Sydney Barnes stepped quickly forward. If Wrayson had permitted it, he would have snatched the packet from the girl's fingers. Wrayson, however, saw his intent and intervened. He stepped forward and led her to his writing table.
"I want you to sit down here quietly and open the envelope," he said, switching on the electric lamp. "That is what he told you to do, isn't it? There may be a message for you inside."
She looked round a little fearfully. The presence of the Baroness evidently discomposed her.
"I thought," she said, "that we were going to be alone, that there would have been no one here but him and you."
"The lady is a friend of mine," Wrayson said, "and it is very likely that she may be interested in the contents of this envelope."
She untied the string with trembling fingers. Wrayson handed her a paper-knife and she cut open the top of the envelope. Then she looked up at him appealingly.
"I—I don't want to look inside," she half sobbed.
Wrayson took up the envelope and shook out its contents before her. There was a letter addressed simply to Agnes, and a small packet wrapped in brown oilcloth and secured with dark-green ribbon. Sydney Barnes' hand stole out, but Wrayson was too quick for him. He changed his position, so as to interpose his person between the packet and any one in the room.
"Read the letter," he told the girl. "It is addressed to you."
She handed it to him. Her eyes were blinded with tears.
"Read it for me, please," she said.
He tore open the envelope and read the few lines scrawled upon a half sheet of notepaper. He read them very softly into her ear, but the words were audible enough to all of them.
"MY DEAR AGNES,—I have just discovered that there are some people on my track who mean mischief. I have a secret they want to rob me of. I seem to be followed about everywhere I go. What they want is the little packet in this envelope. I'm leaving it with you because I daren't carry it about with me. I've had two narrow escapes already.
"Now you'll never read this letter unless anything happens to me. I've made up my mind to sell this packet for what I can get for it, and take you with me out of the country. It'll be a matter of ten thousand quid, and I only wish I had my fingers on it now and was well out of the country. But this is where the rub comes in. If anything happens to me before I can bring this off, I'm hanged if I know what to tell you to do with the packet. It's worth its weight in banknotes to more persons than one, but there's a beastly risk in having anything to do with it. I think you'd better burn it! There's money in it, but I don't see how you could handle it. Burn it, Agnes. It's too risky a business for you! I only hope that in a week or so I shall burn this letter myself, and you and I will be on our way to America.
"So long, Nessie,
"from your loving husband.
"P.S.—By the bye, my real name is Morris Barnes!"
There was an instant's pause as Wrayson finished reading. Then there came a long-drawn-out whisper from Sydney Barnes. He was close to the girl, and his eyes were riveted upon the little packet.
"Ten—thousand—pounds! Ah! Five thousand each! Give me the packet, sister-in-law!"
She stretched out her hand as though to obey. Wrayson checked her.
"Remember," he said, "what your husband told you. You were to burn that packet. He was right. Your husband was a blackmailer, Mrs. Barnes, and he paid the penalty of his infamous career with his life. I shall not allow either you or your brother-in-law to follow in his footsteps!"
She flashed an indignant glance upon him.
"Who are you calling names?" she demanded. "He was my husband and he was good to me!"
"I beg your pardon and his," Wrayson said. "I was wrong to use such a word. But I want you to understand that to attempt to make money by the contents of that packet is a crime! Your husband paid the penalty. He knew what he was doing when he commanded you to burn it."
She looked towards Sydney Barnes.
"What do you say?" she asked.
The words leaped from his mouth. He was half beside himself.
"I say let us open the packet and look it through ourselves before we decide. What the devil business is it of anybody else's. He was my brother and your husband. These people weren't even his friends. They've no right to poke their noses into our affairs. You tell them so; sister-in-law. Give me the packet. Come away with me somewhere where we can look it through quietly. I'm fair and straight. It shall be halves, I swear. I say, sister-in-law Agnes, you don't want to go back to the refreshment bar, do you?"
"No!" she moaned. "No! no!"
"Nor do I want to go back to the gutter," he declared fiercely. "But money isn't to be had for the picking up. Ten thousand pounds Morris expected to get for that packet. It's hard if we can't make half of that."
She looked up at Wrayson as though for advice.
"Mrs. Barnes," he said gravely, "I can tell you what is in that packet. You can see for yourself, then, whether it is anything by means of which you can make money. It consists of the letters of a very famous woman to the man whom she loved. They were stolen from him on the battlefield. I do not wish to pain you, but the thief was Morris Barnes. The friends of the lady who wrote them paid your brother two thousand pounds a year. Her enemies offered him—ten thousand pounds down. There is the secret of Morris Barnes' wealth."
Sydney Barnes leaned over the back of her chair. His hot whisper seemed to burn her cheek.
"Keep the packet, sister-in-law. Don't part!"
"Your brother-in-law," Wrayson remarked, "is evidently disposed to continue your husband's operations. Remember you are not at liberty to do as he asks. Your husband's words are plain. He orders you to burn the packet."
"How do I know that you are telling me the truth?" she asked abruptly.
