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

sounds reasonable enough, this,” Wrayson said; “but what about the murder of Morris Baines, on the very night, you know, when Louise was there?”

      “It is all a very simple matter,” the Baroness answered, quietly, “but yet it is a matter where the death of a few such men would count for nothing. A few ages ago it would not have been a matter of a dozen Morris Barnes, no, nor a thousand! Diplomacy is just as cruel, and just as ruthless, as the battlefield, only it works, down there—underground!”

      “It is a political matter, then?” Wrayson asked swiftly.

      The Baroness smiled. She took a cigarette from her little gold case and lit it.

      “Ah!” she exclaimed, “you must not try to, what you say, pump me! You can call it what you will. Only to Louise, as to me, it is very much a personal affair. Shall we talk now, for a little, of other things?”

      Wrayson sighed.

      “I may not know, then,” he begged, “where Louise has gone, or why?”

      “It would not be her wish,” the Baroness answered, “that I should tell you.”

      “Very well,” Wrayson said, “I will ask you no more questions. Only this. I have told you of this man Bentham.”

      The Baroness inclined her head. He had told her nothing that was news to her.

      “Was he on your side, or opposed to you?”

      “You are puzzling me,” the Baroness confessed.

      “Already,” Wrayson explained, “I know as much of the affair as this. Morris Barnes was in possession of something, I do not know whether it was documents, or what possible material shape it had, but it brought him in a considerable income, and both you and some others were endeavouring to obtain possession of it. So far, I believe that neither of you have succeeded. Morris Barnes has been murdered in vain; Bentham the lawyer, who telephoned to me on the night of his death, has shared his fate. To whose account do these two murders go, yours or the others’?”

      “I cannot answer that question, Mr. Wrayson,” the Baroness said.

      “Do you know,” Wrayson demanded, dropping his voice a little, “that, but for my moral, if not actual perjury, Louise herself would have been charged with the murder of Morris Barnes?”

      “She had a narrow escape,” the Baroness admitted.

      “She had a narrow escape,” Wrayson declared, “but the unfortunate part of the affair is, that she is not even now safe!”

      The Baroness looked at him curiously. She was in the act of drawing on her gloves, but her fingers suddenly became rigid.

      “What do you mean?” she asked.

      “I mean,” Wrayson said, “that another person saw her come out of the flats that night. It was a friend of mine, who kept silence at first because he believed that it was a private assignation of my own. Since then events have occurred to make him think differently. He has gone over to the other side. He is spending his time with young Sydney Barnes, and he has set himself to discover the mystery of Morris Barnes’ murder. He has even gone so far as to give me warning that I should be better out of England.”

      “Who is this person?” the Baroness asked calmly.

      “His name is Stephen Heneage, and he is a member of my club, the club to which Louise’s father also belongs,” Wrayson replied.

      The Baroness suddenly dropped her veil, but not before Wrayson had seen a sudden change in her face. He remembered suddenly that Heneage was no stranger to her, he remembered the embarrassment of their meeting at the Alhambra.

      “You know him, of course,” he repeated. “Heneage is not a man to be trifled with. He has had experience in affairs of this sort, he is no ordinary amateur detective.”

      “Yes! I know Mr. Stephen Heneage,” the Baroness said. “Tell me, does Louise know?”

      Wrayson shook his head.

      “I have had no opportunity of telling her,” he answered. “I might not have thought so seriously of it, but this morning I received a note from Heneage.”

      “Yes! What did he say?”

      “It was only a line or two,” Wrayson answered. “He reminded me of his previous warning to me to leave England for a time, and he underlined it. Louise ought to know. I want to tell her!”

      “I am glad you did not tell me this before,” the Baroness said, as they left the room together, “or it would have spoiled my luncheon. I do not like your friend, Mr. Heneage!”

      “You will give me Louise’s address?” he asked. “Some one must see her.”

      “I will send it you,” the Baroness promised, “before the day is out.”