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.