He kept his eyes upon her as though fascinated.
"No!" he said. "No! I mean of course not."
"These letters," she continued, "you have not seen them, Mr. Sydney? No? Or you, Mr. Wrayson?"
"We have not come across any letters at all answering to that description," Wrayson assured her.
The Baroness glanced across at Barnes, who was certainly regarding her in somewhat peculiar fashion.
"Why does Mr. Sydney look at me like that?" she asked, with a little shrug of the shoulders. "He does not think that I came here to steal? Why, Mr. Sydney," she added, "I am very, very much richer than ever your brother was."
"Richer—than he was! Richer than two thousand a year!" he gasped.
The Baroness laughed softly but heartily. She stole a sidelong glance at Wrayson.
"Why, my dear young man," she said, "it costs me—oh! quite as much as that each year to dress."
Barnes looked at her as though she were something holy. When he spoke, there was awe in his tone. The problem which had formed itself in his thoughts demanded expression.
"And you say that you were a pal—I mean a friend of Morris's? You wrote him letters?"
The Baroness smiled.
"Why not?" she exclaimed. "Women have queer tastes, you know. We like all sorts of men. I think I must ask Mr. Wrayson to bring you in to tea one afternoon. Would you like to come?"
"Yes!" he answered.
She nodded a farewell and turned to Wrayson.
"As for you," she said under her breath, "you had
