"And whatever his business is," he continued, "it isn't the ordinary business of a solicitor. He has no clerks—not even an office boy!"
The Colonel poured himself out a glass of wine.
"No clerks—not even an office boy! It all agrees with what I have heard. A bad lot, Wrayson, I am afraid—a thoroughly bad lot. Are you sure that up to now he has kept his own counsel?"
"I am sure of it," Wrayson answered.
The Colonel seemed in some measure to have recovered himself. He looked Wrayson in the face, and though grave, his expression was decidedly more natural.
"Herbert," he asked, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, "who do you believe murdered Morris Barnes?"
"God knows," Wrayson answered.
"Do you believe—that—my daughter had any hand in it?"
"No!" Wrayson declared fiercely.
The Colonel was silent for a moment. He seemed to be contemplating the label on the bottle of claret which reposed in its cradle by their side.