Wrayson rose to his feet. The Baron and Duncan followed his example. They took leave of the ladies and turned towards the promenade. "I'm going to London by the morning boat," Wrayson announced. "I believe I'm on the track of those letters." They walked up and down for a few moments talking. As they passed the front of the hotel, they heard a shrill peal of laughter. Blanche and her friend were talking to a little group of men. The Baron smiled. "We have broken the ice for them," he said, "but I am afraid that we are already forgotten." CHAPTER XXXIV AN ILL-ASSORTED COUPLE Wrayson looked anxiously at his watch. It was already ten minutes past nine, and although he was standing on the precise spot indicated, there was no one about who in the least resembled the young woman of whom he was in search. The overture to the ballet was being played, a good many people were strolling about, or seated at the small round tables, but they were all of the usual class, the ladies ornate and obvious, and all having the air of _habitués_. In vain Wrayson scanned the faces of the passers-by, and even the occupants of the back seats. There was no sign of the young woman of whom he was in search. Presently he began to stroll somewhat aimlessly about, still taking note of every one amongst the throng, and in a little while he caught sight of a familiar figure, sitting alone at one of the small round tables. He accosted him at once. "How are you, Heneage?" he said quietly. "What are you doing in town at this time of the year?" Heneage started when he was addressed, and his manner, when he recognized Wrayson, lacked altogether its usual composure. "I'm all right," he answered. "Beastly hot in town, though, isn't it? I'm off in a day or two. Where have you been to?" "North of France," Wrayson answered. "You look as though you wanted a change!" "I'm going to Scotland directly I can get away." The two men looked at one another for a moment. Heneage was certainly looking ill. There were dark lines under his eyes, and his face seemed thinner. Then, too, he was still in his morning clothes, his tie was ill arranged, and his linen not unexceptionable. Wrayson was puzzled. Something had gone wrong with the man. "You see," he said quietly, "I have been forced to disregard your warning. I shall be in England for some little time at any rate. May I ask, am I in any particular danger?" Heneage shook his head. "Not from me, at any rate!" Wrayson looked at him for a moment steadily. "Do you mean that, Heneage?" he asked. "Yes!" "You are satisfied, then, that neither I nor the young lady had anything to do with the death of Morris Barnes?" Heneage moved in his chair uneasily. "Yes!" he answered. "Don't talk to me about that damned business," he added, with a little burst of half-suppressed passion. "I've done with it. Come and have a drink."