. "I don't know who you are and I
don't want to know you, and I am not going to talk about Mrs. Gardner,
or any other lady of my acquaintance, with strangers. Good-night!"

"One moment, please, Mr. Tavernake."

Tavernake hesitated. There was something curiously compelling in the
other's smooth, distinct voice.

"I'd like you to take this card," he said. "I told you my name before
but I expect you've forgotten it,--Pritchard--Sam Pritchard. Ever heard
of me before?"

"Never!"

"Not to have heard of me in the United States," the other continued,
with a grim smile, "would be a tribute to your respectability. Most of
the crooks who find their way over here know of Sam Pritchard. I am a
detective and I come from New York."

Tavernake turned and looked the man over. There was something convincing
about his tone and appearance. It did not occur to him to doubt for a
moment a word of this stranger's story.

"You haven't anything against her--against either of them?" he asked,
quickly.

"Nothing directly," the detective answered. "All the same, you have been
calling upon Mrs. Wenham Gardner this evening, and if you are a friend
of hers I think that you had better come along with me and have that
talk."

"I will come," Tavernake agreed, "but I come as a listener. Remember
that I have nothing to tell you. So far as you are concerned, I do not
know either of those ladies."

Pritchard smiled.

"Well," he said, "I guess we'll let it go at that. All the same, if you
don't mind, we'll talk. Come this way and we'll get to the smoking-room
through the hotel. It's under cover."

Tavernake moved restlessly in his chair.

"What the devil is all this talk about crooks!" he exclaimed
impatiently. "I didn't come here to listen to this sort of thing. I am
not sure that I believe a word of what you say."

"Why should you," Pritchard remarked, "without proof? Look here."

He drew a leather case from his pocket and spread it out. There were a
dozen photographs there of men in prison attire. The detective pointed
to one, and with a little shiver Tavernake recognized the face of the
man who had been sitting at the right hand of Elizabeth.

"You don't mean to say," he faltered, "that Mrs. Gardner--"

The detective folded up his case and replaced it in his pocket.

"No," he said, "we haven't any photographs of your lady friend there,
nor of her sister. And yet, it may not be so far off."

"If you are trying to fasten anything