“Alma, do you remember what part of Angola father had his observatory?” she asked.
Alma did not know off-hand, but one of her invaluable scrap-books 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.”