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Updated: June 13, 2025
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.
"Admirably simple," Wrayson answered, "and perfectly satisfactory." "What do you mean?" "It answers my question," Wrayson declared quietly. Heneage shrugged his shoulders. "You can get what satisfaction you like out of it," he said doggedly. "It isn't much," Wrayson admitted. "I wish I could induce you to treat me a little more generously." Heneage looked at him with a curious gleam in his eyes.
"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.
She had indeed something of the look of a beautiful hunted animal as she leaned a little towards him, her eyes riveted upon his, her lips a little parted, her bosom rising and falling quickly. She was taken completely by surprise. She had not given Wrayson credit for such strength of mind or purpose. She had believed entirely in her own mastery over him, for any such assault as he was now making.
I don't believe he is an Englishman at all." The girl recovered herself amazingly. "I was not thinking of myself," she said quietly; and Wrayson noticed that her eyes were fixed upon the pale, distinguished face of the woman who sat with a certain air of isolation at the head of the table.
I shall be in England for some little time at any rate. May I ask, am I in any particular danger?" Heneage shook his head. "Not from me, at any rate!" Wrayson looked at him for a moment steadily. "Do you mean that, Heneage?" he asked. "Yes!" "You are satisfied, then, that neither I nor the young lady had anything to do with the death of Morris Barnes?" Heneage moved in his chair uneasily.
His sallow cheeks were paler than ever. His narrow eyes, furtively raised to Wrayson's, were full of inquisitive fear. "No! I don't know her," Wrayson answered, "but I rather fancy, all the same, that she is the young person whom I came here to meet to-night." Barnes waited breathlessly for an explanation. He did not say a word, but his whole attitude was an insistent interrogation point.
Over-powdered, over-rouged, with hair at least two shades nearer copper coloured than last time he had seen her, badly but showily dressed, it was his friend from the Alhambra whose welcoming smile Wrayson received with a thrill of interest. She was seated at a small table with a slightly less repulsive edition of herself, and her smile changed at once into a gesture of invitation.
"I suppose," he continued tentatively, "you couldn't tell me all about it?" "I couldn't," she answered. "It isn't my secret." Wrayson looked for a moment away from her, across the valley with its flower-spangled meadows, parted by that sinuous poplar-fringed line of silver, the lazy, slow-flowing river stealing through the quiet land to the sea.
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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