Leon nodded, his eyes gleaming.
“Obviously,” he said.
“And I found the marks of a woman’s foot in the passage. It is dried now, but you can still see it.”
“I have already seen it,” said Leon. “It is to the left of the door: a small pointed shoe and a rubber heel. Miss Leicester opened the door to the woman, the men came in, and the rest was easy. You can’t blame Digby,” he said appealingly to George.
He was the friend at court of every agent, but this time Manfred did not argue with him.
“I blame myself,” he said. “Poiccart told me—”
“He was here,” said Aunt Alma.
“Who—Poiccart?” asked Manfred, surprised, and Gonsalez slapped his knee.
“That’s it, of course! What fools we are! We ought to have known why this wily old fox had left his post. What time was he here?”
Alma told him all the circumstances of the visit.
“He must have left the house immediately after us,” said Leon, with a wide grin of amusement, “caught the five o’clock train for Gloucester, taxied across.”
“And after that?” suggested Manfred.
Leon scratched his chin.
“I wonder if he’s back?” He took up the telephone and put a trunk call through to London. “Somehow I don’t think he is. Here’s Digby, looking as if he expected to be summarily executed.”
The police pensioner was indeed in a mournful and pathetic mood.
“I don’t know what you’ll think of me, Mr. Manfred—” he began.
“I’ve already expressed a view on that subject.” George smiled faintly. “I’m not blaming you, Digby. To leave a man who has been knocked about as you have been without an opposite number, was the height of folly. I didn’t expect them back so soon. As a matter of fact, I intended putting four men on from today. You’ve been making inquiries?”
“Yes, sir. The car went through Gloucester very early in the morning and took the Swindon road. It was seen by a cyclist policeman; he said there was a fat roll of tarpaulin lying on the tent of the trolley.”
“No sign of anybody chasing it in a car, or on a motor-bicycle?” asked Manfred anxiously.
Poiccart had recently taken to motorcycling.
“No, sir.”
“You saw Mr. Poiccart?”
“Yes, he was just going back to London. He said he wanted to see the place with his own eyes.”
George was disappointed. If it had been a visit of curiosity, Poiccart’s absence from town was understandable. He would not have returned at the hour he was rung up.
Aunt Alma was cooking a hasty breakfast, and they had accepted her offer gratefully, for both men were famished; and they were in the midst of the meal when the London call came through.
“Is that you, Poiccart?”
“That is I,” said Poiccart’s voice. “Where are you speaking from?”
“Heavytree Farm. Did you see anything of Miss Leicester?”
There was a pause.
“Has she gone?”
“You didn’t know?”
Another pause.
“Oh, yes, I knew; in fact, I accompanied her part of the way to London, and was bumped off when the trolley struck a refuge on the Great West Road. Meadows is here: he has just come from Oberzohn’s. He says he has found nothing.”
Manfred thought for a while.
“We will be back soon after nine,” he said.
“Leon driving you?” was the dry response.
“Yes—in spite of which we shall be back at nine.”
“That man has got a grudge against my driving,” said Leon, when Manfred reported the conversation. “I knew it was he when Digby described the car and said there was a fat roll of mackintosh on the top. ‘Fat roll’ is not a bad description. Do you know whether Poiccart spoke to Miss Leicester?”
“Yes, he asked her if she grew onions”—a reply which sent Leon into fits of silent laughter.
Breakfast was over and they were making their preparations for departure, when Leon asked unexpectedly: “Has Miss Leicester a writing-table of her own?”
“Yes, in her room,” said Alma, and took him up to show him the old bureau.
He opened the drawers without apology, took out some old letters, turned them over, reading them shamelessly. Then he opened the blotter. There were several sheets of blank paper headed “Heavytree Farm,” and two which bore her signature at the bottom. Alma explained that the bank account of the establishment was in Mirabelle’s name, and, when it was necessary to draw cash, it was a rule of the bank that it should be accompanied by a covering letter—a practice which still exists in some of the old West-country banking establishments. She unlocked a drawer that he had not been able to open and showed him a chequebook with three blank cheques signed with her name.
“That banker has known me since I was so high,” said Alma scornfully. “You wouldn’t think there’d be so much red-tape.”
Leon nodded.
“Do you keep any account books?”
“Yes, I do,” said Alma in surprise. “The household accounts, you mean?”
“Could I see one?”
She went out and returned with a thin ledger, and he made a brief examination of its contents. Wholly inadequate, thought Alma, considering the trouble she had taken and the interest he had shown.
“That’s that,” he said. “Now, George, en voiture!”
“Why did you want to see the account book?” asked Manfred as they bowled up the road.
“I am naturally commercial-minded,” was the unsatisfactory reply. “And, George, we’re short of juice. Pray like a knight in armour that we sight a filling station in the next ten minutes.”
If George had prayed, the prayer would have been answered: just as the cylinders started to miss they pulled up the car before a garage, and took in a supply which was more than sufficient to carry them to their destination. It was nine o’clock exactly when the car stopped before the house. Poiccart, watching the arrival from George’s room, smiled grimly at the impertinent gesture of the chauffeur.
Behind locked doors the three sat in conference.
“This has upset all my plans,” said Leon at last. “If the girl was safe, I should settle with Oberzohn tonight.”
George
