The Cold Blooded Vengeance: 10 Mystery & Revenge Thrillers in One Volume. E. Phillips Oppenheim

not disclosed—knowledge which he has kept out of his evidence altogether.”

      “A—guilty—knowledge?” Mason whispered.

      “Not necessarily!” Heneage answered. “He may be shielding some one.”

      “If you are right,” Mason said anxiously, “it is a serious affair.”

      “Very serious indeed,” Heneage assented. “I believe that he is realizing it.”

      The Colonel came back looking a little disturbed.

      “Sorry, boys, but I must be off,” he announced. “Wrayson has just telephoned to ask me to go down and see him. I’m afraid he’s queer! I’ve sent for a hansom.”

      “Poor chap!” Mason murmured. “Let us know if any of us can do anything.”

      The Colonel nodded and took his departure. The others drifted up into the billiard-room. Heneage alone remained seated at the end of the table. He was playing idly with his wineglass, but his eyes were fixed steadfastly, if a little absently, upon the Colonel’s empty place.

      V. ON THE TELEPHONE

       Table of Contents

      It was a little hard even for the Colonel to keep up his affectation of cheerfulness when he found himself alone with the man whom he had come to visit. His experience of life had been large and varied, but he had never yet seen so remarkable a change in any human being in twenty-four hours. There were deep black lines under his eyes, his cheeks were colourless, every now and then his features twitched nervously, as though he were suffering from an attack of St. Vitus’ dance. His hand, which had lain weakly in the Colonel’s, was as cold as ice, although there was a roaring fire in the room. He had admitted the Colonel himself, and almost dragged him inside the door.

      “Did you meet any one outside—upon the stairs?” he asked feverishly.

      “No one upon the stairs,” the Colonel answered. “There was a man lighting his pipe in the doorway.”

      Wrayson shivered as he turned away.

      “Watching me!” he declared. “There are two of them! They are watching me all the time.”

      The Colonel took off his coat. The room seemed to him like a furnace. Then he stretched out his hands and laid them upon Wrayson’s shoulders.

      “What if they are?” he declared cheerfully. “They won’t eat you. Besides, it is very likely the dead man’s rooms they are watching.”

      “They followed me home from the inquest,” Wrayson muttered.

      The Colonel laughed.

      “And if I’d been living here,” he remarked, “they’d have followed me home just the same. Now, Herbert, my young friend,” he continued, “sit down and tell me all about it like a man. You’re in a bit of trouble, of course, underneath all this. Let’s hear it, and we’ll find the best way out.”

      The Colonel’s figure was dominant; his presence alone seemed to dispel that unreal army of ghosts and fancies which a few moments before had seemed to Wrayson to be making his room like the padded cell of a lunatic asylum. His tone, too, had just enough sympathy to make its cheerfulness reassuring. Wrayson began to feel glimmerings of common sense.

      “Yes!” he said, “I’ve something to tell you. That’s why I telephoned.”

      The Colonel rose again to his feet, and began fumbling in the pocket of his overcoat.

      “God bless my soul, I almost forgot!” he exclaimed, “and the fellows would make me bring it. We guessed how you were feeling—much better to have come up and dined with us. Here we are! Get some glasses, there’s a good chap.”

      A gold-foiled bottle appeared, and a packet of hastily cut sandwiches. Wrayson found himself mechanically eating and drinking before he knew where he was. Then in an instant the sandwiches had become delicious, and the wine was rushing through his veins like a new elixir of life. He was himself again, the banging of anvils in his head had ceased; he was shaken perhaps, but a sane man. His eyes filled with tears, and he gripped the Colonel by the hand.

      “Colonel, you’re—you’re—God knows what you are,” he murmured. “All the ordinary things sound commonplace. I believe I was going mad.”

      The Colonel leaned back and laughed as though the idea tickled him.

      “Not you!” he declared. “Bless you, I know what nerves are! Out in India, thirty-five years ago, I’ve had to relieve men on frontier posts who hadn’t seen a soul to speak to for six months! Weird places some of them, too—gives me the creeps to think of them sometimes! Now light up that cigar,” he added, throwing one across, “and let’s hear the trouble.”

      Wrayson lit his cigar with fingers which scarcely shook. He threw the match away and smoked for a moment in silence.

      “It’s about this Morris Barnes affair,” he said abruptly. “I’ve kept something back, and I’m a clumsy hand at telling a story that doesn’t contain all the truth. The consequence is, of course, that I’m suspected of having had a hand in it myself.”

      The Colonel’s manner had for a moment imperceptibly changed. Lines had come out in his face which were not usually visible, his upper lip had stiffened. One could fancy that he might have led his men into battle looking something like this.

      “What is it that you know?” he asked.

      “There was another person in the flats that night, who was interested in Morris Barnes, who visited his rooms, who was with me when I first saw him dead.”

      The Colonel shaded his face with his hand. The heat from the fire was intense.

      “Why have you kept back this knowledge?” he asked.

      “Because—it was a woman, and I am a fool!” Wrayson answered.

      There was a silence. Then the Colonel pushed back his chair and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. The room was certainly hot, and the handkerchief was wet.

      “Tell me about it,” he said quietly. “I expected something of the sort!”

      “On that morning,” Wrayson began, “I returned home about twelve o’clock, let myself in with my own latch-key, and found a woman standing before my open desk going through my papers.”

      “A friend?” the Colonel asked.

      “A complete stranger!” Wrayson answered. “Her surprise at seeing me was at least equal to my own. I gathered that she had believed herself to be in the flat of Morris Barnes, which is the corresponding one above.”

      “What did you do?” the Colonel asked.

      “What I should have done I am not sure,” Wrayson answered, “but while I was talking to her the telephone bell rang, and I received that message which I spoke about at the inquest. It was a mysterious sort of business—I can hear that voice now. I was interested, and while I stood there she slipped away.”

      “Is that all?” the Colonel asked.

      “No!” Wrayson answered with a groan. “I wish to God it was!”

      The Colonel moved his position a little. The cigar had burnt out between his fingers, but he made no effort to light it.

      “Go on,” he said. “Tell me the rest. Tell me what happened afterwards.”

      “I wrote down the message for Barnes and left it in his letter-box. There seemed then to be no light in his flat. Afterwards I lit a pipe, left my door open, and sat down, with the intention of waiting till Barnes came home and explaining what had happened. I fell asleep in my chair and woke with a start. It was nearly three o’clock. I was going to turn in when I