“Sponges!” said Sir Lucius. “How could she collect sponges here, and what does the British Museum want sponges for?” “They weren’t exactly sponges,” said Frank, “they were zoophytes.” “It’s just possible,” said Lord Torrington, “that she might--Sponges, you say? I don’t know what would put sponges into her head. But, of course, she had to say something. What was she like to look at?” “She had a dark blue dress,” said Frank, “and was tallish.” “Fuzzy fair hair?” said Lord Torrington. “I don’t remember her hair.” “Slim?” “I’d call Miss Rutherford fat,” said Frank. “At least, she’s decidedly stout.” “Not her,” said Lord Torrington. “Nobody could call Isabel fat. That police sergeant of yours is a fool, Lentaigne. I always said he was. If Isabel is in this neighbourhood at all she’s living in some country inn.” “The sergeant said he’d make inquiries about the lady he mentioned,” said Sir Lucius. “We shall hear more about her tomorrow.” “She had a Primus stove with her,” said Frank. “That’s no help,” said Lord Torrington. “Anybody might have a Primus stove.” “She said she’d borrowed it from Professor Wilder,” said Frank. “Who the devil is Professor Wilder?” “He’s doing the rotifers,” said Frank. “At least Miss Rutherford said he was. I don’t know who he is.” “That’s not Isabel,” said Lord Torrington. “She wouldn’t have the intelligence to invent a professor who collected rotifers. I don’t suppose she ever heard of rotifers. I never did. What are they?” “Insects, I fancy,” said Sir Lucius. “I daresay Priscilla would know. Shall I send for her?” “No,” said Lord Torrington. “I don’t care what rotifers are. Let’s finish our cigars outside, Lentaigne. It’s infernally hot.”