Duncan swallowed a glassful of wine.
"But my sister," he said, "was in his rooms—she might have seen him!"
"Your sister's name was never mentioned in the matter," Wrayson said. "I was the only witness who knew anything about her—and—I said nothing."
Duncan drew a little breath.
"Why?" he asked.
"An impulse," Wrayson answered. "I felt that she could not have been concerned in such a deed, and I felt that if I told all that I knew, she would have been suspected. So I said nothing. I saved her a good deal of trouble and anxiety I dare say, and I do not believe that I interfered in any way with the course of justice."
Duncan looked across the table and raised his glass.
"I should like to shake hands with you, Mr. Wrayson," he said, "only the Baron would have fits. You acted like a brick. I only hope that Louise is as grateful as she ought to be."
"My silence," Wrayson said, "was really an impulse. There have been times since when I have wondered whether I was wise. There are people now at work in London trying to solve the mystery of this murder. I acted upon the supposition that no one had seen your sister leave the flat except myself. I found afterwards that I was mistaken!"
The Baron leaned forward.
"One moment, Mr. Wrayson," he interrupted. "You have said that there are people in London who are trying to solve the mystery of Barnes' death. Who are they?"
"One is the man's brother," Wrayson answered, "if possible, a more contemptible little cur than the man
