“And I found the marks of a woman’s foot in the passage. It is dried now, but you can still see it.” “I have already seen it,” said Leon. “It is to the left of the door: a small pointed shoe and a rubber heel. Miss Leicester opened the door to the woman, the men came in, and the rest was easy. You can’t blame Digby,” he said appealingly to George. He was the friend at court of every agent, but this time Manfred did not argue with him. “I blame myself,” he said. “Poiccart told me——” “He was here,” said Aunt Alma. “Who—Poiccart?” asked Manfred, surprised, and Gonsalez slapped his knee. “That’s it, of course! What fools we are! We ought to have known why this wily old fox had left his post. What time was he here?” Alma told him all the circumstances of the visit. “He must have left the house immediately after us,” said Leon, with a wide grin of amusement, “caught the five o’clock train for Gloucester, taxied across.” “And after that?” suggested Manfred. Leon scratched his chin. “I wonder if he’s back?” He took up the telephone and put a trunk call through to London. “Somehow I don’t think he is. Here’s Digby, looking as if he expected to be summarily executed.” The police pensioner was indeed in a mournful and pathetic mood. “I don’t know what you’ll think of me, Mr. Manfred——” he began. “I’ve already expressed a view on that subject.” George smiled faintly. “I’m not blaming you, Digby. To leave a man who has been knocked about as you have been without an opposite number, was the height of folly. I didn’t expect them back so soon. As a matter of fact, I intended putting four men on from to-day. You’ve been making inquiries?” “Yes, sir. The car went through Gloucester very early in the morning and took the Swindon road. It was seen by a cyclist policeman; he said there was a fat roll of tarpaulin lying on the tent of the trolley.” “No sign of anybody chasing it in a car, or on a motor-bicycle?” asked Manfred anxiously. Poiccart had recently taken to motor-cycling. “No, sir.” “You saw Mr. Poiccart?” “Yes, he was just going back to London. He said he wanted to see the place with his own eyes.” George was disappointed. If it had been a visit of curiosity, Poiccart’s absence from town was understandable. He would not have returned at the hour he was rung up. Aunt Alma was cooking a hasty breakfast, and they had accepted her offer gratefully, for both men were famished; and they were in the midst of the meal when the London call came through. “Is that you, Poiccart?” “That is I,” said Poiccart’s voice. “Where are you speaking from?” “Heavytree Farm. Did you see anything of Miss Leicester?” There was a pause. “Has she gone?” “You didn’t know?” Another pause. “Oh, yes, I knew; in fact, I accompanied her part of the way to London, and was bumped off when the trolley struck a refuge on the Great West Road. Meadows is here: he has just come from Oberzohn’s. He says he has found nothing.” Manfred thought for a while.