No word was spoken as the big car sped citywards. The doctor had his thoughts and ignored her presence. The only reference he made to the lunch was as they were leaving the hotel, when he had condescended to grunt a bitter complaint about the quality of English-made coffee. He allowed her to go back to her weighing and measuring without displaying the slightest interest in her progress.
And then came the crowning surprise of the afternoon—it followed the arrival of a puzzling telegram from her aunt. She was weighing an evil-smelling mass of powder when the door opened and there floated into the room a delicate-looking girl, beautifully dressed. A small face framed in a mass of little golden-brown curls smiled a greeting. “You’re Mirabelle Leicester, aren’t you? I’m Joan Newton—your aunt wired me to call on you.”
“Do you know my aunt?” asked Mirabelle in astonishment. She had never heard Alma speak of the Newtons, but then, Aunt Alma had queer reticences. Mirabelle had expected a middle-aged dowd—it was amazing that her unprepossessing relative could claim acquaintance with this society butterfly.
“Oh, yes—we know Alma very well,” replied the visitor. “Of course, I haven’t seen her since I was quite a little girl—she’s a dear.”
She looked round the laboratory with curious interest.
“What a nasty-smelling place!” she said, her nose upturned. “And how do you like old—er—Mr. Oberzohn?”
“Do you know him?” asked Mirabelle, astounded at the possibility of this coincidence.
“My brother knows him—we live together, my brother and I, and he knows everybody. A man about town has to, hasn’t he, dear?”
“Man about town” was an expression that grated a little; Mirabelle was not of the “dearing” kind. The combination of errors in taste made her scrutinize the caller more closely. Joan Newton was dressed beautifully but not well. There was something … Had Mirabelle a larger knowledge of life, she might have thought that the girl had been dressed to play the part of a lady by somebody who wasn’t quite sure of the constituents of the part. Captain Newton she did not know at the time, or she would have guessed the dress authority.
“I’m going to take you back to Chester Square after Mr. Oberzohn—such a funny name, isn’t it?—has done with you. Monty insisted upon my bringing the Rolls. Monty is my brother; he’s rather classical.”
Mirabelle wondered whether this indicated a love of the Greek poets or a passion for the less tuneful operas. Joan (which was her real name) meant no more than classy: it was a favourite word of hers; another was “morbid.”
Half an hour later the inquisitive chauffeur put his foot on the starter and sent his car on the trail of the Rolls, wondering what Mirabelle Leicester had in common with Joan Alice Murphy, who had brought so many rich young men to the green board in Captain Newton’s beautiful drawing-room, where stakes ran high and the captain played with such phenomenal luck.
“And there you are,” said Gonsalez complacently. “I’ve done a very good day’s work. Oberzohn has gone back to his rabbit-hutch to think up new revolutions—Miss Mirabelle Leicester is to be found at 307, Chester Square. Now the point is, what do we do to save the valuable life of Mr. Sam Barberton?”
Manfred looked grave. “I hardly like the thought of the girl spending the night in Newton’s house,” he said.
“Why allow her to remain there?” asked Poiccart in his heavy way.
“Exactly!” Leon nodded.
George Manfred looked at his watch.
“Obviously the first person to see is friend Barberton,” he said. “If we can prevail on him to spend the evening with us, the rest is a simple matter—”
The telephone bell rang shrilly and Leon Gonsalez monopolized the instrument.
“Gloucester? Yes.” He covered the receiver with his hand. “I took the liberty of asking Miss Alma Goddard to ring me up … her address I discovered very early in the day: Heavytree Farm, Daynham, near Gloucester … yes, yes, it is Mr. Johnson speaking. I wanted to ask you if you would take a message to Miss Leicester … oh, she isn’t at home?” Leon listened attentively, and, after a few minutes: “Thank you very much. She is staying at Doughty Court? She wired you … oh, nothing very important. I—er—am her old science master and I saw an advertisement … oh, she has seen it, has she?”
He hung up the receiver.
“Nothing to go on,” he said. “The girl has wired to say she is delighted with her job. The aunt is not to come up until she is settled, and Mirabelle is sleeping at Doughty Court.”
“And a very excellent place too,” said Manfred. “When we’ve seen Mr. Barberton I shouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t sleep there after all.”
Petworth Hotel in Norfolk Street was a sedate residential hostel, greatly favoured by overseas visitors, especially South Africans. The reception clerk thought Mr. Barberton was out: the hall porter was sure.
“He went down to the Embankment—he said he’d like to see the river before it was dark,” said that confidant of so many visitors.
Manfred stepped into the car by Leon’s side—Poiccart seldom went abroad, but sat at home piecing together the little jigsaw puzzles of life that came to Curzon Street for solution. He was the greatest of all the strategists: even Scotland Yard brought some of its problems for his inspection.
“On the Embankment?” Manfred looked up at the blue and pink sky. The sun had gone down, but the light of day remained. “If it were darker I should be worried … stop, there’s Dr. Elver.”
The little police surgeon who had passed them with a cheery wave of his hand turned and walked back.
“Well, Children of the Law”—he was inclined to be dramatic—“on what dread errand of vengeance are you bound?”
“We are looking for a man named Barberton to ask him to dinner,” said Manfred, shaking hands.
“Sounds tame to me: has he any peculiarities which would appeal to me?”
“Burnt feet,” said Leon promptly. “If you would like to learn how the coastal
