“Must I go?” asked Poiccart plaintively. “I do not like detective plays, and I hate mystery plays. I know who the real murderer is before the curtain has been up ten minutes, and that naturally spoils my evening.”
“Could you not take a girl?” asked Leon outrageously. “Do you know any who would go?”
“Why not take Aunt Alma?” suggested Manfred, and Leon accepted the name joyously.
Aunt Alma had come to town at the suggestion of the Three, and had opened up the Doughty Court flat.
“And really she is a remarkable woman, and shows a steadiness and a courage in face of the terrible position of our poor little friend, which is altogether praiseworthy. I don’t think Mirabelle Leicester is in any immediate danger. I think I’ve said that before. Oberzohn merely wishes to keep her until the period of renewal has expired. How he will escape the consequences of imprisoning her, I cannot guess. He may not attempt to escape them, may accept the term of imprisonment which will certainly be handed out to him, as part of the payment he must pay for his millions.”
“Suppose he kills her?” asked Poiccart.
For a second Leon’s face twitched.
“He won’t kill her,” he said quietly. “Why should he? We know that he has got her—the police know. She is a different proposition from Barberton, an unknown man killed nobody knew how, in a public place. No, I don’t think we need cross that bridge, only . . .” He rubbed his hands together irritably. “However, we shall see. And in the meantime I’m placing a lot of faith in Digby, a shrewd man with a sense of his previous shortcomings. You were wise there, George.”
He was looking at the street through the curtains.
“Tittlemouse is at his post, the faithful hound!” he said, nodding towards the solitary taxicab that stood on the rank. “I wonder whether he expects——”