"Undo the packet," he suggested. "A glance inside should show you."
For some reason or other she seemed dissatisfied. She pointed towards the Baroness.
"What is she doing here?" she asked.
"She is a friend of the woman who wrote those letters," Wrayson answered. "I want her to see them destroyed."
There was silence for several moments. The girl's fingers closed upon the packet. She turned round and faced them all. She faced them all, but she addressed more particularly Wrayson.
"You are wondering why I hesitate," she said slowly. "Augustus said destroy the packet, and I suppose I ought to do it."
"By God, you shan't!" Sydney Barnes broke in fiercely. "Morry didn't know that I should be here to look after things."
She waited until he had finished, but she seemed to take very little, if any, notice of his intervention.
"It isn't," she continued, "that I'm afraid to go back to the bar. I'll have to go to work some where, I suppose, but it isn't that. I want to know," she leaned a little forward,—"I want to know who it is that has robbed me of my husband. I don't care what he was to other people! He was very good to me, and I loved him. I should like to see the person who killed him hanged!"
Wrayson, for a moment, was discomposed.
"But that," he said, "has nothing to do with obeying your husband's directions about that packet."
She looked at him with tired eyes and changeless expression.
"Hasn't it?" she asked. "I am not so sure. You have explained about these letters. It is quite certain that my husband was killed by either the friends or the enemies of the woman who wrote these letters. I think that if I take this packet to the police it will help them to find the murderer!"
Her new attitude was a perplexing one. Wrayson glanced at the Baroness as though for counsel. She stepped forward and laid her hand upon the girl's shoulder.
"There is one thing which you must not forget, Mrs. Barnes," she said quietly. "Your husband knew that he was running a great risk in keeping these letters and making a living out of them. His letter to you shows that he was perfectly aware of it. Of course, it is a very terrible, a very inexcusable thing that he should have been killed. But he knew perfectly well that he was in danger. Can't you sympathize a little with the poor woman whose life he made so miserable? Let her have her letters back. You will not find her ungrateful!"
The girl turned slowly round and faced the Baroness. They might indeed have represented the opposite poles in femininity. From the tips of her perfectly manicured fingers to the crown of her admirably coiffured hair, the Baroness stood for all that was elegant and refined in the innermost circles of her sex. Agnes would have looked more in place behind the refreshment bar from which Morris Barnes had brought her. Her dress of cheap shiny silk was ill fitting and hopeless, her hat with its faded flowers and crushed shape an atrocity, boots and gloves, and brooch of artificial gems—all were shocking. Little was left of her pale-faced prettiness. The tragedy which had stolen into her life had changed all that. Yet she faced the Baroness without flinching. She seemed sustained by the suppressed emotion of the moment.
"He was my man," she said fiercely, "and no one had any right to take him away from me. He was my husband, and he was brutally murdered. You tell me that I must give up the letters for the sake of the woman who wrote them! What do I care about her! Is she as unhappy as I am, I wonder? I will not give up the letters," she added, clasping them in her hand, "except—on one condition."
"If it is a reasonable one," the Baroness said, smiling, "there will be no difficulty."
Agnes faced her a little defiantly.
"It depends upon what you call reasonable," she said. "Find out for me who it was that killed my husband, you or any one of you, and you shall have the letters."
Sydney Barnes smiled, and left off nervously tugging at his moustache. If this was not exactly according to his own ideas, it was, at any rate, a step in the right direction. Wrayson was evidently perplexed. The Baroness adopted a persuasive attitude.
"My dear girl," she said, "we don't any of us know who killed your husband. After all, what does it matter? It is terribly sad, of course, but he can't be brought back to life again. You have yourself to think of, and how you are to live in the future. Give me that packet, I will destroy it before your eyes, and I promise you that you shall have no more anxiety about your future."
The girl rose to her feet. The packet was already transferred to the bosom of her dress.
"I have told you my terms," she said. "Some of you know all about it, I dare say! Tell me the truth and you shall have the packet, any one of you."
Wrayson leaned forward.
"The truth is simple," he said earnestly. "We do not know. I can answer for myself. I think that I can answer for the others."
"Then the packet shall help me to find out," she declared.
The Baroness shook her head.
"It will not do, my dear girl," she said quietly. "The packet is not yours."
The girl faced her defiantly.
"Who says that it is not mine?" she demanded.
"I do," the Baroness replied.
"And I!" Wrayson echoed.
"And I say that it is hers—hers and mine," Sydney Barnes declared. "She shall do what she likes with it. She shall not be made to give it up."
"Mrs. Barnes," the Baroness declared briskly, "you must try to be reasonable. We will buy the packet from you."
Sydney Barnes nodded his head approvingly.
"That," he said, "is what I call talking common sense."
"We will give you a thousand pounds for it," the Baroness continued.
"It's not enough, not near enough," Barnes called out hastily. "Don't you listen to them, Agnes."
