at once. There is no doubt about it whatever. She and the Baroness were schoolfellows in Brussels. There is no mystery about their friendship at all."
Heneage was thoughtful for several moments.
"This is interesting," he said at last, "but it does not, of course, affect the situation."
"You mean that you will go on just the same?" Wrayson demanded.
"Certainly! And it rests with you to say whether you will be on my side or theirs," Heneage declared. "If you are on mine, you will tell me what Miss Deveney was doing in these flats on that night of all others. If you are on theirs, you will go and warn them that I am determined to solve the mystery of Morris Barnes' death—at all costs."
"I had no idea," Wrayson remarked quietly, "that you were ambitious to shine as an amateur policeman."
"We all have our hobbies," Heneage answered. "Take the Colonel, for instance, the most harmless, the most good-natured man who ever lived. Nothing in the world fascinates him so much as the details of a tragedy like this, however gruesome they may be. I have seen him handle a murderer's knife as though he loved it. His favourite museum is the professional Chamber of Horrors in Scotland Yard. My own interests run in a slightly different direction. I like to look at an affair of this sort as a chess problem, and to set myself to solve it. I like to make a silent study of all the characters around, to search for motives and dissect evidence. Human nature has its secrets, and very wonderful secrets too."
"I once," Wrayson said thoughtfully, "saw a man tracked down by bloodhounds. My sympathies were with the man."
