Mr. Pawley did not see me. I caught sight of him by accident, but, having seen him, I made it my business to watch him a little. He stood at the exit of one of the arrival platforms, and he was absorbed in looking for somebody or other. An express came in from the south; its passengers began to stream through the exit; presently Mr. Pawley—who was still attired as when I had last seen him—removed his cap and bowed with sincere obsequiousness. The object of his reverence was an elderly, big-framed, very consequential-looking man, whose large face was ornamented by a pair of old-fashioned whiskers, and who, in my opinion, had family solicitor written big all over himself and his attire, from his silk hat to his stout-soled, gaitered, square-toed boots. That he was a person of much greater importance than Mr. Pawley was very evident from the fact that he replied to Mr. Pawley’s obsequious greeting with a mere condescending nod, and at once resigned into his hands a Gladstone bag and a travelling rug. There was an interchange of brief remarks between the two—then they marched across the platform to the hotel and vanished within its portals, the large man going first, and Mr. Pawley playing porter behind.
My curiosity had been aroused so keenly by that time that I had some absurd notion of following Pawley and the white-whiskered person into the hotel, just to see if I could find out a little more about their mutual relation. But on reflection I went off about my own business. Having some knowledge of Newcastle, I walked up town to a certain restaurant of which I knew and highly approved; there I lunched and idled an hour away afterwards. After that I set out in quest of a firm whose name Parslewe had given me. Its manager had not got a canvas of the precise size I wanted, but he promised to make me one by noon of the following day, and I accordingly decided to stay in Newcastle for the night, and, later, went to the hotel at the station to book a room. In the smoking-room there, writing letters, was the white-whiskered person. Pawley was not with him. Nor was Pawley with him when, after dinner that evening, he came into the smoking-room again and took a chair close by my own in a comfortable corner. But now he was not alone; he came in company with a younger man, a middle-aged, sharp-eyed individual whom I also set down as having some connection with the law.
These two men had evidently just dined; a waiter brought them coffee and liqueurs; the elder man produced a cigar-case and offered it to his companion. They began to talk; sometimes quite audibly, at others, sinking their voices to whisperings. But they had scarcely lighted their cigars before a word or two from the white-whiskered man made me prick my ears.
“Without doubt!” he said. “Without any doubt, the copper box—its presence there—the coat-of-arms—the odd legend on the scroll—is a most valuable piece of evidence! As soon as I heard of it——”
He bent nearer to his companion, and for a minute or two I failed to catch what he was saying. Out of my eye-corners, however, I could see that the younger man was listening, attentively and approvingly; from time to time he nodded his head as if in assent. Eventually he spoke.
“And you say that Pawley, in his opinion, took him to be of about that age?” he asked.
“That, of course, has to be considered.”
“Pawley is an observant fellow,” remarked the elder man. “I have employed Pawley on several occasions, and with excellent results. I can trust Pawley’s estimate of the age. It fits in exactly!”
The younger man regarded his cigar thoughtfully for a while.
“Odd!” he said at last. “Very odd! But I should say it is so!”