"I shall not," she answered. "Ten thousand pounds would not buy it. I have said my last word. I am going now. In three days' time I shall return. I will give up the letters then in exchange for the name of my husband's murderer. If I do not get that, I shall go to the police!"
She rose and walked out of the room. They all followed her. The Baroness whispered in Wrayson's ear, but he shook his head.
"It is impossible," he said firmly. "We cannot take them from her by force."
The Baroness shrugged her shoulders. She caught the girl up upon the stairs and they descended together. Wrayson and Sydney Barnes followed, the latter biting his nails nervously and maintaining a gloomy silence. At the entrance, Wrayson whistled for a cab and handed Agnes in. Sydney Barnes attempted to follow her.
"I will see my sister-in-law home," he declared; but Wrayson's hand fell upon his arm.
"No!" he said. "Mrs. Barnes can take care of herself. She is not to be interfered with."
She nodded back at him from the cab.
"I don't want him," she said. "I don't want any one. In three days' time I will return."
"And until then you will not part with the letters?" Wrayson said.
"Until then," she answered, "I promise."
The cab drove off. Sydney Barnes turned upon Wrayson, white and venomous.
"Where do I come in here?" he demanded fiercely.
"I sincerely trust," Wrayson answered suavely, "that you are not coming in at all. But you, too, can return in three days."
"At last!" Wrayson said to himself, almost under his breath. "Shall we have a hansom, Louise, or do you care for a walk?"
"A walk, by all means," she answered hurriedly.
"It is not far, is it?"
"A mile—a little more perhaps," he answered.
"You are sure that you are not tired?"
"Tired only of sitting still," she answered. "We had a delightful crossing. This way, isn't it?"
They left the Grosvenor Hotel, where Louise, with Madame de Melbain, had arrived about an hour ago, and turned towards Battersea. Louise began to talk, nervously, and with a very obvious desire to keep the conversation to indifferent subjects. Wrayson humoured her for some time. They spoke of the journey, suddenly determined upon by Madame de Melbain on receipt of his telegram, of the beauty of St. Étarpe, of the wonderful reappearance of her brother.
"I can scarcely realize even now," she said, "that he is really alive. He is so altered. He seems a different person altogether."
"He has gone through a good deal," Wrayson remarked.
She sighed.
"Poor Duncan!" she murmured.
"He is very much to be pitied," Wrayson said seriously. "I, at any rate, can feel for him."
He turned towards her as he spoke, and his words were charged with meaning. She began quickly to speak of something else, but he interrupted her.
"Louise," he said, "is London so far from St. Étarpe?"
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I think that you know very well," he answered. "I am sure that you do. At St. Étarpe you were content to accept what, believe me, is quite inevitable. Here—well, you have been doing all you can to avoid me, haven't you?"
"Perhaps," she admitted. "St. Étarpe was an interlude. I told you so. You ought to have understood that."
They entered the Park, and Wrayson was silent for a few minutes. He led the way towards an empty seat.
"Let us sit down," he said, "and talk this out."
She hesitated.
"I think—" she began, but he interrupted her ruthlessly.
"If you prefer it, I will come to the Baroness with you," he declared.
She shrugged her shoulders and sat down.
"Very well," she said, "but I warn you that I am in a bad temper. I am hot and tired and dusty. We shall probably quarrel."
He looked at her critically. She was a little pale, perhaps, but there was nothing else to indicate that she had just arrived from a journey. Her dress of dull black glace silk was cool and spotless, her hat and veil were immaculate. Always she had the air of having just come from the hands of an experienced maid. From the tips of her patent shoes to the fall of her veil, she was orderly and correct.
"It takes two," he said, "to quarrel. I shall not quarrel with you. All that I ask from you is a realization of the fact that we are engaged to be married."
She withdrew the hand which he had calmly possessed himself of.
"We are nothing of the sort," she declared.
He looked puzzled.
"Perhaps," he remarked, "I forgot to mention the matter last time I saw you, but I quite thought that you would take it for granted. In case I was forgetful, please let me impress the fact upon you now. We are going to be married, and very shortly. In fact, the sooner the better."
Of her own free will she laid her hand upon his. He fancied that behind her veil the tears had gathered in her eyes.
"Dear friend," she said softly, "I cannot marry you! I shall never marry any one. Will you please believe that? It will make it so much easier for me."
He was a little taken aback. She had changed her methods suddenly, and he had had no time to adapt himself to them.
"Don't hate me, please," she murmured. "Indeed, it would make me very happy if we could be friends."
He laughed a little unnaturally, and turned in his seat until he was facing her.
"Would you mind lifting your veil for a moment, Louise?" he asked her.
She obeyed him with fingers which trembled a little. He saw then that the tears had indeed been in her eyes. Her lips quivered. She looked at him sadly, but very wistfully.
"Thank you!" he said. "Now would you mind asking yourself whether friendship between us is possible! Remember St. Étarpe, and ask yourself that! Remember our seat amongst the roses—remember what you will of that long golden day."
She covered her face with her hands.
