The Colonel was in the act of helping himself to _hors d'oeuvre._ His fork remained suspended for a moment in the air. Then he set it down with trembling fingers. The cheery light had faded from his face. He seemed suddenly older. His voice sounded unnatural. "Heneage!" he repeated, sharply. "Stephen Heneage! What affair is it of his?" "None," Wrayson answered. "He likes that sort of thing, that's all. He saw--your daughter with a lady--the Baroness de Sturm, and the seeing them together, after he had watched her come out of the flat that night, seemed to suggest something to him. He warned me that he had made up his mind to solve the mystery of Morris Barnes' murder; he advised me, in fact, to clear out. And now, since then--" The waiter brought the soup. Wrayson broke off and talked for a moment or two to the _maître d'hôtel,_ who had paused at their table. Presently, when they were alone, he went on. "Since then, a young brother of Barnes has turned up from South Africa. There was some mystery about Morris Barnes and the source of his income. The brother is just as determined to solve this as Heneage seems to be to discover the--the murderer! They will work together, and I am afraid! Not for myself! You know for whom." The Colonel was very grave. He ate slowly, and he seemed to be thinking. "There is one man, a solicitor named Bentham," Wrayson continued, "who I believe knows everything. But I do not think that even Heneage will be able to make him speak. His connection with the affair is on behalf of a mysterious client. Young Barnes and I went to see him this afternoon, but beyond encouraging the boy to search for the source of his brother's income, he wouldn't open his mouth." "A solicitor named Bentham," the Colonel repeated mechanically. "Ah!" "Do you know him?" Wrayson asked. "I have heard of him," the Colonel answered. "A most disreputable person, I believe. He has offices in the Adelphi." Wrayson nodded. "And whatever his business is," he continued, "it isn't the ordinary business of a solicitor. He has no clerks--not even an office boy!" The Colonel poured himself out a glass of wine. "No clerks--not even an office boy! It all agrees with what I have heard. A bad lot, Wrayson, I am afraid--a thoroughly bad lot. Are you sure that up to now he has kept his own counsel?" "I am sure of it," Wrayson answered. The Colonel seemed in some measure to have recovered himself. He looked Wrayson in the face, and though grave, his expression was decidedly more natural. "Herbert," he asked, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, "who do you believe murdered Morris Barnes?" "God knows," Wrayson answered. "Do you believe--that--my daughter had any hand in it?" "No!" Wrayson declared fiercely. The Colonel was silent for a moment. He seemed to be contemplating the label on the bottle of claret which reposed in its cradle by their side.