“I don’t think there’s any doubt of it,” answered the white-whiskered person. “At any rate, I am not going to travel all this way, and back again, without making sure. I shall not be deceived!” he added with strong emphasis on the personal pronoun, accompanied by a complacent chuckle. “Even a point-blank denial would not satisfy me! No dust will be thrown in my eyes!”
“You were fully acquainted with the circumstances of thirty years ago?” questioned the other. “Personally, I mean?”
“Fully! Thirty-five years ago, to be exact. He—if it is so—is now fifty-six years of age. Oh, yes, I knew everything, was concerned in everything,” affirmed the elder man.
“Up to a certain point, you know, up to a certain point. Now, if I can only get at close quarters, and Pawley assures me that’s by no means difficult, I can satisfy myself rather cleverly. For instance——”
Once more he leaned nearer to his companion and lowered his voice; the conversation tailed off into whisperings. And now, fearful lest I should in any way betray myself, I rose from my chair, left their neighbourhood, and under pretence of looking at the evening newspapers spread out on a centre table, went across to another part of the room. I picked up a paper and sat down, affecting to look at it. But in reality, I was still watching the two men, and wondering what it was that they were talking about.
For without doubt it had to do with my host, Parslewe. The references to the copper box, to the coat-of-arms engraved on it, to the curiously worded motto appearing on the scroll beneath, all that meant Parslewe. Pawley, again; whom had Pawley been visiting but Parslewe? And Pawley’s estimate, so much valued by White Whiskers, that was, of course, in relation to the age of Parslewe. It was all Parslewe, and it didn’t require much thought or reflection or analysis on my part to decide that about and around Parslewe hung a decided mystery.
But of what nature? It seemed to me, judging him by my short yet very intimate acquaintanceship, that Parslewe was a decidedly frank and candid man. He had told me a good deal about himself. He had left England as a very young man, gone East, settled down in Madras, gone into partnership there with another Englishman, Madrasia’s father, trading in cotton and indigo, made a big fortune, and, on the death of his partner and his partner’s wife, had brought Madrasia to England, to settle down as I had found them. All that seemed a plain and straight story, with nothing remarkable or mysterious about it. What, then, were these men after? For there was no doubt in my mind now that Pawley had come to Kelpieshaw as a spy, seeking some particular information, and evidently getting what he wanted in an inspection of Parslewe and an examination of the copper box.
That copper box began to assume a sinister significance in my thoughts of it and its relation to this affair. But what was its relation? It was a box, and it was made of copper. Beautifully made, to be sure, and by some man who had taken vast artistic pride in his work; the engraving of the coat-of-arms, too, was beautifully done. But, after all, it was only a copper box! What was there about it, then, or appertaining to it, that made these men, if not exactly keen about it, at any rate remarkably interested in the mere fact of its existence?
I saw no more of the two men in the smoking-room that night, except that I caught a glimpse of White Whiskers, as I had come to call him, going bedward at the same time as myself, and on my corridor. I saw him again next morning, in the coffee-room, at breakfast; he looked bigger, more solemn and judicial than ever. But no Pawley came to him; I wondered what had become of Pawley. Perhaps he had gone back to sneak round Kelpieshaw again—anyway, I myself was going back there as soon as my canvas was ready. And I had already made up my mind that when I got there I should tell Parslewe that at Newcastle there were people talking about him and his copper box.
The man who was making my canvas had his shop in a side street off Haymarket; I set off to it a little before noon, intending to get my parcel, return to the station, and depart for Wooler. But half-way up Percy Street I suddenly saw White Whiskers, a little way in front of me. With him was the man with whom I had seen him in conversation the night before. Once more they were in conversation; it seemed to be earnest and intense, judging by their attitude; White Whiskers had his arm linked in that of his companion, to whom he bent, confidently; the other listened with rapt attention. Out of sheer curiosity I followed them. They turned, eventually, into St. Thomas Street, and then began to look at the names over the shops. Finally, White Whiskers raised his umbrella and pointed to a sign; a moment later they entered the shop beneath it. And from a little distance I saw what was on the sign: Bickerdale, Whitesmith and Coppersmith.