"Ah, no!" he went on. "You know yourself that only one thing is possible. I cannot force you into my arms, Louise. If you care to take up my life and break it in two, you can do it. But think what it means! I am not rich, but I am rich enough to take you where you will, to live with you in any country you desire. I don't know what your scruples are—I shall never ask you again. But, dear, you must not! You must not send me away."
She was silent. She had dropped her veil and her head had sunk a little.
"If I believed that there was anybody else," he continued, "I would go away and leave you alone. If I doubted for a single moment that I could make you happy, I would not trouble you any more. But you belong to me, Louise! You have taken up your place in my life, in my heart! I cannot live without you! I do not think that you can live without me! You mustn't try, dear! You mustn't!"
He held her unresisting hand, but her face was hidden from him.
"What it is that you fancy comes between us I cannot tell," he continued, more gravely. "Only let me tell you this. We are no longer in any danger from Stephen Heneage. He has abandoned his quest altogether. He has told me so with his own lips."
"You are sure of that?" she asked softly.
"Absolutely," he answered.
She hesitated for a moment. He remained purposely silent. He was anxious to try and comprehend the drift of her thoughts.
"Do you know why?" she asked. "Did he find the task too difficult, or did he relinquish it from any other motive?"
"I am not sure," Wrayson answered. "I met him the night before last. He was very much altered. He had the appearance of a man altogether unnerved. Perhaps it was my fancy, but I got the idea—"
"Well?" she demanded eagerly.
"That he had come across something in the course of his investigations which had given him a shock," he said. "He seemed all broken up. Of course, it may have been something else altogether. At any rate, I have his word for it. He has ceased his investigations altogether, and broken with Sydney Barnes."
The afternoon was warm, but she shivered as she rose a little abruptly to her feet. He laid his hand upon her arm.
"Not without my answer," he begged.
She shook her head sadly.
"My very dear friend," she said sadly, "you must always be. That is all!"
He took his place by her side.
"Your very dear friend," he repeated. "Well, it is a relationship I don't know much about. I haven't had many friendships amongst your sex. Tell me exactly what my privileges would be."
"You will learn that," she said, "in time."
He shook his head.
"I think not," he declared. "Friendship, to be frank with you, would not satisfy me in the least."
"Then I must lose you altogether," she murmured, in a low tone.
"I don't think so," he affirmed coolly. "I consider that you belong to me already. You are only postponing the time when I shall claim you."
She made no remark, and behind her veil her face told him little. A moment later they issued from the Park and stood on the pavement before the Baroness' flat. She held out her hand without a word.
"I think," he said, "that I should like to come in and see the Baroness."
"Not now," she begged. "We shall meet again at dinner-time."
"Where?" he asked eagerly.
"Madame desired me to ask you to join us at the Grosvenor," she answered, "at half-past eight."
"I shall be delighted," he answered, promptly. "You nearly forgot to tell me."
She shook her head.
"No! I didn't," she said. "I should not have let you go away without giving you her message."
"And you will let me bring you home afterwards?"
"We shall be delighted," she answered. "I shall be with Amy, of course."
He smiled as he raised his hat and let her pass in.
"The Baroness," he said, "is always kind."
He stood for a moment on the pavement. Then he glanced at his watch and hailed a cab.
"The Sheridan Club," he told the man. He had decided to appeal to the Colonel.
Wrayson was greeted enthusiastically, as he entered the club billiard-room, by a little circle of friends, unbroken except for the absence of Stephen Heneage. The Colonel came across and laid his hand affectionately on his arm.
"How goes it, Herbert?" he asked. "The seabreezes haven't tanned you much."
"I'm all right," Wrayson declared. "Had a capital time."
"You'll dine here to-night, Herbert?"
Wrayson shook his head.
"I meant to," he declared, "but another engagement's turned up. No! I don't want to play pool, Mason. Can't stop. Colonel, do me a favour."
The Colonel, who was always ready to do any one a favour, signified his willingness promptly enough. But even then Wrayson hesitated.
"I want to talk to you for a few minutes," he said, "without all these fellows round. Should you mind coming down into the smoking-room?"
The Colonel rose promptly from his seat.
"Not a bit in the world," he declared. "We'll go into the smoking-room. Scarcely a soul there. Much cooler, too. Bring your drink. See you boys later."
They found two easy-chairs in the smoking-room, of which they were the sole occupants. The Colonel cut off the end of his cigar and made himself comfortable.
"Now, my young friend," he said, "proceed."
Wrayson did not beat about the bush.
"It's about your daughter Louise, Colonel," he said. "She won't marry me!"
The Colonel pinched his cigar reflectively.
"She always was a most peculiar girl," he affirmed. "Does she give any reasons?"
"That's just what she won't do," Wrayson explained. "That's just why I've come to you. I—I—Colonel, I'm fond of her. I never expected to feel like it about any woman."
The Colonel nodded sympathetically.
"And although it may sound conceited to say so," Wrayson continued, "I believe—no! I'm sure that she's fond of me. She's admitted it. There!"
