“We will be back soon after nine,” he said. “Leon driving you?” was the dry response. “Yes—in spite of which we shall be back at nine.” “That man has got a grudge against my driving,” said Leon, when Manfred reported the conversation. “I knew it was he when Digby described the car and said there was a fat roll of mackintosh on the top. ‘Fat roll’ is not a bad description. Do you know whether Poiccart spoke to Miss Leicester?” “Yes, he asked her if she grew onions”—a reply which sent Leon into fits of silent laughter. Breakfast was over and they were making their preparations for departure, when Leon asked unexpectedly: “Has Miss Leicester a writing-table of her own?” “Yes, in her room,” said Alma, and took him up to show him the old bureau. He opened the drawers without apology, took out some old letters, turned them over, reading them shamelessly. Then he opened the blotter. There were several sheets of blank paper headed “Heavytree Farm,” and two which bore her signature at the bottom. Alma explained that the bank account of the establishment was in Mirabelle’s name, and, when it was necessary to draw cash, it was a rule of the bank that it should be accompanied by a covering letter—a practice which still exists in some of the old West-country banking establishments. She unlocked a drawer that he had not been able to open and showed him a cheque-book with three blank cheques signed with her name. “That banker has known me since I was so high,” said Alma scornfully. “You wouldn’t think there’d be so much red-tape.” Leon nodded. “Do you keep any account books?” “Yes, I do,” said Alma in surprise. “The household accounts, you mean?” “Could I see one?” She went out and returned with a thin ledger, and he made a brief examination of its contents. Wholly inadequate, thought Alma, considering the trouble she had taken and the interest he had shown. “That’s that,” he said. “Now, George, _en voiture_!” “Why did you want to see the account book?” asked Manfred as they bowled up the road. “I am naturally commercial-minded,” was the unsatisfactory reply. “And, George, we’re short of juice. Pray like a knight in armour that we sight a filling station in the next ten minutes.” If George had prayed, the prayer would have been answered: just as the cylinders started to miss they pulled up the car before a garage, and took in a supply which was more than sufficient to carry them to their destination. It was nine o’clock exactly when the car stopped before the house. Poiccart, watching the arrival from George’s room, smiled grimly at the impertinent gesture of the chauffeur. Behind locked doors the three sat in conference. “This has upset all my plans,” said Leon at last. “If the girl was safe, I should settle with Oberzohn to-night.” George Manfred stroked his chin thoughtfully. He had once worn a trim little beard, and had never got out of that beard-stroking habit of his.