"I think," he said, "that it is the sense of personal contact in a case like this which stirs the blood. I have memories about that night, Colonel, which I couldn't describe to you--or any one. And now this young brother coming on the scene seems to bring the dead man to life again. He's one of the worst type of young bounders I ever came into contact with. A creature without sentiment or feeling of any sort--nothing but an almost ravenous cupidity. He's wearing his brother's clothes now--thinks nothing of it! He hasn't a single regret. I haven't heard a single decent word pass his lips. But he wants the money. Nothing else! The money!" "Do you believe," the Colonel asked, "that he will get it?" "Who can tell?" Wrayson answered. "That Morris Barnes was in possession of valuables of some sort, everything goes to prove. Just think of the number of people who have shown their interest in him. There is Bentham and his mysterious client, the Baroness de Sturm and your daughter, and--the person who murdered him. Apparently, even though he lost his life, Barnes was too clever for them, for his precious belongings must still be undiscovered." The Colonel finished his wine and leaned back in his chair. "I am tired of this subject," he said. "I should like to get back to the club." Wrayson called for the bill a little unwillingly. He was, in a sense, disappointed at the Colonel's attitude. "Very well," he said, "we will bury it. But before we do so, there is one thing I have had it in my mind to say--for some time. I want to say it now. It is about your daughter, Colonel!" The Colonel looked at him curiously. "My daughter?" he repeated, under his breath. Wrayson leaned a little forward. Something new had come into his face. This was the first time he had suffered such words to pass his lips--almost the first time he had suffered such thoughts to form themselves in his mind. "I never looked upon myself," he said quietly, "as a particularly impulsive person. Yet it was an impulse which prompted me to conceal the truth as to her presence in the flat buildings that night. It was a serious thing to do, and somehow I fancy that the end is not yet." "Why did you do it?" the Colonel asked. "You did not know who she was. It could not have been that." "Why did I do it?" Wrayson repeated. "I can't tell you. I only know that I should do it again and again if the need came. If I told you exactly how I felt, it would sound like rot. But I'm going to ask you that question." "Well?" The Colonel's grey eyebrows were drawn together. His eyes were keen and bright. So he might have looked in time of stress; but he was not in the least like the genial idol of the Sheridan billiard-room. "If I came to you to-morrow," Wrayson said, "and told you that I had met at last the woman whom I wished to make my wife, and that woman was your daughter, what should you say?" "I should be glad," the Colonel answered simply.