“The residence of, I believe—er, Mr. Parslewe?” he suggested. “Mr. James Parslewe.”
“Mr. Parslewe lives there,” assented Madrasia. “Want him?”
He smiled again—enigmatically this time.
“I hope to have the pleasure of waiting upon Mr. Parslewe—and of finding him at home,” he answered. “Er—Mr. Parslewe, I believe—perhaps you are acquainted with him?—is a gentleman learned in—er, antiquities—and that sort of thing?”
“He is a bit inclined that way,” replied Madrasia, almost flippantly. “Are you?”
He waved his hand, shelving away from us.
“A neophyte—a mere neophyte,” he said, still smiling. “A—er, learner!”
He strode off up the valley: we looked after him meditatively.
“Don’t like the looks of that person,” said Madrasia, suddenly.
“Neither do I—though I don’t know why,” I answered. “Case of Dr. Fell, I suppose. Bit too given to smiling readily, eh?”