Mirabelle laughed softly as she opened the door and walked in. At the sound of the door closing, the man who was sitting stiffly on a deep settee in a window recess got up. He was tall and bent, and his dark face was lined. His eyes she could not see; they were hidden behind dark green glasses, which were turned in her direction as she came across the room to greet him. “Miss Mirabelle Leicester?” he asked, in the quiet, modulated voice of an educated man. He took her hand in his. “Won’t you sit down?” she said, for he remained standing after she had seated herself. “Thank you.” He sat down gingerly, holding between his knees the handle of the umbrella he had brought into the drawing-room. “I’m afraid my visit may be inopportune, Miss Leicester,” he said. “Have you by any chance heard about Mr. Barberton?” Her brows wrinkled in thought. “Barberton? I seem to have heard the name.” “He was killed yesterday on the Thames Embankment.” Then she recollected. “The man who was bitten by the snake?” she asked in horror. The visitor nodded. “It was a great shock to me, because I have been a friend of his for many years, and had arranged to call at his hotel on the night of his death.” And then abruptly he turned the conversation in another and a surprising direction. “Your father was a scientist, Miss Leicester?” She nodded. “Yes, he was an astronomer, an authority upon meteors.” “Exactly. I thought that was the gentleman. I have only recently had his book read to me. He was in Africa for some years?” “Yes,” she said quietly, “he died there. He was studying meteors for three years in Angola. You probably know that a very large number of shooting stars fall in that country. My father’s theory was that it was due to the ironstone mountains which attract them—so he set up a little observatory in the interior.” Her lips trembled for a second. “He was killed in a native rising,” she said. “Do you know the part of Angola where he had his observatory?” She shook her head. “I’m not sure. I have never been in Africa, but perhaps Aunt Alma may know.” She went out to find Alma waiting in the passage, in conversation with the pipe-smoker. The man withdrew hastily at the sight of her. “Alma, do you remember what part of Angola father had his observatory?” she asked. Alma did not know off-hand, but one of her invaluable scrap-books contained all the information that the girl wanted, and she carried the book to Mr. Lee. “Here are the particulars,” she said, and laid the book open before them. “Would you read it for me?” he requested gently, and she read to him the three short paragraphs which noted that Professor Leicester had taken up his residence in Bishaka. “That is the place,” interrupted the visitor. “Bishaka! You are sure that Mr. Barberton did not communicate with you?” “With me?” she said in amazement. “No—why should he?” He did not answer, but sat for a long time, turning the matter over in his mind.