They left the place together and walked towards the corner of the street.
"I shouldn't do anything rash, if I were you," Wrayson said. "I fancy you'd find Bentham a pretty tough sort to tackle. You must excuse me now. I am going into the club for a few minutes."
"How are you, Wrayson?" a quiet voice asked behind.
Wrayson turned round abruptly. It was Stephen Heneage who had greeted him—the one man whom, at that moment, he was least anxious to meet of any person in the world. Already he could see that Heneage was taking quiet but earnest note of his companion.
Wrayson nodded a little abruptly and left Barnes without any further farewell.
"Coming round to the club?" he asked.
Heneage assented, and glanced carelessly behind at Barnes, who was walking slowly in the opposite direction.
"Who's your friend?" he asked. "You shook him off a little suddenly, didn't you?"
"He is not a friend," Wrayson answered, "and I was trying to get rid of him when you came up. He is nobody of any account."
Heneage shook his head thoughtfully.