“Nothing to go on,” he said. “The girl has wired to say she is delighted with her job. The aunt is not to come up until she is settled, and Mirabelle is sleeping at Doughty Court.”
“And a very excellent place too,” said Manfred. “When we’ve seen Mr. Barberton I shouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t sleep there after all.”
Petworth Hotel in Norfolk Street was a sedate residential hostel, greatly favoured by overseas visitors, especially South Africans. The reception clerk thought Mr. Barberton was out: the hall porter was sure.
“He went down to the Embankment—he said he’d like to see the river before it was dark,” said that confidant of so many visitors.
Manfred stepped into the car by Leon’s side—Poiccart seldom went abroad, but sat at home piecing together the little jigsaw puzzles of life that came to Curzon Street for solution. He was the greatest of all the strategists: even Scotland Yard brought some of its problems for his inspection.
“On the Embankment?” Manfred looked up at the blue and pink sky. The sun had gone down, but the light of day remained. “If it were darker I should be worried . . . stop, there’s Dr. Elver.”
The little police surgeon who had passed them with a cheery wave of his hand turned and walked back.
“Well, Children of the Law”—he was inclined to be dramatic—“on what dread errand of vengeance are you bound?”
“We are looking for a man named Barberton to ask him to dinner,” said Manfred, shaking hands.
“Sounds tame to me: has he any peculiarities which would appeal to me?”