see that Heneage was taking quiet but earnest note of his companion.
Wrayson nodded a little abruptly and left Barnes without any further farewell.
“Coming round to the club?” he asked.
Heneage assented, and glanced carelessly behind at Barnes, who was walking slowly in the opposite direction.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked. “You shook him off a little suddenly, didn’t you?”
“He is not a friend,” Wrayson answered, “and I was trying to get rid of him when you came up. He is nobody of any account.”
Heneage shook his head thoughtfully.
“It won’t do, Wrayson,” he said. “That young man possessed a cast of features which are positively unmistakable.”
“What do you mean?” Wrayson demanded.
“I mean that he was a relation, and a near relation, too, I should imagine, of our deceased friend Morris Barnes,” Heneage answered coolly. “I shall be obliged to make that young man’s acquaintance.”
“Damn you and your prying!” Wrayson exclaimed angrily. “I wish—”
He stopped abruptly. Heneage was already retracing his steps.
Wrayson, after a moment’s indecision, went on to the club, and made his way at once to the billiard-room. The Colonel was sitting in his usual corner chair, watching a game of pool, beaming upon everybody with his fatherly smile, encouraging the man who met with ill luck, and applauding the successful shots. He was surrounded by his cronies, but he held out his hand to Wrayson, who leaned against the wall by his side and waited for his opportunity.
“Colonel,” he said at last in his ear, taking advantage of the applause which followed a successful shot, “I want half an hour’s talk with you, quite by ourselves. Can you slip away and come and dine with me somewhere?”
The Colonel looked dubious.
“I’m afraid they won’t like it,” he answered. “Freddy and George are here, and Tempest’s coming in later.”
“I can’t help it,” Wrayson answered. “You can guess what it’s about. It’s a serious matter.”
The Colonel sighed.
“We might find an opportunity later on,” he suggested.
“It won’t do,” Wrayson answered. “I want to get right away from here. I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t necessary.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” the Colonel admitted. “We’ll slip away quietly when this game is over. It won’t be long. Good shot, Freddy! Sixpence, you divide!”
They found themselves in the Strand about half an hour later.
“Where shall we go?” Wrayson asked. “Somewhere quiet.”
“Across the way,” the Colonel answered. “We shan’t see any one we know there.”
Wrayson nodded, and they crossed the street and entered Luigi’s. It was early for diners, and they found a small table in a retired corner. Wrayson ordered the dinner, and then leaned across the table towards his guest.
“It’s that Barnes matter, Colonel,” he said quietly. “Heneage has taken it up and means going into it thoroughly. He saw me letting out your daughter that night.”
The Colonel was in the act of helping himself to hors d’œuvre. His fork remained suspended for a moment in the air. Then he set it down with trembling fingers. The cheery light had faded from his face. He seemed suddenly older. His voice sounded unnatural.
“Heneage!” he repeated, sharply. “Stephen Heneage! What affair is it of his?”
“None,” Wrayson answered. “He likes that sort of thing, that’s all. He saw—your daughter with a lady—the Baroness de Sturm, and the seeing them together, after he had watched her come out of the flat that night, seemed to suggest something to him. He warned me that he had made up his mind to solve the mystery of Morris Barnes’ murder; he advised me, in fact, to clear out. And now, since then—”
The waiter brought the soup. Wrayson broke off and talked for a moment or two to the maître d’hôtel, who had paused at their table. Presently, when they were alone, he went on.
“Since then, a young brother of Barnes has turned up from South Africa. There was some mystery about Morris Barnes and the source of his income. The brother is just as determined to solve this as Heneage seems to be to discover the—the murderer! They will work together, and I am afraid! Not for myself! You know for whom.”
The Colonel was very grave. He ate slowly, and he seemed to be thinking.
“There is one man, a solicitor named Bentham,” Wrayson continued, “who I believe knows everything. But I do not think that even Heneage will be able to make him speak. His connection with the affair is on behalf of a mysterious client. Young Barnes and I went to see him this afternoon, but beyond encouraging the boy to search for the source of his brother’s income, he wouldn’t open his mouth.”
“A solicitor named Bentham,” the Colonel repeated mechanically. “Ah!”
“Do you know him?” Wrayson asked.
“I have heard of him,” the Colonel answered. “A most disreputable person, I believe. He has offices in the Adelphi.”
Wrayson nodded.
“And whatever his business is,” he continued, “it isn’t the ordinary business of a solicitor. He has no clerks—not even an office boy!”
The Colonel poured himself out a glass of wine.
“No clerks—not even an office boy! It all agrees with what I have heard. A bad lot, Wrayson, I am afraid—a thoroughly bad lot. Are you sure that up to now he has kept his own counsel?”
“I am sure of it,” Wrayson answered.
The Colonel seemed in some measure to have recovered himself. He looked Wrayson in the face, and though grave, his expression was decidedly more natural.
“Herbert,” he asked, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, “who do you believe murdered Morris Barnes?”
“God knows,” Wrayson answered.
“Do you believe—that—my daughter had any hand in it?”
“No!” Wrayson declared fiercely.
The Colonel was silent for a moment. He seemed to be contemplating the label on the bottle of claret which reposed in its cradle by their side.
“And yet,” he said thoughtfully, “she would necessarily be involved in any disclosures which were made.”
“And so should I,” Wrayson declared. “And those two, Sydney Barnes and Heneage, mean to bring about disclosures. That is why I felt that I must talk to some one about
