"Old Barney!" Wrayson repeated, a little perplexed.
She laughed coarsely.
"Oh! come, that won't do!" she declared. "I'm almost sure you're on the same lay yourself. Didn't I see you at the inquest?—Morris Barnes' inquest, of course? You know whom I mean right enough."
"I know whom you mean now," Wrayson admitted. "Yes! I was there. Queer affair, wasn't it?"
The lady nodded.
"I should like a liqueur," she remarked, with apparent irrelevance. "Benedictine!"
They were seated in front of a small table, and were at times the object of expectant contemplation on the part of a magnificent individual in livery and knee-breeches. Wrayson summoned him and ordered two Benedictines.
"Now I don't mind telling you," the lady continued, leaning over towards him confidentially, "that I'm dead off that old man who came prying round and took me out to dinner, to pump me about poor Barney! He didn't get much out of me. For one thing, I don't know much. But the little I do know I'd sooner tell you than him."
"You're very kind," Wrayson murmured. "He used to come to these places a good deal, didn't he?"
She nodded assent.