“No!” said Georgie, putting on his spectacles in his excitement, and not caring whether Daisy knew he wore them or not. “I can see it looks like English, but what a difficult handwriting! Look, that’s ‘Abfou,’ isn’t it? And that is ‘Abfou’ again there.” They bent their heads over the script. “There’s an ‘L,’” cried Daisy, “and there it is again. And then there’s ‘L from L.’ And then there’s ‘Dead’ repeated twice. It can’t mean that Abfou is dead, because this is positive proof that he’s alive. And then I can see ‘Mouse’?” “Where?” said Georgie eagerly. “And what would ‘dead mouse’ mean?” “There!” said Daisy pointing. “No: it isn’t ‘dead mouse.’ It’s ‘dead’ and then a lot of Arabic, and then ‘mouse.’” “I don’t believe it is ‘mouse,’” said Georgie, “though of course, you know Abfou’s handwriting much better than I do. It looks to me far more like ‘Museum.’” “Perhaps he wants me to send all the Arabic he’s written up to the British Museum,” said Daisy with a flash of genius, “so that they can read it and say what it means.” “But then there’s ‘Museum’ or ‘Mouse’ again there,” said Georgie, “and surely that word in front of it--It is! It’s Riseholme! Riseholme Mouse or Riseholme Museum! I don’t know what either would mean.” “You may depend upon it that it means something,” said Daisy, “and there’s another capital ‘L.’ Does it mean Lucia, do you think? But ‘dead’....” “No: dead’s got nothing to do with the ‘L,’” said Georgie. “‘Museum’ comes in between, and quantities of Arabic.” “I think I’ll just record the exact time; it would be more scientific,” said Daisy. “A quarter to eleven. No, that clock’s three minutes fast by the church time.” “No, the church time is slow,” said Georgie. Suddenly he jumped up. “I’ve got it,” he said. “Look! ‘L from L.’ That means a letter from Lucia. And it’s quite true. I heard this morning, and it’s in my pocket now.” “No!” said Daisy, “that’s just a sign Abfou is giving us, that he really is with us, and knows what is going on. Very evidential.” The absorption of them both in this script may be faintly appreciated by the fact that neither Daisy evinced the slightest curiosity as to what Lucia said, nor Georgie the least desire to communicate it. “And then there’s ‘dead,’” said Georgie, looking out of the window. “I wonder what that means.” “I’m sure I hope it’s not Lucia,” said Daisy with stoical calmness, “but I can’t think of anybody else.” Georgie’s eyes wandered over the Green; Mrs. Boucher was speeding round in her bath-chair, pushed by her husband, and there was the Vicar walking very fast, and Mrs. Antrobus and Piggy and Goosie ... nobody else seemed to be dead. Then his eye came back to the foreground of Daisy’s front garden. “What has happened to your mulberry-tree?” he said parenthetically. “Its leaves are all drooping. You ought never to have pruned its roots without knowing how to do it.” Daisy jumped up.