“No, sir.”
“You saw Mr. Poiccart?”
“Yes, he was just going back to London. He said he wanted to see the place with his own eyes.”
George was disappointed. If it had been a visit of curiosity, Poiccart’s absence from town was understandable. He would not have returned at the hour he was rung up.
Aunt Alma was cooking a hasty breakfast, and they had accepted her offer gratefully, for both men were famished; and they were in the midst of the meal when the London call came through.
“Is that you, Poiccart?”
“That is I,” said Poiccart’s voice. “Where are you speaking from?”
“Heavytree Farm. Did you see anything of Miss Leicester?”
There was a pause.
“Has she gone?”