Manfred nodded.
They waited for five minutes; still there was no reply.
“How queer!” said Manfred. “It isn’t like Poiccart to leave the house. Get Gloucester.”
At this hour of the night the lines are comparatively clear, and in a very short time he heard the Gloucester operator’s voice, and in a few seconds later the click that told them they were connected with Heavytree Farm. Here there was some delay before the call was answered.
It was not Mirabelle Leicester nor her aunt who spoke. Nor did he recognize the voice of Digby, who had recovered sufficiently to return to duty.
“Who is that?” asked the voice sharply. “Is that you, sergeant?”
“No, it is Mr. Meadows,” said Leon mendaciously.
“The Scotland Yard gentleman?” It was an eager inquiry. “I’m Constable Kirk, of the Gloucester Police. My sergeant’s been trying to get in touch with you, sir.”
“What is the matter?” asked Leon, a cold feeling at his heart.
“I don’t know, sir. About half an hour ago, I was riding past here—I’m one of the mounted men—and I saw the door wide open and all the lights on, and when I came in there was nobody up. I woke Miss Goddard and Mr. Digby, but the young lady was not in the house.”