The Colonel smiled understandingly.
"Well." he said, "then where's the trouble? You don't want my consent. You know that."
"Louise won't marry me," Wrayson repeated. "That's the trouble. She won't explain her attitude. She simply declares that marriage for her is an impossibility."
The Colonel sighed.
"I'm afraid," he murmured, regretfully, "that my daughter is a fool."
"She is anything but that," Wrayson declared. "She has some scruple. What it is I can't imagine. Of course, at first I thought it was because we were, both of us, involved in that Morris Barnes affair. But I know now that it isn't that. Heneage, who threatened me, and indirectly her, has chucked the whole business. Such danger as there was is over. I—"
"Interrupting you for one moment," the Colonel said quietly, "what has become of Heneage?"
"He's in a very queer way," Wrayson answered. "You know he started on hot to solve this Morris Barnes business. He warned us both to get out of the country. Well, I saw him last night, and he was a perfect wreck. He looked like a man just recovering from a bout of dissipation, or something of the sort."
"Did you speak to him?" the Colonel asked.
"I was with him some time," Wrayson answered. "His manner was just as changed as his appearance."
The Colonel was looking, for him, quite grave. His cigar had gone out, and he forgot to relight it.
"Dear me," he said, "I am sorry to hear this. Did he allude to the Morris Barnes affair at all?"
"He did," Wrayson answered. "He gave me to understand, in fact, that he had discovered a little more than he wanted to."
The Colonel stretched out his hand for a match, and relit his cigar.
"You believe, then," he said, "that Heneage has succeeded in solving the mystery of Barnes' murder, and is keeping the knowledge to himself?"
"That was the conclusion I came to," Wrayson admitted.
The Colonel smoked for a moment or two in thoughtful silence.
"Well," he said, "it isn't like Heneage. I always looked upon him as a man without nerves, a man who would carry through any purpose he set himself to, without going to pieces about it. Shows how difficult it is to understand the most obvious of us."
Wrayson nodded.
"But after all," he said, "it wasn't to talk about Heneage that I brought you down here. What I want to know, Colonel, is if you can help me at all with Louise."
The Colonel's forehead was furrowed with perplexity.
"My dear Herbert," he declared, "there is no man in the world I would sooner have for a son-in-law. But what can I do? Louise wouldn't listen to me in any case. I haven't any authority or any influence over her. I say it to my sorrow, but it's the truth. If it were my little girl down at home, now, it would be a different matter. But Louise has taken her life into her own hands. She has not spoken to me for years. She certainly would not listen to my advice."
"Then if you cannot help me directly, Colonel," Wrayson continued, "can you help me indirectly? I have asked you a question something like this before, but I want to repeat it. I have told you that Louise refuses to marry me. She has something on her mind, some scruple, some fear. Can you form any idea as to what it may be?"
The Colonel was silent for an unusually long time. He was leaning back in his chair, looking up through the cloud of blue tobacco smoke to the ceiling. In reflection his features seemed to have assumed a graver and somewhat weary expression.
"Yes!" he said at last, "I think that I can."
Wrayson felt his heart jump. His eyes were brighter. An influx of new life seemed to have come to him. He leaned forward eagerly.
"You will tell me what it is, Colonel?" he begged.
The Colonel looked at him with a queer little smile.
"I am not sure that I can do that, Herbert," he said. "I am not sure that it would help you if I did. And you are asking me rather more than you know."
Wrayson felt a little chill of discouragement.
"Colonel," he said, "I am in your hands. But I love your daughter, and I swear that I would make her happy."
The Colonel looked at his watch.
"Do you know where Louise is?" he asked quietly.
"Number 17, Frederic Mansions, Battersea," Wrayson answered.
The Colonel rose to his feet.
"I will go down and see her," he said simply. "You had better wait here for me. I will come straight back."
"Colonel, you're a brick," Wrayson declared, walking with him towards the door.
"I'll do my best, Herbert," he answered quietly, "but I can't promise. I can't promise anything."
Wrayson watched him leave the club and step into a hansom. He walked a little more slowly than usual, his head was a little bent, and he passed a club acquaintance in the hall without his customary greeting. Wrayson retraced his steps and ascended towards the billiard-room, with his first enthusiasm a little damped. Was his errand, he wondered, so grievously distasteful to his old friend, or was the Colonel losing at last the magnificent elasticity and vigour which had kept him so long independent of the years?
There were others besides Wrayson who noticed a certain alteration in the Colonel when he re-entered the billiard-room an hour or so later. His usual greeting was unspoken, he sank a little heavily into a chair, and he called for a drink without waiting for some one to share it with him. They gathered round him sympathetically.
"Feeling the heat a bit, Colonel?"
"Anything wrong downstairs?"
The Colonel recovered himself promptly. He beamed upon them all affectionately, and set down an empty tumbler with a little sigh of satisfaction.
"I'm all right, boys," he declared. "I couldn't find a cab—had to walk further than I meant, and I wanted a drink badly. Wrayson, come over here. I want to talk to you."
