OUTCAST The room into which a waiting man servant showed them was large and handsomely furnished. Whisky and soda, wine and sandwiches were upon the sideboard. The Baroness, stopping only to light a cigarette, moved towards the door. "I shall return," she said, "in a quarter of an hour." She looked for a moment steadily at her friend, and then turned away. Louise strolled to the sideboard and helped herself to a sandwich. "Come and forage, won't you?" she asked carelessly. "There are some _pâté_ sandwiches here, and you want whisky and soda, of course--or do you prefer brandy?" "Neither, thanks!" Wrayson answered firmly. "I want what I came for. Please sit down here and answer my questions." She laughed a little mockingly, and turning round, faced him, her head thrown back, her eyes meeting his unflinchingly. The light from a rose-shaded electric lamp glittered upon her hair. She was wearing black again, and something in her appearance and attitude almost took his breath away. It reminded him of the moment when he had seen her first. "First," she said, "I am going to ask you a question. Why did you do it?" "Do what?" he asked. She gave vent to a little gesture of impatience. He must know quite well what she meant. "Why did you give evidence at the inquest and omit all mention of me?" "I don't know," he answered bluntly. "You have committed yourself to a story," she reminded him, "which is certainly not altogether a truthful one. You have run a great risk, apparently to shield me. Why?" "I suppose because I am a fool," he answered bitterly. She shook her head. "No!" she declared, "that is not the reason." He moved a step nearer to her. "If I were to admit my folly," he said, "what difference would it make--if I were to tell you that I did it to save you--the inconvenience of an examination into the motive for your presence in Morris Barnes' rooms that night--what then?" "It was generous of you," she declared softly. "I ought to thank you." "I want no thanks," he answered, almost roughly. "I want to know that I was justified in what I did. I want you to tell me what you were doing there alone in the rooms of such a man, with a stolen key. And I want you to tell me what you know about his death." "Is that all?" she asked. "Isn't it enough?" he declared savagely. "It is enough to be making an old man of me, anyhow." "You have a right to ask these questions," she admitted slowly, "and I have no right to refuse to answer them." "None at all," he declared. "You shall answer them." There was a moment's silence. She leaned a little further back against the sideboard. Her eyes were fixed upon his, but her face was inscrutable. "I cannot," she said slowly. "I can tell you nothing."