“And you’re going to tell me about the fort, aren’t you?” he said, as he looked up from his notes. Barberton hesitated. “I was,” he admitted, “but I’m not so sure that I will now, until I’ve found this young lady. And don’t forget”—he rapped the table to emphasize his words—“that crowd is hot!” “Which crowd?” asked Manfred good-humouredly. He knew many “crowds,” and wondered if it was about one which was in his mind that the caller was speaking. “The crowd I’m talking about,” said Mr. Barberton, who spoke with great deliberation and was evidently weighing every word he uttered for fear that he should involuntarily betray his secret. That seemed to be an end of his requirements, for he rose and stood a little awkwardly, fumbling in his inside pocket. “There is nothing to pay,” said Manfred, guessing his intention. “Perhaps, when we have located your Miss Mirabelle Leicester, we shall ask you to refund our out-of-pocket expenses.” “I can afford to pay——” began the man. “And we can afford to wait.” Again the gleam of amusement in the deep eyes. Still Mr. Barberton did not move. “There’s another thing I meant to ask you. You know all that’s happening in this country?” “Not quite everything,” said the other with perfect gravity. “Have you ever heard of the Four Just Men?” It was a surprising question. Manfred bent forward as though he had not heard aright. “The Four——?” “The Four Just Men—three, as a matter of fact. I’d like to get in touch with those birds.” Manfred nodded. “I think I have heard of them,” he said. “They’re in England now somewhere. They’ve got a pardon: I saw that in the _Cape Times_—the bit I tore the advertisement from.” “The last I heard of them, they were in Spain,” said Manfred, and walked round the table and opened the door. “Why do you wish to get in touch with them?” “Because,” said Mr. Barberton impressively, “the crowd are scared of ’em—that’s why.” Manfred walked with his visitor to the landing. “You have omitted one important piece of information,” he said with a smile, “but I did not intend your going until you told me. What is your address?” “Petworth Hotel, Norfolk Street.” Barberton went down the stairs; the butler was waiting in the hall to show him out, and Mr. Barberton, having a vague idea that something of the sort was usual in the houses of the aristocracy, slipped a silver coin in his hand. The dark-faced man murmured his thanks: his bow was perhaps a little lower, his attitude just a trifle more deferential. He closed and locked the front door and went slowly up the stairs to the office room. Manfred was sitting on the empire table, lighting a cigarette. The chauffeur-valet had come through the grey curtains to take the chair which had been vacated by Mr. Barberton. “He gave me half a crown—generous fellow,” said Poiccart, the butler. “I like him, George.”