"I think that we might as well go," he said. "Mr. Bentham does not mean to tell us anything more." Barnes moved slowly towards the door, but with reluctance manifested in his sullen face and manner. "I don't know how I'm going to set about this job," he said, turning once more towards the lawyer. "I shall do what I can, but you haven't seen the last of me, yet, Mr. Bentham. If I fail, I shall come back to you." The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. He was already absorbed in other work. CHAPTER XVI A DINNER IN THE STRAND Wrayson was conscious, from the moment they left Mr. Bentham's office, of a change in the deportment of the young man who walked by his side. A variety of evil passions had developed one at least more tolerable--he was learning the lesson of self-restraint. He did not speak until they reached the corner of the street. "Where can we get a drink?" he asked, almost abruptly. "I want some brandy." Wrayson took him to a bar close by. They sat in a quiet corner. "I want to ask you something," he said, leaning halfway over the little table between them. "How much do you know about the lady who came into my brother's flat when we were there?" The direct significance of the question startled Wrayson. This young man was beginning to think. "How much do I know of her?" he repeated. "Very little." "She is really a Baroness--not one of these faked-up ones?" "She is undoubtedly the Baroness de Sturm," Wrayson answered, a little stiffly. "And she has plenty of coin?" "Certainly," Wrayson answered. "She is a great lady, I believe, in her own country." Barnes struck the table softly with the flat of his hand. His eyes were searching for his answer in Wrayson's face, almost before the words had left his lips. "Do you believe then," he asked, "that a woman like that wrote love-letters to Morris? You knew Morris. He was what those sort of people call a bounder. Same as me! If he knew her at all it was a wonder. I can't believe in the love-letters." Wrayson shrugged his shoulders. "The whole affair," he declared, "everything connected with your brother, is so mysterious that I really don't know what to say." "You knew Morris," the young man persisted. "You know the Baroness. Set 'em down side by side. They don't go, eh? You know that. Morris could tog himself up as much as he liked, and he was always a good 'un at that when he had the brass, but he'd never be able to make himself her sort. And if she's a real lady, and wasn't after the brass, then I don't believe that she ever wrote him love-letters. What?" Wrayson said nothing. The young man held out his empty glass to a waiter.