Wrayson looked across and found that his eyes met Heneage's. He was sitting a little in the background, with a newspaper in his hand, which he was, however, only affecting to read. He was taking note of every word of the conversation. He was obviously annoyed at the Colonel's reference to him, but he did his best to conceal it. "Scarcely a theory," he remarked, laying down his paper for a moment. "I can hardly call it that. I only remarked that I happened to know a little about Bentham, and that his clients, if he had any, were mostly foreigners, and their business of a shady nature. As a matter of fact, he was struck off the rolls here some years ago. I forget the case now, but I know that it was a pretty bad one." "So you see," the Colonel resumed, "he was probably in touch with a loose lot, though what benefit his death could have been to any one it is, of course, a little hard to imagine. Makes one think, somehow, of this Morris Barnes affair, doesn't it? I wonder if there is any connection between the two." Heneage laid down his paper now, and abandoned his attitude of indifferent listener. He was obviously listening for what Wrayson had to say. "Connection of some sort between the two men there certainly was," Wrayson admitted. "We know that." "Exactly," Heneage remarked. "I speak without knowing very much about the matter, but I am thoroughly convinced of one thing. If you can find the murderer of Morris Barnes, you will solve, at the same time, the mystery of Bentham's death. It is the same affair; part and parcel of the same tangle." The Colonel was silent for a few moments. He seemed to be reflecting on Heneage's words. "I believe you are right," he said at last. "I should be curious to know, though, how you arrived at this decision." Heneage looked past him at Wrayson. "You should ask Wrayson," he said. But Wrayson had risen, and was sauntering towards the door. "I'm off," he remarked, looking backwards and nodding his farewells. "If I stay here any longer, I shall have nightmare. Time you fellows were in bed, too. How's the Malleni fund, Colonel?" The Colonel's face relaxed. A smile of genuine pleasure lit up his features. "Going strong," he declared triumphantly. "We shall ship him off for Italy next week with a very tidy little cheque in his pocket. Dear old Dobson gave us ten pounds, and the concert fund is turning out well." Wrayson lit a cigarette and looked back from the open door. "You're more at home with philanthropy than horrors, Colonel," he remarked. "Good night, everybody!" CHAPTER XXI THE FLIGHT OF LOUISE