AN ILL-ASSORTED COUPLE
Wrayson looked anxiously at his watch. It was already ten minutes past
nine, and although he was standing on the precise spot indicated, there
was no one about who in the least resembled the young woman of whom he
was in search. The overture to the ballet was being played, a good many
people were strolling about, or seated at the small round tables, but
they were all of the usual class, the ladies ornate and obvious, and all
having the air of _habitués_. In vain Wrayson scanned the faces of the
passers-by, and even the occupants of the back seats. There was no sign
of the young woman of whom he was in search.
Presently he began to stroll somewhat aimlessly about, still taking note
of every one amongst the throng, and in a little while he caught sight of
a familiar figure, sitting alone at one of the small round tables. He
accosted him at once.
"How are you, Heneage?" he said quietly. "What are you doing in town at
this time of the year?"
Heneage started when he was addressed, and his manner, when he recognized
Wrayson, lacked altogether its usual composure.
"I'm all right," he answered. "Beastly hot in town, though, isn't it? I'm
off in a day or two. Where have you been to?"
"North of France," Wrayson answered. "You look as though you wanted
a change!"
"I'm going to Scotland directly I can get away."
The two men looked at one another for a moment. Heneage was certainly
looking ill. There were dark lines under his eyes, and his face seemed
thinner. Then, too, he was still in his morning clothes, his tie was ill
arranged, and his linen not unexceptionable. Wrayson was puzzled.
Something had gone wrong with the man.
"You see," he said quietly, "I have been forced to disregard your
warning. I shall be in England for some little time at any rate. May I
ask, am I in any particular danger?"
Heneage shook his head.
"Not from me, at any rate!"
Wrayson looked at him for a moment steadily.
"Do you mean that, Heneage?" he asked.
"Yes!"
"You are satisfied, then, that neither I nor the young lady had
anything to do with the death of Morris Barnes?" Heneage moved in his
chair uneasily.
"Yes!" he answered. "Don't talk to me about that damned business," he
added, with a little burst of half-suppressed passion. "I've done with
it. Come and have a drink."
Wrayson drew a sigh of relief. Perhaps, for the first time, he realized
how great a weight this thing had been upon his spirits. He had feared
Heneage!--not this man, but the cold, capable Stephen Heneage of his
earlier acquaintance; feared him not only for his own sake, but hers.
After all, his visit to the Alhambra had brought some good to him.
Heneage had risen to his feet.
"We'll go into the American bar," he said. "Not here. The women fuss
round one so. I'm glad you've turned up, Wrayson. I've got the hump!"
The bar was crowded, but they found a quiet corner. Heneage ordered a
large brandy and soda, and drunk half of it at a gulp.
"How's every one?" Wrayson asked. "I haven't been in the club yet."
"All right, I believe. I haven't been in myself for a week,"
Heneage answered.
Wrayson looked at him in surprise.
"Haven't been in the club for a week?" he repeated. "That's rather
unusual, isn't it?"
"Damn it all! I'm not obliged to go there, am I?" Heneage
exclaimed testily.
Wrayson looked at him in amazement. Heneage, as a rule, was one of the
most deliberate and even-tempered of men.
"Of course not," he answered. "You won't mind telling me how the Colonel
is, though, will you?"
"I believe he is very well," Heneage answered, more calmly. "He doesn't
come up to town so often this hot weather. Forgive me for being a bit
impatient, old fellow. I've got a fit of nerves, I think."
"You want a change," Wrayson said earnestly. "There's no doubt
about that."
"I am going away very soon," Heneage answered. "As soon as I can get off.
I don't mind telling you, Wrayson, that I've had a shock, and it has
upset me."
Wrayson nodded sympathetically.
"All right, old chap," he said. "I'm beastly sorry, but if you take my
advice, you'll get out of London as soon as you can. Go to Trouville or
Dinard, or some place where there's plenty of life. I shouldn't busy
myself in the country, if I were you. By the bye," he added, "there is
one more question I should like to ask you, if you don't mind."
Heneage called a waiter and ordered more drinks. Then he turned to
Wrayson.
"Well," he said, "go on!"
"About that little brute, Barnes' brother. Is he about still?"
Heneage's face darkened. He clenched his fist, but recovered himself with
a visible effort.
"Yes!" he answered shortly, "he is about. He is everywhere. The little
brute haunts me! He dogs my footsteps, Wrayson. Sometimes I wonder that I
don't sweep him off the face of the earth."
"But why?" Wrayson asked. "What does he want with you?"
"I will tell you," Heneage answered. "When he first turned up, I was
interested in his story, as you know. We commenced working at the thing
together. You understand, Wrayson?"
"Perfectly!"
"Well--after a while it suited me--to drop it. Perhaps I told him so a
little abruptly. At any rate, he was disappointed. Now he has got an idea
in his brain. He believes that I have discovered something which I will
not tell him. He follows me about. He pesters me to death. He is a slave
to that one idea--a hideous, almost unnatural craving to get his hands
on the source of his brother's money. I think that he will very soon be
mad. To tell you the truth, I came in here to-night because I thought I
should be safe from him. I don't believe he has five shillings to get in
the place."
