brought home to him that there was a certain amount of danger associated with his position generally. The night on which my client arrived in England was the night upon which Mr. Morris Barnes was murdered. The inference to be drawn from this circumstance I can leave, I am sure, to the common sense of you two gentlemen."
"First, then," Wrayson said, "it would appear that he was murdered by the people who were paying him two thousand a year, and who were acting in opposition to your client!"
Mr. Bentham shrugged his shoulder gently.
"It does not sound unreasonable," he admitted.
"And secondly," Wrayson continued, "if that was so, he was probably robbed of these securities at the same time."
"Now that, also," Mr. Bentham said smoothly, "sounds reasonable. But, as a matter of fact," he continued, looking down upon the table, "there are certain indications which go to disprove it. My personal opinion is that the assassin—granted that there was an assassin, and granted that he was acting on behalf of the parties we have referred to—met with a disappointment."
"In plain words," Wrayson interrupted, "you mean that the other side have not possessed themselves of the securities?"
"They certainly have not," Mr. Bentham declared. "They still remain—the property by inheritance of this young gentleman here—Mr. Sydney Barnes, I believe."
His tone was so even, so expressionless, that its slightest changes were noticeable. It seemed to Wrayson that a faint note of sarcasm had crept into these last few words. Mr. Barnes himself, however, was quite oblivious of it. His yellow-stained fingers were spread
