turned her back upon them and before they realized 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 slam the front door.”
“And a good job, too,” Mrs. Fitzgerald armed. “We don't want any of her sort here—not those who've got things of value about them. I bet she didn't leave America for nothing.”
A little gray-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 born thief,” Mrs. Fitzgerald declared 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 continued, “I used to help at a soup kitchen in Poplar. I have never forgotten a certain look we used to see occasionally in the faces of some of the men 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 she almost frightened me. She had just the same look in her eyes. I noticed it yesterday—it was just before dinner, 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 out, why should she? It would be cheaper for her here than anywhere, if she'd got any money at all.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. The little old lady with the knitting looked down the street into the sultry darkness which had swallowed up the girl.
“I wonder whether Mr. Tavernake knows anything about her,” some one suggested.
But Tavernake was not in the room.
CHAPTER II. A TETE-A-TETE SUPPER
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 you 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 effect.
“You need not unless you like, of course,” he went on, “but I wish to talk to you for a few moments and I thought that it would be more convenient if I addressed you by name. I do not remember to have heard it mentioned at Blenheim House, and Mrs. Lawrence, as you know, does not introduce her guests.”
By this time they had walked a score or so of paces together. The girl, after her first furious glance, had taken absolutely no notice of him except to quicken her pace a little. Tavernake remained by her side, however, showing not the slightest sense of embarrassment or annoyance. He seemed perfectly content to wait and he had not in the least the appearance of a man who could be easily shaken off. From a fit of furious anger she passed suddenly and without warning to a state of half hysterical amusement.
“You are a foolish, absurd person,” she declared. “Please go away. I do not wish you to walk with me.”
Tavernake remained imperturbable. She remembered suddenly his intervention on her behalf.
“If you insist upon knowing,” she said, “my name at Blenheim House was Beatrice Burnay. I am much obliged to you for what you did for me there, but that is finished. I do not wish to have any conversation with you, and I absolutely object to your company. Please leave me at once.”
“I am sorry,” he answered, “but that is not possible.”
“Not possible?” she repeated, wonderingly.
He shook his head.
“You have no money, you have eaten no dinner, and I do not believe that you have any idea where you are going,” he declared, deliberately.
Her face was once more dark with anger.
“Even if that were the truth,” she insisted, “tell me what concern it is of yours? Your reminding me of these facts is simply an impertinence.”
“I am sorry that you look upon it in that light,” he remarked, still without the least sign of discomposure. “We 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 ones.”
She turned half around upon the pavement and looked at him steadfastly. His personality was at last beginning to interest her. His square jaw and measured speech were indices of a character at least unusual. She recognized certain invincible qualities under an exterior absolutely commonplace.
“Are you as persistent about everything in life?” she asked him.
“Why not?” he replied. “I try always to be consistent.”
“What is your name?”
“Leonard Tavernake,” he answered, promptly.
“Are you well off—I mean moderately well off?”
“I have a quite sufficient income.”
“Have you any one dependent upon 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 you of a sovereign as the restaurant people.”
“You must tell me now where you would like to go to,” he insisted. “It 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 take a taxicab,” he announced. “You have no objection?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
