"It is a political matter, then?" Wrayson asked swiftly.
The Baroness smiled. She took a cigarette from her little gold case and lit it.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "you must not try to, what you say, pump me! You can call it what you will. Only to Louise, as to me, it is very much a personal affair. Shall we talk now, for a little, of other things?"
Wrayson sighed.
"I may not know, then," he begged, "where Louise has gone, or why?"
"It would not be her wish," the Baroness answered, "that I should tell you."
"Very well," Wrayson said, "I will ask you no more questions. Only this. I have told you of this man Bentham."
The Baroness inclined her head. He had told her nothing that was news to her.
"Was he on your side, or opposed to you?"
"You are puzzling me," the Baroness confessed.
"Already," Wrayson explained, "I know as much of the affair as this. Morris Barnes was in possession of something, I do not know whether it was documents, or what possible material shape it had, but it brought him in a considerable income, and both you and some others were endeavouring to obtain possession of it. So far, I believe that neither of you have succeeded. Morris Barnes has been murdered in vain; Bentham the lawyer, who telephoned to me on the night of his death, has shared his fate. To whose account do these two murders go, yours or the others'?"
"I cannot answer that question, Mr. Wrayson," the Baroness said.
