or rather her attempted purpose. The rest you know, for it was you who saved her!"
"The man," Wrayson said hoarsely, "was murdered."
Madame de Melbain inclined her head.
"So I have understood," she remarked.
"He was murdered," Wrayson continued in a harsh, unnatural voice, "on that very night, the night when he was to have made over these letters to your—enemies! The message was telephoned to me! He was to go to the Hotel Francis. He was warned that there was danger. And there was! He was murdered—while the cab waited—to take him there!"
Her eyes held his—she did not flinch.
"The man who telephoned to me—Bentham his name was, the agent of your enemies,—he, too, was murdered!"
"So I have heard," she said calmly.
"The letters!" he faltered. "Where are they?"
"No one knows," she answered. "That is why I live always on the brink of a volcano. Many people are searching for them. No one as yet has succeeded. But that may come at any moment."
"Madame," he said, "can you tell me who killed these men?"
She raised her eyebrows.
"I cannot," she answered coldly.
"Madame," he declared, "the man Barnes was a pitiful blackmailing little Jew! For all I know, he deserved death a dozen times over—ay, and Bentham too! But the law does not look upon it like that. Whoever killed these men will assuredly be hanged if they are caught. Don't you think that your friends are a little too zealous?"