Wrayson sat down by his side.
"I've done the best I could," the Colonel said. "Things may not come all right for you quite at once, but within a week I fancy it'll be all squared up. I've found out why she refused to marry you, and you can take my word for it that within a week the cause will be removed."
"You're a brick, Colonel," Wrayson declared heartily. "There's only one thing more I'd love to have you to tell me."
"I'm afraid—" the Colonel began.
"That you and Louise were reconciled," Wrayson declared. "Colonel, there can't be anything between you two, of all the people in the world, there can't be anything sufficient to keep you and her, father and daughter, completely apart."
"You are quite right, Wrayson," the Colonel assented, a little more cheerfully. "Well, you may find that all will come right very soon now. By the by, I've been talking to the Baroness. I want you to let me be at your rooms to-morrow night."
Wrayson hesitated for a moment.
"You know how we stand?" he asked.
"Exactly," the Colonel answered. "I only wish that I had known before. You will have no objection to my coming, I suppose?"
"None at all," Wrayson declared. "But, Colonel! there is one more question that I must ask you. Did Louise speak to you about her brother?"
The Colonel nodded.
"She blamed me, of course," he said slowly, "because I had never told her. It was his own desire, and I think that he was right. I have telegraphed for him to come over. He will be here to-night or to-morrow."
Wrayson left the club, feeling almost light-hearted. It was the old story over again—the Colonel to the rescue!
Sydney Barnes staggered into his apartment with a little exclamation of relief which was almost a groan. He slammed the door and sank into an easy-chair. With both his hands he was grasping it so that his fingers were hot and wet with perspiration. At last he had obtained his soul's desire!
He sat there for several minutes without moving. The blinds were close drawn and the room was in darkness. Gradually he began to be afraid. He rose, and with trembling fingers struck a match. On the corner of the table—fortunately he knew exactly where to find it—was a candle. He lit it, and holding it over his head, peered fearfully around. Convinced at last that he was alone, he set it down again, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and opening a cupboard in the chiffonnier, produced a bottle and a glass.
He poured out some spirits and drank it. Then, after rummaging for several moments in his coat pocket, he produced several crumpled cigarettes of a cheap variety. One of these he proceeded to smoke, whilst, with trembling fingers, he undid the packet which he had been carrying, and began a painstaking study of its contents. A delicate perfume stole out into the room from those closely pressed sheets, so eagerly clutched in his yellow-stained fingers. A little bunch of crushed violets slipped to the floor unheeded. Ghoul-like he bent over the pages of delicate writing, the intimate, passionate cry of a soul seeking for its mate. They were no ordinary love-letters. Mostly they were beyond the comprehension of the creature who spelt them out word for word, seeking all the time to appraise their exact monetary value to himself. But for what he had heard he would have found them disappointing. As it was, he gloated over them. Two thousand pounds a year his clever brother had earned by merely possessing them! He looked at them almost reverently. Then he suddenly remembered what else his brother had earned by their possession, and he shivered. A moment later the electric bell outside pealed, and there came a soft knocking at the door.
A little cry—half stifled—broke from his lips. With numbed and trembling fingers he began tying up the letters. The perspiration had broken out upon his forehead. Some one to see him! Who could it be? He was quite determined not to go to the door. He would let no one in. Again the bell! Soon they would get tired of ringing and go away. He was quite safe so long as he remained quiet. Quite safe, he told himself feverishly. Then his pulses seemed to stop beating. There was a rush of blood to his head. He clutched at the sides of his chair, but to rise was a sheer impossibility.
The thing which was terrifying him was a small thing in itself—the turning of a latch-key in the door. Before him on the table was his own—he knew of no other. Yet some one was opening, had opened his front door! He sprang to his feet at last with something which was almost a shriek. The door of the room in which he was, was slowly being pushed open. By the dim candlelight he could distinguish the figure of his visitor standing upon the threshold and peering into the room.
His impulse was, without doubt, one of relief. The figure was the figure of a complete stranger. Nor was there anything the least threatening about his appearance. He saw a tall, white-haired gentleman, carefully dressed with military exactitude, regarding him with a benevolent and apologetic smile.
"I really must apologize," he said, "for such an unceremonious entrance. I felt sure that you were in, but I am a trifle deaf, and I could not be sure whether or not the bell was ringing. So I ventured to use my own latch-key, with, as you are doubtless observing, complete success."
"Who are you, and what do you want?" Barnes asked, finding his voice at last.
"My name is Colonel Fitzmaurice," was the courteous reply. "You will allow me to sit down? I have the pleasure of conversing, I believe, with Mr. Sydney Barnes?"
"That's my name," Barnes answered. "What do you want with me?"
Despite his visitor's urbanity, he was still a little nervous. The Colonel had a somewhat purposeful air, and he had seated himself directly in front of the door.
"I want," the Colonel said calmly, "that packet which you have just stolen from Mrs. Morris Barnes, and which you have in your pocket there!"
