The Colonel took his cigar from his mouth, and leaned forward in his chair. He had the appearance of a man who was striving to appear more grave than he felt. "You remember the old chap we saw dining at Luigi's to-night--Bentham, I think you said his name was?" Wrayson nodded. "Of course! What about him?" "He's dead!" the Colonel declared. Wrayson jumped out of his chair. "Nonsense!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean it, Colonel!" "Unfortunately, I do," the Colonel answered. "He was found dead on the stairs leading to his office, about ten o'clock to-night. A most interesting case. The murder, presuming it was a murder, appears to have been committed--" Wrayson was suddenly pale. "Murder!" he repeated. "Colonel, do you mean this?" The Colonel, who hated being interrupted, answered a little testily. "My dear Wrayson," he expostulated, "is this the sort of thing a man invents for fun? Do listen for a moment, if you can, in patience. It is a deeply interesting case. If you remember, it was about nine o'clock when we left Luigi's; Bentham must have gone almost straight to his office, for he was found there dead a very few minutes after ten." "Who killed him, and why?" Wrayson asked breathlessly. "That, I suppose, we shall know later," the Colonel answered. "The police will be on their mettle this time, but it isn't a particularly easy case. He was found lying on his face, stabbed through the heart. That is all anybody knows." The thoughts went rushing through Wrayson's brain. He remembered the man as he had seemed only a few hours ago, cold, stonily indifferent to young Barnes' passionate questions, inflexibly silent, a man who might easily kindle hatreds, to all appearance without a soft spot or any human feeling. He remembered the close of their interview, and Sydney Barnes' rash threat. The suggested idea clothed itself almost unconsciously with words. "I have just seen young Barnes," he said. "He has been at the Empire all the evening." The Colonel lit another cigar. "It takes a man of nerve and deliberation," he remarked, "to commit a murder. From what I have heard of him, I should not imagine your young friend to be possessed of either. The lady whom he was entertaining, or rather failing to entertain, at dinner--" "I have seen her since," Wrayson interrupted shortly. "She went straight to the Alhambra." The Colonel nodded. "I would have insured her against even suspicion," he remarked. "She was a large, placid woman, of the flabby order of nerves. She will probably faint when she hears what has happened. She might box a man's ears, but her arm would never drive a dagger home into his heart, especially with such beautiful, almost mathematical accuracy. We must look elsewhere, I fancy, for the person who has paid Bentham's debt to society. Heneage, here, has an interesting theory."