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

believe, then,” he asked, “that Morris Barnes was murdered for the sake of these securities?”

      “I believe—nothing,” the lawyer answered. “It is not my business to believe. Mr. Morris Barnes was in the receipt of an income of two thousand a year, which we might call dividend upon these securities. My client, through me, made Mr. Barnes a cash offer to buy them outright, and although I must admit that Mr. Barnes had not closed with us, yet I believe that he was on the point of doing so. He had doubtless had it brought home to him that there was a certain amount of danger associated with his position generally. The night on which my client arrived in England was the night upon which Mr. Morris Barnes was murdered. The inference to be drawn from this circumstance I can leave, I am sure, to the common sense of you two gentlemen.”

      “First, then,” Wrayson said, “it would appear that he was murdered by the people who were paying him two thousand a year, and who were acting in opposition to your client!”

      Mr. Bentham shrugged his shoulder gently.

      “It does not sound unreasonable,” he admitted.

      “And secondly,” Wrayson continued, “if that was so, he was probably robbed of these securities at the same time.”

      “Now that, also,” Mr. Bentham said smoothly, “sounds reasonable. But, as a matter of fact,” he continued, looking down upon the table, “there are certain indications which go to disprove it. My personal opinion is that the assassin—granted that there was an assassin, and granted that he was acting on behalf of the parties we have referred to—met with a disappointment.”

      “In plain words,” Wrayson interrupted, “you mean that the other side have not possessed themselves of the securities?”

      “They certainly have not,” Mr. Bentham declared. “They still remain—the property by inheritance of this young gentleman here—Mr. Sydney Barnes, I believe.”

      His tone was so even, so expressionless, that its slightest changes were noticeable. It seemed to Wrayson that a faint note of sarcasm had crept into these last few words. Mr. Barnes himself, however, was quite oblivious of it. His yellow-stained fingers were spread out upon the table. He leaned over towards the lawyer. His under lip protruded, his deep-set eyes seemed closer than ever together. He was grimly, tragically in earnest.

      “Look here,” he said. “What can I do to get hold of ‘em? I don’t care what it is. I’m game! I’ll deal with your man—the cash client. I’ll give you a commission, see! Five per cent on all I get. How’s that? I’ll play fair. Now chuck away all this mystery. What were these securities? Where shall I start looking for them?”

      Mr. Bentham regarded him with stony face. “There are certain points,” he said, “upon which I cannot enlighten you. My duty to my client forbids it. I cannot describe to you the nature of those securities. I cannot suggest where you should look for them. All that I can say is that they are still to be found, and that my client is still a buyer.”

      The young man turned to Wrayson. His face was twitching with some emotion, probably anger.

      “Did you ever hear such bally rot!” he exclaimed. “He knows all about these securities all right. They belong to me. He ought to be made to tell.”

      Wrayson shrugged his shoulders.

      “It does seem rather a wild-goose chase, doesn’t it?” he remarked. “Can’t you tell him a little more, Mr. Bentham?”

      Mr. Bentham sighed, as though his impotence were a matter of sincere regret to him.

      “The only advice I can offer Mr. Barnes,” he said, “is that he induce you to aid him in his search. Between you, I should never be surprised to hear of your success.”

      “And why,” Wrayson asked, “should you consider me such a useful ally?”

      Mr. Bentham looked at him steadily for a moment.

      “You appear to me,” he said, “to be a young man of intelligence—and you know how to keep your own counsel. I should consider Mr. Barnes very fortunate if you could make up your mind to aid him in his search.”

      “It is not my affair,” Wrayson answered stiffly. “I could not possibly pledge myself to enter upon such a wild- goose chase.”

      Mr. Bentham turned over some papers which lay upon the table before him. He had apparently had enough of the conversation.

      “You must not call it exactly that, Mr. Wrayson,” he said. “Mr. Barnes’ success in his quest would probably result in an act of justice to society. To you personally, I should imagine it would be expressly interesting.”

      “What do you mean?” Wrayson asked, quickly.

      The lawyer looked at him calmly.

      “It should solve the mystery of Morris Barnes’ murder!” he answered.

      Wrayson touched his companion on the shoulder.

      “I think that we might as well go,” he said. “Mr. Bentham does not mean to tell us anything more.”

      Barnes moved slowly towards the door, but with reluctance manifested in his sullen face and manner.

      “I don’t know how I’m going to set about this job,” he said, turning once more towards the lawyer. “I shall do what I can, but you haven’t seen the last of me, yet, Mr. Bentham. If I fail, I shall come back to you.”

      The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. He was already absorbed in other work.

      XVI. A DINNER IN THE STRAND

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      Wrayson was conscious, from the moment they left Mr. Bentham’s office, of a change in the deportment of the young man who walked by his side. A variety of evil passions had developed one at least more tolerable—he was learning the lesson of self-restraint. He did not speak until they reached the corner of the street.

      “Where can we get a drink?” he asked, almost abruptly. “I want some brandy.”

      Wrayson took him to a bar close by. They sat in a quiet corner.

      “I want to ask you something,” he said, leaning halfway over the little table between them. “How much do you know about the lady who came into my brother’s flat when we were there?”

      The direct significance of the question startled Wrayson. This young man was beginning to think.

      “How much do I know of her?” he repeated. “Very little.”

      “She is really a Baroness—not one of these faked-up ones?”

      “She is undoubtedly the Baroness de Sturm,” Wrayson answered, a little stiffly.

      “And she has plenty of coin?”

      “Certainly,” Wrayson answered. “She is a great lady, I believe, in her own country.”

      Barnes struck the table softly with the flat of his hand. His eyes were searching for his answer in Wrayson’s face, almost before the words had left his lips.

      “Do you believe then,” he asked, “that a woman like that wrote love-letters to Morris? You knew Morris. He was what those sort of people call a bounder. Same as me! If he knew her at all it was a wonder. I can’t believe in the love-letters.”

      Wrayson shrugged his shoulders.

      “The whole affair,” he declared, “everything connected with your brother, is so mysterious that I really don’t know what to say.”

      “You knew Morris,” the young man persisted. “You know the Baroness. Set ‘em down side by side. They don’t go, eh? You know that. Morris could tog himself up as much as he liked, and he was always