Mr. Manfred leant back in his padded chair, the glint of an amused smile in his grey eyes.
“I take it that what you want us to do is to find Miss Leicester?”
The man nodded energetically.
“Have you the slightest idea as to where she is to be found? Has she any relations in England?”
“I don’t know,” interrupted the man. “All I know is that she lives here somewhere, and that her father died three years ago, on the twenty-ninth of May—make a note of that: he died in England on the twenty-ninth of May.”
That was an important piece of information, and it made the search easy, thought Manfred.
“And you’re going to tell me about the fort, aren’t you?” he said, as he looked up from his notes.
Barberton hesitated.
“I was,” he admitted, “but I’m not so sure that I will now, until I’ve found this young lady. And don’t forget”—he rapped the table to emphasize his words—“that crowd is hot!”
“Which crowd?” asked Manfred good-humouredly. He knew many “crowds,” and wondered if it was about one which was in his mind that the caller was speaking.
“The crowd I’m talking about,” said Mr. Barberton, who spoke with great deliberation and was evidently weighing every word he uttered for fear that he should involuntarily betray his secret.
That seemed to be an end of his requirements, for he rose and stood a little awkwardly, fumbling in his inside pocket.
“There is nothing to pay,” said Manfred, guessing his intention. “Perhaps, when we have located your Miss Mirabelle Leicester, we shall ask you to refund our out-of-pocket expenses.”
“I can afford to pay—” began the man.
“And we can afford to wait.” Again the gleam of amusement in the deep eyes.
Still Mr. Barberton did not move.
“There’s another thing I meant to ask you. You know all that’s happening in this country?”
“Not quite everything,” said the other with perfect gravity.
“Have you ever heard of the Four Just Men?”
It was a surprising question. Manfred bent forward as though he had not heard aright.
“The Four—?”
“The Four Just Men—three, as a matter of fact. I’d like to get in touch with those birds.”
Manfred nodded.
“I think I have heard of them,” he said.
“They’re in England now somewhere. They’ve got a pardon: I saw that in the Cape Times—the bit I tore the advertisement from.”
“The last I heard of them, they were in Spain,” said Manfred, and walked round the table and opened the door. “Why do you wish to get in touch with them?”
“Because,” said Mr. Barberton impressively, “the crowd are scared of ’em—that’s why.”
Manfred walked with his visitor to the landing.
“You have omitted one important piece of information,” he said with a smile, “but I did not intend your going until you told me. What is your address?”
“Petworth Hotel, Norfolk Street.”
Barberton went down the stairs; the butler was waiting in the hall to show him out, and Mr. Barberton, having a vague idea that something of the sort was usual in the houses of the aristocracy, slipped a silver coin in his hand. The dark-faced man murmured his thanks: his bow was perhaps a little lower, his attitude just a trifle more deferential.
He closed and locked the front door and went slowly up the stairs to the office room. Manfred was sitting on the empire table, lighting a cigarette. The chauffeur-valet had come through the grey curtains to take the chair which had been vacated by Mr. Barberton.
“He gave me half a crown—generous fellow,” said Poiccart, the butler. “I like him, George.”
“I wish I could have seen his feet,” said the chauffeur, whose veritable name was Leon Gonsalez. He spoke with regret. “He comes from West Sussex, and there is insanity in his family. The left parietal is slightly recessed and the face is asymmetrical.”
“Poor soul!” murmured Manfred, blowing a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “It’s a great trial introducing one’s friends to you, Leon.”
“Fortunately, you have no friends,” said Leon, reaching out and taking a cigarette from the open gold case on the table. “Well, what do you think of our Mr. Barberton’s mystery?”
George Manfred shook his head.
“He was vague, and, in his desire to be diplomatic, a little incoherent. What about your own mystery, Leon? You have been out all day … have you found a solution?”
Gonsalez nodded.
“Barberton is afraid of something,” said Poiccart, a slow and sure analyst. “He carried a gun between his trousers and his waistcoat—you saw that?”
George nodded.
“The question is, who or which is the crowd? Question two is, where and who is Miss Mirabelle Leicester? Question three is, why did they burn Barberton’s feet … and I think that is all.”
The keen face of Gonsalez was thrust forward through a cloud of smoke.
“I will answer most of them and propound two more,” he said. “Mirabelle Leicester took a job today at Oberzohn’s—laboratory secretary!”
George Manfred frowned.
“Laboratory? I didn’t know that he had one.”
“He hadn’t till three days ago—it was fitted in seventy-two hours by experts who worked day and night; the cost of its installation was sixteen hundred pounds—and it came into existence to give Oberzohn an excuse for engaging Mirabelle Leicester. You sent me out to clear up that queer advertisement which puzzled us all on Monday—I have cleared it up. It was designed to bring our Miss Leicester into the Oberzohn establishment. We all agreed when we discovered who was the advertiser, that Oberzohn was working for something—I watched his office for two days, and she was the only applicant for the job—hers the only letter they answered. Oberzohn lunched with her at the Ritz-Carlton—she sleeps tonight in Chester Square.”
There was a silence which was broken by Poiccart.
“And what is the question you have to propound?” he asked mildly.
“I think I know,”