Wrayson lit a cigarette and smoked for a moment in silence. Then he
turned towards his companion.
"Heneage," he said, "I don't want to annoy you, but you must remember
that this matter means a good deal to me. I am forced to ask you a
question, and you must answer it. Have you really found anything out? You
don't often give a thing up without a reason."
Heneage answered him with greater composure than he had expected, though
perhaps to less satisfactory effect.
"Look here, Wrayson," he said, "you appreciate plain speaking,
don't you?"
Wrayson nodded. Heneage continued:
"You can go to hell with your questions! You understand that? It's
plain English."
"Admirably simple," Wrayson answered, "and perfectly satisfactory."
"What do you mean?"
"It answers my question," Wrayson declared quietly.
Heneage shrugged his shoulders.
"You can get what satisfaction you like out of it," he said doggedly.
"It isn't much," Wrayson admitted. "I wish I could induce you to treat me
a little more generously."
Heneage looked at him with a curious gleam in his eyes.
"Look here," he said. "Take my advice. Drop the whole affair. You see
what it's made of me. It'll do the same to you. I shan't tell you
anything! You can swear to that. I've done with it, Wrayson, done with
it! You understand that? Talk about something else, or leave me alone!"
Wrayson looked at the man whom he had once called his friend.
"You're in a queer sort of mood, Heneage," he said.
"Let it go at that," Heneage answered. "Every man has a right to his
moods, hasn't he? No right to inflict them upon his friends, you'd say!
Perhaps not, but you know I'm a reasonable person as a rule.
Don't--don't--"
He broke off abruptly in his sentence. His eyes were fixed upon a distant
corner of the room. Their expression was unfathomable, but Wrayson
shuddered as he looked away and followed their direction. Then he, too,
started. He recognized the miserable little figure whose presence a group
just broken up left revealed. Heneage rose softly to his feet.
"Let us go before he sees us," he whispered hurriedly. "Look sharp!"
But they were too late. Already he was on his way towards them, shambling
rather than walking down the room, an unwholesome, unattractive, even
repulsive figure. He seemed to have shrunken in size since his arrival in
England, and his brother's clothes, always too large, hung about him
loose and ungraceful. His tie was grimy; his shirt frayed; his trousers
turned up, but still falling over his heels; his hat, too large for him,
came almost to his ears. In the increased pallor and thinness of his
face, his dark eyes seemed to have come nearer together. He would have
been a ludicrous object but for the intense earnestness of his
expression. He came towards them with rapidly blinking eyes. He took no
notice of Heneage, but he insisted upon shaking hands with Wrayson.
"Mr. Wrayson," he said, "I am glad to see you again, sir. You always
treated me like a gentleman. Not like him," he added, motioning with his
head towards Heneage. "He's a thief, he is!"
"Steady," Wrayson interrupted, "you mustn't call people names like that."
"Why not?" Barnes asked. "He is a thief. He knows it. He knows who robbed
me of my money. And he won't tell. That's what I call being a thief."
Wrayson glanced towards Heneage and was amazed at his demeanour. He had
shrunk back in his chair, and he was sitting with his hands in his
pockets and his eyes fixed upon the table. Of the two, his miserable
little accuser was the dominant figure.
"He's very likely spending it now--my money!" Barnes continued. "Here
am I living on crusts and four-penny dinners, and begging my way in
here, and some one else is spending my money. Never mind! It may be my
turn yet! It may be only a matter of hours," he added, leaning over
towards them and showing his yellow teeth, "and I may have the laugh on
both of you."
Heneage looked up quickly. He was obviously discomposed.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Sydney Barnes indulged in the graceless but expressive proceeding of
sticking his tongue in his cheek. After which he turned to Wrayson.
"Mr. Wrayson," he said, "lend me a quid. I've got the flat to sleep in
for a few more weeks, but I haven't got money enough for a meal. I'll pay
you back some day--perhaps before you expect it."
Wrayson produced a sovereign and handed it over silently.
"If I were you," he said, "I'd spend my time looking for a situation,
instead of hunting about for this supposed fortune of your brother's."
Barnes took the sovereign with hot, trembling fingers, and deposited it
carefully in his waistcoat pocket. Then he smiled in a somewhat
mysterious manner.
"Mr. Wrayson," he said, "perhaps I'm not so far off, after all. Other
people can find out what he knows," he added, pointing at Heneage. "He
ain't the only one who can see through a brick wall. Say, Mr. Wrayson,
you've always treated me fair and square," he added, leaning towards him
and dropping his voice. "Can you tell me this? Did Morry ever go
swaggering about calling himself by any other name--bit more tony, eh?"
Wrayson started. For a moment he did not reply. Thoughts were rushing
through his brain. Was he forestalled in his search for this girl?
Meanwhile, Barnes watched him with a cunning gleam in his deep-set eyes.
"Such as Augustus Howard, eh? Real tony name that for Morry!"
Wrayson, with a sudden instinctive knowledge, brushed him on one side,
and half standing up, gazed across the room at the corner from which his
questioner had come. With her back against the wall, her cheap prettiness
marred by her red eyes, her ill-arranged hair, and ugly hat, sat, beyond
a doubt, the girl for whom he had waited in the promenade.