“It’s like this, Mr. What’s-your-name. There’s a certain secret which doesn’t belong to me, and yet does in a way. It is worth a lot of money. Mr. Elijah Washington knew that and tried to pump me, and Villa got a gang of Kroomen to burn my feet, but I’ve not told yet. What I want you to do is to find Miss Mirabelle Leicester; and I want to get her quick, because there’s only about two weeks, if you understand me, before this other crowd gets busy—Villa is certain to have cabled ’em, and according to him they’re hot!”
Mr. Manfred leant back in his padded chair, the glint of an amused smile in his grey eyes.
“I take it that what you want us to do is to find Miss Leicester?”
The man nodded energetically.
“Have you the slightest idea as to where she is to be found? Has she any relations in England?”
“I don’t know,” interrupted the man. “All I know is that she lives here somewhere, and that her father died three years ago, on the twenty-ninth of May—make a note of that: he died in England on the twenty-ninth of May.”
That was an important piece of information, and it made the search easy, thought Manfred.
“And you’re going to tell me about the fort, aren’t you?” he said, as he looked up from his notes.
Barberton hesitated.
“I was,” he admitted, “but I’m not so sure that I will now, until I’ve found this young lady. And don’t forget”—he rapped the table to emphasize his words—“that crowd is hot!”