close ones,” Wrayson answered. “I live in the next block of flats.”
The Baroness looked again over her shoulder.
“Your friend, Mr. Heneage, is close behind,” she whispered, “and we are living so quietly, Louise and I, that we do not care for callers. Tell the man ‘home’ simply.”
Wrayson obeyed, and the carriage glided off. Heneage had been within a few feet of them when they had started, and although his attention appeared to be elsewhere, the Baroness’ caution was obviously justified. She leaned back amongst the cushions with a little sigh of relief.
“Mr. Wrayson,” she inquired, “may I ask if Mr. Heneage is a particular friend of yours?”
Wrayson shook his head.
“I do not think that any man could call himself Heneage’s particular friend,” he answered. “He is exceedingly reticent about himself and his doings. He is a man whom none of us know much of.”
The Baroness leaned a little forward.
“Mr. Heneage,” she said slowly, “is associated in my mind with days and events which, just at present, both Louise and I are only anxious to forget. He may be everything that he should be. Perhaps I am prejudiced. But if I were you, I would have as little to do as possible with that man.”
“We do not often meet,” Wrayson answered, “and ours is only a club acquaintanceship. It is never likely to be more.”
“So much the better,” the Baroness declared. “Don’t you agree with me, Louise?”
“I do not like Mr. Heneage,” the girl answered. “But then, I have never spoken a dozen words to him in my life.”
“You have known him intimately?” Wrayson asked the Baroness.
She shrugged her shoulders and looked out of the window.
“Never that, quite,” she answered. “I know enough of him, however, to be quite sure that the advice which I have given you is good.”
The carriage drew up in the Albert Road, within a hundred yards or so of Wrayson’s own block of flats. The Baroness alighted first.
“You must come in and have a whisky and soda,” she said to Wrayson.
“If I may,” he answered, looking at Louise.
The Baroness passed on. Louise, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, followed her.
X. OUTCAST
The room into which a waiting man servant showed them was large and handsomely furnished. Whisky and soda, wine and sandwiches were upon the sideboard. The Baroness, stopping only to light a cigarette, moved towards the door.
“I shall return,” she said, “in a quarter of an hour.”
She looked for a moment steadily at her friend, and then turned away. Louise strolled to the sideboard and helped herself to a sandwich.
“Come and forage, won’t you?” she asked carelessly. “There are some pâté sandwiches here, and you want whisky and soda, of course—or do you prefer brandy?”
“Neither, thanks!” Wrayson answered firmly. “I want what I came for. Please sit down here and answer my questions.”
She laughed a little mockingly, and turning round, faced him, her head thrown back, her eyes meeting his unflinchingly. The light from a rose-shaded electric lamp glittered upon her hair. She was wearing black again, and something in her appearance and attitude almost took his breath away. It reminded him of the moment when he had seen her first.
“First,” she said, “I am going to ask you a question. Why did you do it?”
“Do what?” he asked.
She gave vent to a little gesture of impatience. He must know quite well what she meant.
“Why did you give evidence at the inquest and omit all mention of me?”
“I don’t know,” he answered bluntly.
“You have committed yourself to a story,” she reminded him, “which is certainly not altogether a truthful one. You have run a great risk, apparently to shield me. Why?”
“I suppose because I am a fool,” he answered bitterly.
She shook her head.
“No!” she declared, “that is not the reason.”
He moved a step nearer to her.
“If I were to admit my folly,” he said, “what difference would it make—if I were to tell you that I did it to save you—the inconvenience of an examination into the motive for your presence in Morris Barnes’ rooms that night—what then?”
“It was generous of you,” she declared softly. “I ought to thank you.”
“I want no thanks,” he answered, almost roughly. “I want to know that I was justified in what I did. I want you to tell me what you were doing there alone in the rooms of such a man, with a stolen key. And I want you to tell me what you know about his death.”
“Is that all?” she asked.
“Isn’t it enough?” he declared savagely. “It is enough to be making an old man of me, anyhow.”
“You have a right to ask these questions,” she admitted slowly, “and I have no right to refuse to answer them.”
“None at all,” he declared. “You shall answer them.”
There was a moment’s silence. She leaned a little further back against the sideboard. Her eyes were fixed upon his, but her face was inscrutable.
“I cannot,” she said slowly. “I can tell you nothing.”
Wrayson was speechless for a moment. It was not only the words themselves, but the note of absolute finality with which they were uttered, which staggered him. Then he found himself laughing, a sound so unnatural and ominous that, for the first time, fear shone in the girl’s eyes.
“Don’t,” she cried, and her hands flashed towards him for a moment as though the sight of him hurt her. “Don’t be angry! Have pity on me instead.”
His nerves, already overwrought, gave way.
“Pity on a murderess, a thief!” he cried. “Not I! I have suffered enough for my folly. I will go and tell the truth to-morrow. It was you who killed him. You did it in the cab and stole back to his rooms to rob—afterwards. Horrible! Horrible!”
Her face hardened. His lack of self-control seemed to stimulate her.
“Have
