"Wrayson," he said, "I am sorry that you should use that tone with me. I am no moralist. I admit frankly that I take this matter up because my personal tastes prompt me to. But murder, however great the provocation, is an indefensible thing." "I am not seeking to justify it," Wrayson declared. "I am glad to hear that," Heneage answered. "I cannot believe, either, that you would shield any one directly or indirectly connected with such a crime. I am going to ask you, therefore, to tell me what Miss Deveney was doing in these flats on that particular evening." Wrayson was silent. In the light of what he had just been told about the Baroness, he knew very well how Heneage would regard the truth. Of course, she was innocent, innocent of the deed itself and of all knowledge of it. But Heneage did not know her; he would be hard to convince. So Wrayson shook his head. "I can tell you nothing," he said. "I admit frankly my sympathies are not with you. I should not say a word likely to bring even inconvenience upon Miss Deveney." "Dare you tell me," Heneage asked calmly, "that her visit was to you? No! I thought not," he added, as Wrayson remained silent. "I believe that that young lady could solve the mystery of Morris Barnes' death, if she chose." Then Wrayson had an idea. At any rate, the disclosure would do no harm. "Do you know who Miss Deveney is?" he asked. Heneage looked across at him quickly. "Do you?" "Yes! She is the eldest daughter of the Colonel!" "Our Colonel?" Heneage exclaimed. Wrayson nodded. "Her real name is Miss Fitzmaurice," he said. "Her mother's name was Deveney." Heneage looked incredulous. "Are you sure about this?" he asked. "Absolutely," Wrayson answered. "I saw her picture the day of the garden party, and I recognized her at once. There is no doubt about it whatever. She and the Baroness were schoolfellows in Brussels. There is no mystery about their friendship at all." Heneage was thoughtful for several moments. "This is interesting," he said at last, "but it does not, of course, affect the situation." "You mean that you will go on just the same?" Wrayson demanded. "Certainly! And it rests with you to say whether you will be on my side or theirs," Heneage declared. "If you are on mine, you will tell me what Miss Deveney was doing in these flats on that night of all others. If you are on theirs, you will go and warn them that I am determined to solve the mystery of Morris Barnes' death--at all costs." "I had no idea," Wrayson remarked quietly, "that you were ambitious to shine as an amateur policeman."