upon hor shoes, tho faint perfume from her clothes, the soft touch of her ermine as she awept byall these things were indeed strange to hi;n. His eyes, followed her with rapt interest as she approached the counter. " You wish nie to sign for my prescription?" slie asked the chemist. "I will do so with pleasure, if it is necessary, onl; you must not keep me waiting long/'

Her votco wr;s very low and very musical ; the slight smile; which iiad pni'ted her tired ilps was utmost pathetic. Even the chemist felt himself to bs a human (wing. He turned at once to his shelves and began to prepare the drug. " I am sorry, m:\dam. thixt it should have been necessary to fetch you in," he said apologetically. "My assistant will give you the book if you will kindly sign it.'' The assistant dived beneath the counter, reappearing almost immediately v. it'i a ;daek volume and a pen and ink. The chemist was engrossed upon his task ; Tavernake's eye« were still riveted upon this, woman, who neenied to uim the most beautiful thing he hud ever seen in life. No one was watching the girl. The chemist was first to see her laco. and thai only in a looking-glar-vs. He stopped in the net of mixing hi« drug and turned slowly round. His expression was such that they a,U followed his eyes. The girl was sitting up in her chair, with a sudden spot of colour burning in her checks, Iter fingers gripping (lie counter ms though for support, her eye 3 dilated, unnatural, burning in their white setting; with an unholy fir-?. The lady was the last to turn her bead, and tho bottle of eau-de-Cologne which she had taken tip from the counter slipped with a. crash from her fingers. All expression seemed to pass from her face; the very life seemed drawn from it. Those who were watching her saw suddenly an old woman looking nt something: of which she wag airaui

The girl seemed to find an unnatural strength. She dragged herself up and turned wildly to Tavernake. " Take me" away !" she cried, in a lowvoice. " Take, me away at once !"

The woman at the counter did not speak. Tavernake stepped quickly for. ward, and then hesitated. The'girl was on her feet now, and she clutched at his arms. Hor eyes besought him. "You must take me away, please," she begged, hoarsely. " ! am well now —quite well. 1 can walk." Tavcrnako's lack of imagination stood him in good stead then. He simply did what he was told —did it in perfectly fashion, without asking any questions. With the girl leaning heavily upon his arm, he stepped into the street, and almost immediately into a passing taxicab which he had hailed from the threshold of the shop. As ho closed the door he glanced behind, him. The woman was still • standing there, I half-turned towards them, with that strange, stony look upon her lifeless face. The chemist was bending across the counter towards her. wondering, perhaps, if another incident were to be drawn into his night's work. The eau-de-Cologne was running in a little stream across the floor. " Where to. sir?" the taxi-cab driver asked Tavernake. "Where to?" Tavernake repeated. " Tell him to drive away from here," she whispered, " to drive anywhere, but away from here." "Drive straight- on." Tavernake directed, "along Fleet Street and up Holboni. I will give you tho address later on." Hie man changed his speed and their pace increased. Tavern ako sat quite still, dumbfounded by these amazing happenings. The girl'by his side was clutching bis arm, sobbing a little hysterically, holding him all the time as though in terror. (To be continued.)