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You see, providing we accept the evidence of Wrayson and the cabman, and I suppose," he added, laying his hand affectionately upon Wrayson's shoulder, "we must, the actual murderer is a person absolutely unseen or unheard of by any one. If you are all really interested we will discuss it again in a week's time after the adjourned inquest."
She welcomed Wrayson with a smile which she meant to be inviting, albeit she was a little suspicious. Men of Wrayson's stamp and appearance were not often such easy victims. "Saw you at Luigi's, didn't I?" he asked, hat in hand. She nodded, and made room for him to sit down by her side. "Did you see the old stick I was with?" she asked. "I don't know why I was fool enough to go out with him.
The cut of his coat, the glossiness of his hat and boots, too, were all strikingly reminiscent of the dead man. His visitor was becoming nervous under Wrayson's close scrutiny. His manner betrayed a curious mixture of diffidence and assurance. He seemed overanxious to create a favourable impression. "I took the liberty of coming to see you, Mr. Wrayson" he said, twisting his hat round in his hand.
The writer said that he had just arrived from South Africa, and had picked up on one of the battlefields there a bundle of letters, which he had come to the conclusion must have been written by me. He did not mince matters in the least. He was a blackmailer pure and simple. He had given me the first chance of buying these letters! What was my offer?" A sharp ejaculation broke from Wrayson's lips.
He leaned over till his head nearly touched hers, and under the holland dust-sheet which covered her knees he gripped her hand. "I will not," he answered. "I will not go away. You belong to me, and I will have you!" She looked at him for a moment without speech. Wrayson's features, more distinguished in a general way by delicacy than strength, had assumed a curiously set and dogged appearance.
"My dear child," she protested, "why? He seems to me quite a personable young man, and he may be useful! Who can tell?" Louise shrugged her shoulders. She stood waiting while the Baroness made somewhat extensive use of her powder-puff. "You forget," she said quietly, "that I am already in Mr. Wrayson's debt pretty heavily." The Baroness looked quickly around.
He recognized the signs of high-pressure, and the light in Wrayson's eyes puzzled him. There were no other men dining, and in course of time the two were left alone. The Colonel passed the cigars and touched the port wine decanter, which, however, he only offered in a half-hearted way. "If you don't care about any more wine," he said, "we might have a smoke in the garden." Wrayson rose at once.
Her poor little brain was struggling, perhaps, for the last time, to adapt itself to his point of view to understand why, at a moment so critical, he should treat her with the easy composure and tolerant good-nature of one who gives to a spoilt child its own way. Then she saw signs of further interference on Wrayson's part, and she delayed no longer.
One could fancy that he was wishing that his had been the hand to strike the blow. The Baron glanced round casually. He called a waiter and complained of the slow service, sent for another bottle of wine, and lit a cigarette. "I think," he said, "that we will pause for a moment or so. Mr. Wrayson's narrative is a little dramatic! Ah! Mademoiselle la danseuse goes! What a toilet!"
Heneage took no more notice of him than he would of a yapping terrier. He looked over his head into Wrayson's eyes. "Wrayson," he said, "don't have anything more to do with this business. Take my advice. I know more than you do about it. If you go on, I swear to you that there is nothing but misery at the end." "I know more than you think I do," Wrayson answered quietly.
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