Barnes rose at once, trembling, to his feet. His bead-like eyes were bright and venomous. He was terrified, but he had the courage of despair.
"I have stolen nothing," he declared, "I don't know what you're talking about. I won't listen to you. You have no right to force your way into my flat. Colonel or no colonel, I won't have it. I'll send for the police."
The Colonel smiled.
"No," he said, "don't do that. Besides, I know what I'm talking about. I mean the packet which I think I can see sticking out of your coat pocket. You have just stolen that from Mrs. Barnes' tin trunk, you know."
"I have stolen nothing," the young man declared, "nothing at all. I am not a thief. I am not afraid of the police."
The Colonel smiled tolerantly.
"That is good," he said. "I hate cowards. But I am going to make you very much afraid of me—unless you are wise and give me that packet."
Barnes breathed thickly for a moment. Coward he knew that he was to the marrow of his bones, but other of the evil passions were stirring in him then. His narrow eyes were alight with greed. He had the animal courage of vermin hard pressed.
"The packet is mine," he said fiercely. "It's nothing to do with you. Get out of my room."
He rose to his feet. The Colonel awaited him with equable countenance. He made, however, no advance.
"Young man," the Colonel said quietly, "do you know what happened to your brother?"
Sydney Barnes stood still and shivered. He could say nothing. His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth.
"Your brother was another of your breed," the Colonel continued. "A blackmailer! A low-living, evil-minded brute. Do you know how he came by those letters?"
"I don't know and I don't care," Barnes answered with a weak attempt at bluster. "They're mine now, and I'm going to stick to them."
The Colonel shook his head.
"He broke his trust to a dying man," he said softly,—"to a man who lay on the veldt at Colenso with three great wounds in his body, and his life's blood staining the ground. He had carried those letters into action with him, because they were precious to him. His last thought was that they should be destroyed. Your brother swore to do this. He broke his word. He turned blackmailer."
"You're very fond of that word," Barnes muttered. "How do you know so much?"
"The soldier was my son," the Colonel answered, "and he did not die. You see I have a right to those letters. Will you give them to me?"
Give them up! Give up all his hopes of affluence, his dreams of an easy life, of the cheap luxuries and riches which formed the Heaven of his desire! No! He was not coward enough for that. He did not believe that this mild-looking old gentleman would use force. Besides, he could not be very strong. He ought to be able to push him over and escape!
"No!" he answered bluntly, "I won't!"
The Colonel looked thoughtful.
"It is a pity," he said quietly. "I am sorry to hear you say that. Your brother, when I asked him, made the same reply."
Barnes felt himself suddenly grow hot and then cold. The perspiration stood out upon his forehead.
"I called upon your brother a few days before his death," the Colonel continued calmly. "I explained my claim to the letters and I asked him for them. He too refused! Do you remember, by the by, what happened to your brother?"
Sydney Barnes did not answer, but his cheeks were like chalk. His mouth was a little open, disclosing his yellow teeth. He stared at the Colonel with frightened, fascinated eyes.
"I can see," the Colonel continued, "that you remember. Young man," he added, with a curious alteration in his tone, "be wiser than your brother! Give me the packet."
"You killed him," the young man gasped. "It was you who killed Morris."
The Colonel nodded gravely.
"He had his chance," he said, "even as you have it."
There was a dead silence. The Colonel was waiting. Sydney Barnes was breathing hard. He was alone, then, with a murderer. He tried to speak, but found a difficulty in using his voice. It was a situation which might have abashed a bolder ruffian.
The Colonel rose to his feet.
"I am sorry to hurry you," he said, "but we are already late for our appointment with Wrayson and his friends."
Sydney Barnes snatched up the packet and retreated behind the table. The Colonel leaned forward and blew out the candle.
"I can see better in the dark," he remarked calmly. "You are a very foolish young man!"
Wrayson glanced at the clock for the twentieth time.
"I am afraid," he said gravely, "that Mr. Sydney Barnes has been one too many for us."
"Do you think," Louise asked, "that he has persuaded the girl to give him the packet?"
"It looks like it," Wrayson confessed.
Louise frowned.
"Of course," she said, "I think that you were mad to let her go before. She had the letters here in the room. You would have been perfectly justified in taking them from her."
"I suppose so," Wrayson assented, doubtfully. "Somehow she seemed to get the upper hand of us towards the end. I think she suspected that some of us knew more than we cared to tell her about—her husband's death."
Louise shivered a little and remained silent. Wrayson walked to the window and back.
"To tell you the truth," he said, "I expected some one else here to-night who has failed to turn up."
"Who is that?" the Baroness asked.
Wrayson hesitated for a moment and glanced towards Louise.
"Colonel Fitzmaurice," he said.
Louise seemed to turn suddenly rigid. She looked at him steadfastly for a moment without speaking.
"My father," she murmured at last.
Wrayson nodded.
"Yes!" he said.
"But—what has he to do with this?" Louise asked, with her eyes fixed anxiously, almost fearfully, upon his.
