“I wish I could have seen his feet,” said the chauffeur, whose veritable name was Leon Gonsalez. He spoke with regret. “He comes from West Sussex, and there is insanity in his family. The left parietal is slightly recessed and the face is asymmetrical.” “Poor soul!” murmured Manfred, blowing a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “It’s a great trial introducing one’s friends to you, Leon.” “Fortunately, you have no friends,” said Leon, reaching out and taking a cigarette from the open gold case on the table. “Well, what do you think of our Mr. Barberton’s mystery?” George Manfred shook his head. “He was vague, and, in his desire to be diplomatic, a little incoherent. What about your own mystery, Leon? You have been out all day . . . have you found a solution?” Gonsalez nodded. “Barberton is afraid of something,” said Poiccart, a slow and sure analyst. “He carried a gun between his trousers and his waistcoat—you saw that?” George nodded. “The question is, who or which is the crowd? Question two is, where and who is Miss Mirabelle Leicester? Question three is, why did they burn Barberton’s feet . . . and I think that is all.” The keen face of Gonsalez was thrust forward through a cloud of smoke. “I will answer most of them and propound two more,” he said. “Mirabelle Leicester took a job to-day at Oberzohn’s—laboratory secretary!” George Manfred frowned. “Laboratory? I didn’t know that he had one.” “He hadn’t till three days ago—it was fitted in seventy-two hours by experts who worked day and night; the cost of its installation was sixteen hundred pounds—and it came into existence to give Oberzohn an excuse for engaging Mirabelle Leicester. You sent me out to clear up that queer advertisement which puzzled us all on Monday—I have cleared it up. It was designed to bring our Miss Leicester into the Oberzohn establishment. We all agreed when we discovered who was the advertiser, that Oberzohn was working for something—I watched his office for two days, and she was the only applicant for the job—hers the only letter they answered. Oberzohn lunched with her at the Ritz-Carlton—she sleeps to-night in Chester Square.” There was a silence which was broken by Poiccart. “And what is the question you have to propound?” he asked mildly. “I think I know,” said Manfred, and nodded. “The question is: how long has Mr. Samuel Barberton to live?” “Exactly,” said Gonsalez with satisfaction. “You are beginning to understand the mentality of Oberzohn!” _Chapter III_ _The Vendetta_