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"There is only one question I want answered," the girl replied, with straining eyes fixed upon Wrayson's face, and a little break in her tone. "Shall I see him again? If Augustus was really his brother where is he? What has happened to him?" There was a moment's silence. Sydney Barnes had evidently said nothing as to his brother's tragic end.
"I am much obliged," he said. "I do not carry a card-case, but my name is Duncan." "An Englishman, of course?" Wrayson remarked smiling. "I am English," Mr. Duncan answered, "but I have not been in England for many years." There was something about his manner which forbade any further questioning on Wrayson's part.
"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!
"Why hasn't she turned up to claim his effects? Besides, he lived alone. He was my neighbour, you know. His brother has taken possession of his flat." The lady rather enjoyed the impression she had made. She was not averse, either, to being seen in so prominent a place in confidential talk with a man of Wrayson's appearance. It might not be directly remunerative, but it was likely to do her good.
Louise was moving towards them, and Wrayson was on the point of entering the wood. Into the little semicircle formed by these four people there suddenly strode Wrayson's friend from the inn, grasping by the collar a shrinking and protesting figure in a much dishevelled tweed suit. "We were right, Mr. Wrayson," the former remarked quietly. "This fellow has been spying round all day.
He walked up to Wrayson's side. His voice shook, but he was in deadly earnest. "Look here," he said, "the contents of that packet, whatever they may be, are mine mine and hers! You have nothing to do with the matter at all. I will not have you in the room when they are opened." Wrayson shrugged his shoulders. "The packet will be opened here," he said, "and I shall certainly be present."
The Colonel, with a huge smile of relief, and a large cigar, came and took Wrayson's arm. "Good man!" he exclaimed. "You've worked like a Trojan. We'll have one whisky and soda, eh? and then I'll show you your room. Say when!" "I've enjoyed myself immensely," Wrayson declared. "Miss Edith has been very kind to me." "I'm glad you've made friends with her," the Colonel said.
He replaced the receiver and turned to the Colonel. "Do you know who that was?" he asked eagerly. "I can guess," the Colonel answered. "To-morrow, at eleven o'clock," Wrayson declared, "I shall know who killed Morris Barnes." But when the morrow came, and his visitor was shown into Wrayson's private office, he was not quite so sure about it. Mr.
"One," he said, "is a young English lady. The other well, they call her Madame de Melbain." "What?" The exclamation came like a pistol-shot from Wrayson's fellow-guest at the inn, who, up to now, had taken no part in the conversation. He had turned suddenly round, and was facing the startled landlord. "Madame de Melbain," he repeated. "Monsieur, perhaps, knows the lady?"
To-night chairs were drawn a little closer together, voices were subdued, and the conversation was of a more serious order. Not even the pleasant warmth of the room, the fragrance of tobacco, and the comfortable sense of having dined, could altogether dispel a feeling of uneasiness which all more or less shared. It chanced that all six were friends of Herbert Wrayson's.
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