# The Avenger (Oppenheim)/Chapter 34

CHAPTER XXXIV
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."
​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 sha'n'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.