"You are satisfied, then, that neither I nor the young lady had anything to do with the death of Morris Barnes?" Heneage moved in his chair uneasily.
"Yes!" he answered. "Don't talk to me about that damned business," he added, with a little burst of half-suppressed passion. "I've done with it. Come and have a drink."
Wrayson drew a sigh of relief. Perhaps, for the first time, he realized how great a weight this thing had been upon his spirits. He had feared Heneage!—not this man, but the cold, capable Stephen Heneage of his earlier acquaintance; feared him not only for his own sake, but hers. After all, his visit to the Alhambra had brought some good to him.
Heneage had risen to his feet.
"We'll go into the American bar," he said. "Not here. The women fuss round one so. I'm glad you've turned up, Wrayson. I've got the hump!"
The bar was crowded, but they found a quiet corner. Heneage ordered a large brandy and soda, and drunk half of it at a gulp.
"How's every one?" Wrayson asked. "I haven't been in the club yet."
"All right, I believe. I haven't been in myself for a week," Heneage answered.
Wrayson looked at him in surprise.
"Haven't been in the club for a week?" he repeated. "That's rather unusual, isn't it?"