Wrayson had a feeling that the heat was becoming intolerable. He dared not look at Louise. His eyes were fixed upon the still expressionless face of the woman whose story was slowly unfolding its tragic course.
"A rumour of this," Madame de Melbain continued, "reached us in Mexonia! I telegraphed to Amy! She and Louise were at their wits' ends. Louise decided to go and see this man Barnes, to make her way, if she could, into his flat, to search for and, if she could find them, to steal these letters. She carried out her purpose 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?"