“Oily!” said Madrasia. “Wonder who he is—and what he’s after?”
“Doesn’t look like a dry-as-dust antiquary, anyhow,” I remarked.
But whatever the man looked like, we found him with Parslewe when we went home—one on each side of the parlour fire. And Parslewe introduced him, unceremoniously—Mr. Pawley.
III
Copper
MR. PAWLEY, who looked very comfortable in an easy chair, with a glass of whisky and soda conveniently at hand, smiled upon us as if we were old acquaintances. He was clearly one of those gentlemen who speedily make themselves at home anywhere, and, as it presently appeared, are by no means backward in the art of finding things out. Indeed, he at once began to put leading questions.
“Your daughter, I presume, sir?” he suggested, with a glance at Madrasia.
“Not a bit of it!” answered Parslewe, in his most off-hand manner. “My ward.”
“Dear me, sir! now I could have thought that I saw a distinct family resemblance,” said Mr. Pawley. “This young gentleman, perhaps——”
“Visitor of mine,” replied Parslewe. “Mr. Craye—a well-known artist.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” murmured Mr. Pawley. “I observed that you were doing something in your line when I saw you and Miss—I didn’t catch the young lady’s name, I think—Miss——?”