CHAPTER XI
FALSE SENTIMENT
With his nerves strung to their utmost point of tension Wrayson walked homeward with the unseeing eyes and mechanical footsteps of a man unable as yet fully to collect his scattered senses. But for him the events of the evening were not yet over. He had no sooner turned the key in the latch of his door and entered his sitting-room, than he became aware of the fact that he had a visitor. The air was fragrant with tobacco smoke; a man rose deliberately from the easy-chair, and, throwing the ash from his cigarette into the fire, turned to greet him. Wrayson was so astonished that he could only gasp out his name.
"Heneage!" he exclaimed.
Heneage nodded. Of the two, he was by far the more at his ease.
"I wanted to see you, Wrayson," he said, "and I persuaded your housekeeper—with some difficulty—to let me wait for your arrival. Can you spare me a few minutes?"
"Of course," Wrayson answered. "Sit down. Will you have anything?"
Heneage shook his head.
"Not just now, thanks!"
Wrayson took off his hat and coat, threw them upon the table, and lit a cigarette.
"Well," he said, "what is it?"