"I went to him for advice," Wrayson said quietly. "He has been always very kind, and I thought it possible that he might be able to help us. He promised to be here at the same hour as the others. Listen! There is the bell at last."
The Colonel entered the room. Louise half rose to her feet. Wrayson hastened to meet him.
"Herbert," he said, with an affectionate smile, "forgive me for being a little late. Baroness, I am delighted to see you—and Louise."
The Baroness held out both her hands, which the Colonel raised gallantly to his lips. Louise he greeted with a fatherly and unembarrassed smile.
"I must apologize to all of you," he said, "but perhaps this will be my best excuse."
He took the packet from his breast pocket and handed it over to the Baroness. The room seemed filled with exclamations. The Colonel beamed upon them all.
"Quite simple," he declared. "I have just taken them from Mr. Sydney Barnes upstairs. He, in his turn, took them from—"
The door was suddenly opened. Mrs. Morris Barnes rushed into the room and gazed wildly around.
"Where is he?" she exclaimed. "He has robbed me. The little beast! He got into my rooms while I was out."
The Colonel led her gallantly to a chair.
"Calm yourself, my dear young lady," he said.
"Where is he?" she cried. "Has he been here?"
The Colonel shook his head.
"He is in his room upstairs, but," he said, "I should not advise you to go to him."
"He has my packet—Augustus' packet," she cried, springing up.
The Colonel laid his hand upon her arm.
"No!" he said, "that packet has been restored to its rightful owner."
She rose to her feet, trembling with anger. The Colonel motioned her to resume her seat.
"Come," he said, "so far as you are concerned, you have nothing to complain of. You offered, I believe, to give it up yourself on one condition."
She looked at him with sudden eagerness.
"Well?" she cried, impatiently.
"That condition," he said, "shall be complied with."
She looked into his face with strange intentness.
"You mean," she said slowly, "that I shall know who it was that killed my husband?"
"Yes!" the Colonel answered.
A sudden cry rang through the room. Louise was on her feet. She came staggering towards them, her hands outstretched.
"No!" she screamed, "no! Father, you are mad! Send the woman away!"
He smiled at her deprecatingly.
"My dear Louise!" he exclaimed, "our word has been passed to this young woman. Besides," he added, "circumstances which have occurred within the last hour with our young friend upstairs would probably render an explanation imperative! I am sorry for your sake, my dear young lady," he continued, turning to Mrs. Barnes, "to have to tell you this, but if you insist upon knowing, it was I who killed your husband."
Louise fell back into her chair and covered her face with her hands. The Baroness looked shocked but not surprised. Wrayson, dumb and unnerved, had staggered back, and was leaning against the table. Mrs. Barnes had already taken a step towards the door. She was very pale, but her eyes were ablaze. Incredulity struggled with her passionate desire for vengeance.
"You!" she exclaimed. "What should you want to kill him for?"
The Colonel sighed regretfully.
"My dear young lady," he said, "it is very painful for me to have to be so explicit, but the situation demands it. I killed him because he was unfit to live—because he was a blackmailer of women, an unclean liver, a foul thing upon the face of the earth."
"It's a damned lie!" the girl hissed. "He was good to me, and you shall swing for it!"
The Colonel looked genuinely distressed.
"I am afraid," he said, "that you are prejudiced. If he was, as you say, kind to you, it was for his own pleasure. Believe me, I made a careful study of his character before I decided that he must go."
She looked at him with fierce curiosity.
"Are you a god," she demanded, "that you should have power of life or death? Who are you to set yourself up as a judge?"
"Pray do not believe," he begged, "that I arrogate to myself any such position. Only, unfortunately, as regards your late husband's character there could be no mistake, and concerning such men as he I have very strong convictions."
Wrayson, who had recovered himself a little, laid his hand upon the Colonel's shoulder.
"Colonel," he said hoarsely, "you're not serious! You can't be! Be careful. This woman means mischief. She will take you at your word."
"How else should she take me?" the Colonel asked calmly. "I suppose her prejudice in favour of this man was natural, but all I can say is that, under similar circumstances, I should act to-day precisely as I did on the night when I found him about to sell a woman's honour, for money to minister to the degraded pleasures of his life."
The woman leaned towards him, venomous and passionate.
"You're a nice one to preach, you are," she cried hysterically, "you, with a man's blood upon your hands! You, a murderer! Degraded indeed! What were his poor sins compared with yours?"
The Colonel shook his head sadly.
"I am afraid, my dear young lady," he said, "that I should never be able to convert you to my point of view. You are naturally prejudiced, and when I consider that I have failed to convince my own daughter"—he glanced towards Louise—"of the soundness of my views, it goes without saying that I should find you also unsympathetic. You are anxious, I see, to leave us. Permit me!"
He held open the door for her with grave courtesy, but Wrayson pushed him aside. He had recovered himself to some extent, but he still felt as though he were moving in some horrible dream.
"Colonel!" he exclaimed hoarsely, "you know what this means! You know where she will go!"