Then she recollected.
“The man who was bitten by the snake?” she asked in horror.
The visitor nodded.
“It was a great shock to me, because I have been a friend of his for many years, and had arranged to call at his hotel on the night of his death.” And then abruptly he turned the conversation in another and a surprising direction. “Your father was a scientist, Miss Leicester?”
She nodded.
“Yes, he was an astronomer, an authority upon meteors.”
“Exactly. I thought that was the gentleman. I have only recently had his book read to me. He was in Africa for some years?”
“Yes,” she said quietly, “he died there. He was studying meteors for three years in Angola. You probably know that a very large number of shooting stars fall in that country. My father’s theory was that it was due to the ironstone mountains which attract them—so he set up a little observatory in the interior.” Her lips trembled for a second. “He was killed in a native rising,” she said.
“Do you know the part of Angola where he had his observatory?”
She shook her head.
“I’m not sure. I have never been in Africa, but perhaps Aunt Alma may know.”
She went out to find Alma waiting in the passage, in conversation with the pipe-smoker. The man withdrew hastily at the sight of her.
“Alma, do you remember what part of Angola father had his observatory?” she asked.
Alma did not know offhand, but one of her invaluable scrapbooks contained all the information that the girl wanted, and she carried the book to Mr. Lee.
“Here are the particulars,” she said, and laid the book open before them.
“Would you read it for me?” he requested gently, and she read to him the three short paragraphs which noted that Professor Leicester had taken up his residence in Bishaka.
“That is the place,” interrupted the visitor. “Bishaka! You are sure that Mr. Barberton did not communicate with you?”
“With me?” she said in amazement. “No—why should he?”
He did not answer, but sat for a long time, turning the matter over in his mind.
“You’re perfectly certain that nobody sent you a document, probably in the Portuguese language, concerning”—he hesitated—“Bishaka?”
She shook her head, and then, as though he had not seen the gesture, he asked the question again.
“I’m certain,” she said. “We have very little correspondence at the farm, and it isn’t possible that I could overlook anything so remarkable.”
Again he turned the problem over in his mind.
“Have you any documents in Portuguese or in English … any letters from your father about Angola?”
“None,” she said. “The only reference my father ever made to Bishaka was that he was getting a lot of information which he thought would be valuable, and that he was a little troubled because his cameras, which he had fixed in various parts of the country to cover every sector of the skies, were being disturbed by wandering prospectors.”
“He said that, did he?” asked Mr. Lee eagerly. “Come now, that explains a great deal!”
In spite of herself she laughed. “It doesn’t explain much to me, Mr. Lee,” she said frankly. And then, in a more serious tone: “Did Barberton come from Angola?”
“Yes, Barberton came from that country,” he said in a lower voice. “I should like to tell you”—he hesitated—“but I am rather afraid.”
“Afraid to tell me? Why?”
He shook his head.
“So many dreadful things have happened recently to poor Barberton and others, that knowledge seems a most dangerous thing. I wish I could believe that it would not be dangerous to you,” he added kindly, “and then I could speak what is in my mind and relieve myself of a great deal of anxiety.” He rose slowly. “I think the best thing I can do is to consult my lawyer. I was foolish to keep it from him so long. He is the only man I can trust to search my documents.”
She could only look at him in astonishment.
“But surely you can search your own documents?” she said good-humouredly.
“No, I’m afraid I can’t. Because”—he spoke with the simplicity of a child—“I am blind.”
“Blind?” gasped Mirabelle, and the man laughed gently.
“I am pretty capable for a blind man, am I not? I can walk across a room and avoid all the furniture. The only thing I cannot do is to read—at least, read the ordinary print. I can read Braille: poor Barberton taught me. He was a schoolmaster,” he explained, “at a blind school near Brightlingsea. Not a particularly well-educated man, but a marvellously quick writer of Braille. We have corresponded for years through that medium. He could write a Braille letter almost as quickly as you can with pen and ink.”
Her heart was full of pity for the man: he was so cheery, so confident, and withal so proud of his own accomplishments, that pity turned to admiration. He had the ineffable air of obstinacy which is the possession of so many men similarly stricken, and she began to realize that self-pity, that greatest of all afflictions which attends blindness, had been eliminated from his philosophy.
“I should like to tell you more,” he said, as he held out his hand. “Probably I will dictate a long letter to you tomorrow, or else my lawyer will do so, putting all the facts before you. For the moment, however, I must be sure of my ground. I have no desire to raise in your heart either fear or—hope. Do you know a Mr. Manfred?”
“I don’t know him personally,” she said quickly. “George Manfred?”
He nodded.
“Have you met him?” she asked eagerly. “And Mr. Poiccart, the Frenchman?”
“No, not Mr. Poiccart. Manfred was on the telephone to me very early this morning. He seemed to know all about my relationships with my poor friend. He knew also of my blindness. A remarkable man, very gentle and courteous. It was he who gave me your address. Perhaps,” he mused, “it would be advisable if I first consulted him.”
“I’m sure it would!” she said enthusiastically. “They are wonderful. You have heard of them, of course,
