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

      “More brandy,” he ordered briefly. “Look here, Mr. Wrayson,” he added, adopting once more his mysterious manner, “those love- letters don’t go! What did the Baroness want in my brother’s flat? She struck me dumb when I first saw her. I admit it. I’d have swallowed anything. More fool me! I tell you, though, I’m not having any more. Will you come along with me to her house now, and see if we can’t make her tell us the truth?”

      Wrayson shook his head deliberately.

      “Mr. Barnes,” he said, “I am sorry to disappoint you, and I sympathize very much with your position, but you mustn’t take it for granted that I am, shall we say, your ally in this matter. I haven’t either the time or the patience to give to investigations of this sort. I have done what I could for you, and I will give you what advice I can, or help you in any way, if you care to come and see me. But you mustn’t count on anything else.”

      Barnes’ face dropped. He was obviously disappointed.

      “You won’t come and see the Baroness with me even?” he asked.

      “I think not,” Wrayson answered. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think that it would be of any use. Even if your suspicions are correct—and you scarcely know what you suspect, do you?—the Baroness is much too clever a woman to allow herself to be pumped by either you or me.”

      Wrayson felt himself subjected for several moments to the scrutinizing stare of those blinking, unpleasant eyes.

      “You’re not taking her side against me, are you?” Barnes asked distrustfully.

      “Certainly not,” Wrayson answered impatiently. “You must be reasonable, my young friend. I have done what I can to put you in the way of helping yourself, but I am a busy man. I have my own affairs to look after, and I can’t afford to play the part of a twentieth-century Don Quixote.”

      “I understand,” the young man said slowly. “You are going to turn me up.”

      “You are putting a very foolish construction upon what I have said,” Wrayson answered irritably. “I have gone out of my way to help you, but, frankly, I think that yours is a wild-goose chase.”

      Barnes rose to his feet and finished his brandy.

      “I don’t believe it,” he declared. “I’m going to have that two thousand a year, if I have to take that man Bentham by the throat and strangle the truth out of him. If I can’t find out without, I’ll make him tell me the truth if I swing for it. By God, I will!”

      They left the place together and walked towards the corner of the street.

      “I shouldn’t do anything rash, if I were you,” Wrayson said. “I fancy you’d find Bentham a pretty tough sort to tackle. You must excuse me now. I am going into the club for a few minutes.”

      “How are you, Wrayson?” a quiet voice asked behind.

      Wrayson turned round abruptly. It was Stephen Heneage who had greeted him—the one man whom, at that moment, he was least anxious to meet of any person in the world. Already he could see that Heneage was taking quiet but earnest note of his companion.

      Wrayson nodded a little abruptly and left Barnes without any further farewell.

      “Coming round to the club?” he asked.

      Heneage assented, and glanced carelessly behind at Barnes, who was walking slowly in the opposite direction.

      “Who’s your friend?” he asked. “You shook him off a little suddenly, didn’t you?”

      “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.

      “I mean that he was a relation, and a near relation, too, I should imagine, of our deceased friend Morris Barnes,” Heneage answered coolly. “I shall be obliged to make that young man’s acquaintance.”

      “Damn you and your prying!” Wrayson exclaimed angrily. “I wish—”

      He stopped abruptly. Heneage was already retracing his steps.

      Wrayson, after a moment’s indecision, went on to the club, and made his way at once to the billiard-room. The Colonel was sitting in his usual corner chair, watching a game of pool, beaming upon everybody with his fatherly smile, encouraging the man who met with ill luck, and applauding the successful shots. He was surrounded by his cronies, but he held out his hand to Wrayson, who leaned against the wall by his side and waited for his opportunity.

      “Colonel,” he said at last in his ear, taking advantage of the applause which followed a successful shot, “I want half an hour’s talk with you, quite by ourselves. Can you slip away and come and dine with me somewhere?”

      The Colonel looked dubious.

      “I’m afraid they won’t like it,” he answered. “Freddy and George are here, and Tempest’s coming in later.”

      “I can’t help it,” Wrayson answered. “You can guess what it’s about. It’s a serious matter.”

      The Colonel sighed.

      “We might find an opportunity later on,” he suggested.

      “It won’t do,” Wrayson answered. “I want to get right away from here. I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t necessary.”

      “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” the Colonel admitted. “We’ll slip away quietly when this game is over. It won’t be long. Good shot, Freddy! Sixpence, you divide!”

      They found themselves in the Strand about half an hour later.

      “Where shall we go?” Wrayson asked. “Somewhere quiet.”

      “Across the way,” the Colonel answered. “We shan’t see any one we know there.”

      Wrayson nodded, and they crossed the street and entered Luigi’s. It was early for diners, and they found a small table in a retired corner. Wrayson ordered the dinner, and then leaned across the table towards his guest.

      “It’s that Barnes matter, Colonel,” he said quietly. “Heneage has taken it up and means going into it thoroughly. He saw me letting out your daughter that night.”

      The Colonel was in the act of helping himself to hors d’œuvre. His fork remained suspended for a moment in the air. Then he set it down with trembling fingers. The cheery light had faded from his face. He seemed suddenly older. His voice sounded unnatural.

      “Heneage!” he repeated, sharply. “Stephen Heneage! What affair is it of his?”

      “None,” Wrayson answered. “He likes that sort of thing, that’s all. He saw—your daughter with a lady—the Baroness de Sturm, and the seeing them together, after he had watched her come out of the flat that night, seemed to suggest something to him. He warned me that he had made up his mind to solve the mystery of Morris Barnes’ murder; he advised me, in fact, to clear out. And now, since then—”

      The waiter brought the soup. Wrayson broke off and talked for a moment or two to the maître d’hôtel, who had paused at their table. Presently, when they were alone, he went on.

      “Since then, a young brother of Barnes has turned up from South Africa. There was some mystery about Morris Barnes and the source of his income. The brother is just as determined to solve this as Heneage seems to be to discover the—the murderer! They will work together, and I am afraid! Not for myself! You know for whom.”

      The Colonel was very grave. He ate slowly, and he seemed to be thinking.

      “There is one