The Avenger
by
E. Phillips Oppenheim
Part 3 out of 6
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.
"And yet," he said thoughtfully, "she would necessarily be involved in
any disclosures which were made."
"And so should I," Wrayson declared. "And those two, Sydney Barnes and
Heneage, mean to bring about disclosures. That is why I felt that I must
talk to some one about this. Colonel, can't you get your daughter to tell
us the whole truth--what she was doing in Barnes' flat that night, and
all the rest of it? We should be forewarned then!"
The Colonel covered his face with his hand for a moment. The question
obviously distressed him.
"I can't, Herbert," he said, in a low tone. "You would scarcely think,
would you, that I was the sort of man to live on irreconcilable terms
with one of my own family? But there it is. Don't think hardly of her. It
is more the fault of circumstances than her fault. But I couldn't go to
see her--and she wouldn't come to see me."
Wrayson sighed.
"It is like the rest of this cursed mystery, utterly incomprehensible,"
he declared. "I shall never--"
With his glass half raised to his lips, he paused suddenly in his
sentence. His face became a study in the expression of a boundless
amazement. His eyes were fastened upon the figures of two people on their
way up the room, preceded by the smiling _ma�tre d'h�tel._ Some words, or
rather an exclamation, broke incoherently from his lips. He set down his
glass hurriedly, and a stain of red wine crept unheeded across the
tablecloth.
"Look," he whispered hoarsely,--"look!"
CHAPTER XVII
A CONFESSION OF LOVE
The Colonel turned bodily round in his chair. The couple to whom Wrayson
had drawn his attention were certainly incongruous enough to attract
notice anywhere. The man was lank, elderly, and of severe appearance. He
was bald, he had slight side-whiskers, he wore spectacles, and his face
was devoid of expression. He was dressed in plain dinner clothes of
old-fashioned cut. The tails of his coat were much too short, his collar
belonged to a departed generation, and his tie was ready made. In a small
Scotch town he might have passed muster readily enough as the clergyman
or lawyer of the place. As a diner at Luigi's, ushered up the room to the
soft strains of "La Mattchiche," and followed by such a companion, he was
almost ridiculously out of place. If anything, she was the more
noticeable of the two to the casual observer. Her hair was dazzlingly
yellow, and arranged with all the stiffness of the coiffeur's art. She
wore a dress of black sequins, cut perilously low, and shorn a little by
wear of its pristine splendour. Her complexion was as artificial as her
high-pitched voice; her very presence seemed to exude perfumes of the
patchouli type. She was the sort of person concerning whom the veriest
novice in such matters could have made no mistake. Yet her companion
seemed wholly unembarrassed. He handed her the menu and looked calmly
around the room.
