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

o’clock in the morning?” the Colonel interrupted.

      Wrayson nodded.

      “She was white and shaking all over,” he continued rapidly. “She asked me for brandy and I gave it to her; she asked me to see her out of the place, and I did so. When I opened the door to let her out and we saw the man leaning back in the cab, she moaned softly to herself. I said something about his being asleep or drunk—‘or dead!’ she whispered in my ear, and then she rushed away from me. She turned into the Albert Road and disappeared almost at once. I could not have followed her if I would. I had just begun to realize that something was wrong with the man in the cab!”

      “This is all?” the Colonel asked.

      “It is all!” Wrayson answered.

      “You do not know her name, or why she was here? You have not seen her since?”

      Wrayson shook his head.

      “I know absolutely nothing,” he said, “beyond what I have told you.”

      The Colonel struck a match and relit his cigar.

      “I should like to understand,” he said quietly, “why you avoided all mention of her in your evidence.”

      Wrayson laughed oddly.

      “I should like to understand that myself,” he declared. “I can only repeat what I said before. She was a woman, and I was a fool.”

      “In plain English,” the Colonel said, “you did it to shield her?”

      “Yes!” Wrayson answered.

      The Colonel nodded thoughtfully.

      “Well,” he said, “you were in a difficult position, and you made a deliberate choice. I tell you frankly that I expected to hear worse things. Do you believe that she committed the murder?”

      “No!” Wrayson answered. “I do not!”

      “You believe that she may be associated with—the person who did?”

      “I cannot tell,” Wrayson declared.

      “In any case,” the Colonel continued, “you seem to have been the only person who saw her. Whether you were wise or not to omit all mention of her in your evidence—well, we won’t discuss that. The best of us have gone on the wrong side of the hedge for a woman before now—and damned glad to do it. What I can’t quite understand, old chap, is why you have worked yourself up into such a shocking state. You don’t stand any chance of being hanged, that I can see!”

      Wrayson laughed a little shamefacedly.

      “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I am beginning to feel ashamed of myself. I think it was the sense of being spied upon, and being alone—in this room—which got a bit on my nerves. I feel a different man since you came down.”

      The Colonel nodded cheerfully.

      “That’s all right,” he declared. “The next thing to—”

      The Colonel broke off in the midst of his sentence. A few feet away from him the telephone bell was ringing. Wrayson rose to his feet and took the receiver into his hand.

      “Hullo!” he said.

      The voice which answered him was faint but clear. Wrayson almost dropped the instrument. He recognized it at once.

      “Is that Mr. Herbert Wrayson?” it asked.

      “Yes!” Wrayson answered. “Who are you?”

      “I am the person who spoke to you a few nights ago,” was the answer. “Never mind my name for the present. I wish to arrange a meeting—for some time to-morrow. I have a matter—of business—to discuss with you.”

      “Anywhere—at any time,” Wrayson answered, almost fiercely. “You cannot be as anxious to see me as I am to know who you are.”

      The voice changed a little in its intonation. A note of mockery had stolen into it.

      “You flatter me,” it said. “I trust that our meeting will be mutually agreeable. You must excuse my coming to Battersea, as I understand that your flat is subjected to a most inconvenient surveillance. May I call at the office of your paper, at say eleven o’clock tomorrow?”

      “Yes!” Wrayson answered. “You know where it is?”

      “Certainly! I shall be there. A Mr. Bentham will ask for you. Good night!”

      Wrayson’s unknown friend had rung off. 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.”

      VI. ONE THOUSAND POUNDS’ REWARD

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      But when the morrow came, and his visitor was shown into Wrayson’s private office, he was not quite so sure about it. Mr. Bentham had not in the least the appearance of a murderer. Clean-shaven, a little slow in speech, quietly dressed, he resembled more than anything a country solicitor in moderate practice.

      He bowed in correct professional manner, and laid a brown paper parcel upon the table.

      “I believe,” he said, “that I have the honour of addressing Mr. Wrayson?”

      Wrayson nodded a little curtly.

      “And you, I suppose,” he remarked, “are the owner of the mysterious voice which summoned Morris Barnes to the Francis Hotel on the night of his murder?”

      “It was I who spoke to you,” Mr. Bentham admitted.

      “Very well,” Wrayson said, “I am glad to see you. It was obvious, from your message, that you knew of some danger which was threatening Morris Barnes that night. It is therefore only fair to presume that you are also aware of its source.”

      “You go a little fast, sir,” Mr. Bentham objected.

      “My presumption is a fair one,” Wrayson declared. “You are perhaps aware of my unfortunate connection with this affair. If so, you will understand that I am particularly anxious to have it cleared up.”

      “It is not at all certain that I can help you,” his visitor said precisely. “It depends entirely upon yourself. Will you permit me to put my case before you?”

      “By all means,” Wrayson answered. “Go ahead.”

      Mr. Bentham took the chair towards which Wrayson had somewhat impatiently pointed, and unbuttoned his coat. It was obvious that he was not a person to be hurried.

      “In the first place, Mr. Wrayson,” he said, “I must ask you distinctly to understand that I am not addressing you on my own account. I am a lawyer, and I am acting on behalf of a client.”

      “Who is he?” Wrayson asked. “What is his name?”

      The ghost of a smile flickered across the lawyer’s thin lips.

      “I am not at liberty to divulge his identity,” he answered. “I am, however, fully empowered to act for him.”

      Wrayson shrugged his shoulders.

      “He may find it necessary to disclose it, and before very long,” he remarked. “Well, go on.”

      Mr. Bentham discreetly ignored the covert threat in Wrayson’s words.

      “My mission to you, Mr. Wrayson,” he declared, “is a somewhat delicate one. It is not, in fact, connected with the actual—tragedy to which you have alluded. My commission is to regain possession