know how to keep your own counsel. I should consider Mr. Barnes very fortunate if you could make up your mind to aid him in his search.”
“It is not my affair,” Wrayson answered stiffly. “I could not possibly pledge myself to enter upon such a wild- goose chase.”
Mr. Bentham turned over some papers which lay upon the table before him. He had apparently had enough of the conversation.
“You must not call it exactly that, Mr. Wrayson,” he said. “Mr. Barnes’ success in his quest would probably result in an act of justice to society. To you personally, I should imagine it would be expressly interesting.”
“What do you mean?” Wrayson asked, quickly.
The lawyer looked at him calmly.
“It should solve the mystery of Morris Barnes’ murder!” he answered.
Wrayson touched his companion on the shoulder.
“I think that we might as well go,” he said. “Mr. Bentham does not mean to tell us anything more.”
Barnes moved slowly towards the door, but with reluctance manifested in his sullen face and manner.
“I don’t know how I’m going to set about this job,” he said, turning once more towards the lawyer. “I shall do what I can, but you haven’t seen the last of me, yet, Mr. Bentham. If I fail, I shall come back to you.”
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. He was already absorbed in other work.
XVI. A DINNER IN THE STRAND
Wrayson was conscious, from the moment they left Mr. Bentham’s office, of a change in the deportment of the young man who walked by his side. A variety of evil passions had developed one at least more tolerable—he was learning the lesson of self-restraint. He did not speak until they reached the corner of the street.
“Where can we get a drink?” he asked, almost abruptly. “I want some brandy.”
Wrayson took him to a bar close by. They sat in a quiet corner.
“I want to ask you something,” he said, leaning halfway over the little table between them. “How much do you know about the lady who came into my brother’s flat when we were there?”
The direct significance of the question startled Wrayson. This young man was beginning to think.
“How much do I know of her?” he repeated. “Very little.”
“She is really a Baroness—not one of these faked-up ones?”
“She is undoubtedly the Baroness de Sturm,” Wrayson answered, a little stiffly.
“And she has plenty of coin?”
“Certainly,” Wrayson answered. “She is a great lady, I believe, in her own country.”
Barnes struck the table softly with the flat of his hand. His eyes were searching for his answer in Wrayson’s face, almost before the words had left his lips.
“Do you believe then,” he asked, “that a woman like that wrote love-letters to Morris? You knew Morris. He was what those sort of people call a bounder. Same as me! If he knew her at all it was a wonder. I can’t believe in the love-letters.”
Wrayson shrugged his shoulders.
“The whole affair,” he declared, “everything connected with your brother, is so mysterious that I really don’t know what to say.”
“You knew Morris,” the young man persisted. “You know the Baroness. Set ‘em down side by side. They don’t go, eh? You know that. Morris could tog himself up as much as he liked, and he was always a good ‘un at that when he had the brass, but he’d never be able to make himself her sort. And if she’s a real lady, and wasn’t after the brass, then I don’t believe that she ever wrote him love-letters. What?”
Wrayson said nothing. The young man held out his empty glass to a waiter.
“More brandy,” he ordered briefly. “Look here, Mr. Wrayson,” he added, adopting once more his mysterious manner, “those love- letters don’t go! What did the Baroness want in my brother’s flat? She struck me dumb when I first saw her. I admit it. I’d have swallowed anything. More fool me! I tell you, though, I’m not having any more. Will you come along with me to her house now, and see if we can’t make her tell us the truth?”
Wrayson shook his head deliberately.
“Mr. Barnes,” he said, “I am sorry to disappoint you, and I sympathize very much with your position, but you mustn’t take it for granted that I am, shall we say, your ally in this matter. I haven’t either the time or the patience to give to investigations of this sort. I have done what I could for you, and I will give you what advice I can, or help you in any way, if you care to come and see me. But you mustn’t count on anything else.”
Barnes’ face dropped. He was obviously disappointed.
“You won’t come and see the Baroness with me even?” he asked.
“I think not,” Wrayson answered. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think that it would be of any use. Even if your suspicions are correct—and you scarcely know what you suspect, do you?—the Baroness is much too clever a woman to allow herself to be pumped by either you or me.”
Wrayson felt himself subjected for several moments to the scrutinizing stare of those blinking, unpleasant eyes.
“You’re not taking her side against me, are you?” Barnes asked distrustfully.
“Certainly not,” Wrayson answered impatiently. “You must be reasonable, my young friend. I have done what I can to put you in the way of helping yourself, but I am a busy man. I have my own affairs to look after, and I can’t afford to play the part of a twentieth-century Don Quixote.”
“I understand,” the young man said slowly. “You are going to turn me up.”
“You are putting a very foolish construction upon what I have said,” Wrayson answered irritably. “I have gone out of my way to help you, but, frankly, I think that yours is a wild-goose chase.”
Barnes rose to his feet and finished his brandy.
“I don’t believe it,” he declared. “I’m going to have that two thousand a year, if I have to take that man Bentham by the throat and strangle the truth out of him. If I can’t find out without, I’ll make him tell me the truth if I swing for it. By God, I will!”
They left the place together and walked towards the corner of the street.
“I shouldn’t do anything rash, if I were you,” Wrayson said. “I fancy you’d find Bentham a pretty tough sort to tackle. You must excuse me now. I am going into the club for a few minutes.”
“How are
