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was conscious, from the moment they left Mr. Bentham's office, of a change in the deportment of the young man who walked by his side. A variety of evil passions had developed one at least more tolerable—he was learning the lesson of self-restraint. He did not speak until they reached the corner of the street.

"Where can we get a drink?" he asked, almost abruptly. "I want some brandy."

Wrayson took him to a bar close by. They sat in a quiet corner.

"I want to ask you something," he said, leaning halfway over the little table between them. "How much do you know about the lady who came into my brother's flat when we were there?"

The direct significance of the question startled Wrayson. This young man was beginning to think.

"How much do I know of her?" he repeated. "Very little."

"She is really a Baroness—not one of these faked-up ones?"

"She is undoubtedly the Baroness de Sturm," Wrayson answered, a little stiffly.

"And she has plenty of coin?"

"Certainly," Wrayson answered. "She is a great lady, I believe, in her own country."