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

no abatement.

      “I fancy,” she said, “that I have heard of you somewhere lately, or is it another of the same name? Will you not sit down and take your coffee with us—and a cigarette—yes?”

      “We are keeping Mr. Wrayson from his friends, no doubt,” Louise said coldly. “Besides—do you see the time, Amy?”

      But Wrayson had already drawn up a chair to the table.

      “I am quite alone,” he said. “If I may stay, I shall be delighted.”

      “Why not?” the Baroness asked, passing her cigarette case. “You can solve for us the problem we were just then discussing. Is it comme-il-faut, Mr. Wrayson, for two ladies, one of whom is almost middle-aged, to visit a music-hall here in London unescorted?”

      Wrayson glanced from Louise to her friend.

      “May I inquire,” he asked blandly, “which is the lady who is posing as being almost middle-aged?”

      The Baroness laughed at him softly, with a little contraction of the eyebrows, which she usually found effective.

      “We are going to be friends, Mr. Wrayson,” she declared. “You are sitting there in fear and trembling, and yet you have dared to pay a compliment, the first I have heard for, oh! so many months. Do not be afraid. Louise is not so terrible as she seems. I will not let her send you away. Now you must answer my question. May we do this terrible thing, Louise and I?”

      “Assuredly not,” he answered gravely, “when there is a man at hand who is so anxious to offer his escort as I.”

      The Baroness clapped her hands.

      “Do you hear, Louise?” she exclaimed.

      “I hear,” Louise answered dryly.

      The Baroness made a little grimace.

      “You are in an impossible humour, my dear child,” she declared. “Nevertheless, I declare for the music-hall, and for the escort of your friend, Mr. Wrayson, if he really is in earnest.”

      “I can assure you,” he said, “that you would be doing me a great kindness in allowing me to offer my services.”

      The Baroness beamed upon him amiably, and rose to her feet.

      “You have come,” she avowed, “in time to save me from despair. I am not used to go about so much unescorted, and I am not so independent as Louise. See,” she added, pushing a gold purse towards him, “you shall pay our bill while we put on our cloaks. And will you ask afterwards for my carriage, and we will meet in the portico?”

      “With pleasure!” Wrayson answered, rising to his feet as they left the table. “I will telephone for a box to the Alhambra. There is a wonderful new ballet which every one is going to see.”

      He called the waiter and paid the bill from a remarkably well-filled purse. As he replaced the change, it was impossible for him to avoid seeing a letter addressed and stamped ready for posting, which occupied one side of the gold bag. The name upon the envelope struck him as being vaguely familiar; what had he heard lately of Madame de Melbain? It was associated somehow in his mind with a recent event. It lingered in his memory for days afterwards.

      Louise and the Baroness left the room in silence. In the cloak-room the latter watched her friend curiously as she arranged her wrap.

      “So that is Mr. Wrayson,” she remarked.

      “Yes!” Louise answered deliberately. “I wish that you had let him go!”

      The Baroness laughed softly.

      “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. She considered her young friend a little indiscreet.

      “I find you amusing, ma chère,” she remarked. “Since when have you developed scruples?”

      Louise turned towards the door.

      “You do not understand,” she said. “Come!”

      IX. A BOX AT THE ALHAMBRA

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      The Baroness lowered her lorgnettes and turned towards Wrayson.

      “There is a man,” she remarked, “in the stalls, who finds us apparently more interesting than the performance. I do not see very well even with my glasses, but I fancy, no! I am quite sure, that his face is familiar to me.”

      Wrayson leaned forward from his seat in the back of the box and looked downward. There was no mistaking the person indicated by the Baroness, nor was it possible to doubt his obvious interest in their little party. Wrayson frowned slightly as he returned his greeting.

      “Ah, then, you know him,” the Baroness declared. “It is a friend, without doubt.”

      “He belongs to my club,” Wrayson answered. “His name is Heneage. I beg your pardon! I hope that wasn’t my fault.”

      The Baroness had dropped her lorgnettes on the floor. She stooped instantly to discover them, rejecting almost peremptorily Wrayson’s aid. When she sat up again she pushed her chair a little further back.

      “It was my clumsiness entirely,” she declared. “Ah! it is more restful here. The lights are a little trying in front. You are wiser than I, my dear Louise, to have chosen a seat back there.”

      She turned towards the girl as she spoke, and Wrayson fancied that there was some subtle meaning in the swift glance which passed between the two. Almost involuntarily he leaned forward once more and looked downwards. Heneage’s inscrutable face was still upturned in their direction. There was nothing to be read there, not even curiosity. As the eyes of the two men met, Heneage rose and left his seat.

      “You know my friend, perhaps?” Wrayson remarked. “He is rather an interesting person.”

      The Baroness shrugged her shoulders.

      “We are cosmopolitans, Louise and I,” she remarked. “We wander about so much that we meet many people whose names even we do not remember. Is it not so, chérie?”

      Louise assented carelessly. The incident appeared to have interested her but slightly. She alone seemed to be taking an interest in the performance, which from the first she had followed closely. More than once Wrayson had fancied that her attention was only simulated, in order to avoid conversation.

      “This ballet,” she remarked, “is wonderful. I don’t believe that you people have seen any of it—you especially, Amy.”

      The Baroness glanced towards the stage.

      “My dear Louise,” she said, “you share one great failing with the majority of your country-people. You cannot do more than one thing at a time. Now I can watch and talk. Truly, the dresses are ravishing. Doucet never conceived anything more delightful than that blend of greens! Tell me about your mysterious-looking friend, Mr. Wrayson. Is he, too, an editor?”

      Wrayson shook his head.

      “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I know very little about him. He is one of those men who seldom talk about themselves. He is a barrister, and he has written a volume of travels. A clever fellow, I believe, but possibly without ambition. At any rate, one never hears of his doing anything now.”

      “Perhaps,” the Baroness remarked, with her eyes upon the stage, “he is one of those who keep their own counsel, in