And would have told him half his Troy was burn’d!’
“But go up, Craye, my lad, and we’ll see if a drop of whisky’ll revive you!”
He laughed again and pushed me up the stair; I went, willingly.
“Mr. Parslewe!” said I. “I’m neither dull, nor dead, nor woe-begone, but I am cold, for the night’s bitter, and that miserable old car I got is a trap for draughts. And as to Priam and Troy, I’ve a tale to tell you that beats that!”
“Aye?” he said. “Well, a midnight tale is generally one that’s worth hearing. And if you’re cold, I believe there’s a bit of fire burning, and we’ll soon improve it. But——”
We were at the head of the stair by then, and Madrasia suddenly called from her room.
“Jimmie!—is that him?” she demanded, careless of grammar in her eagerness. “And what’s he after at this time?”
“Aye, it’s me!” I called out, catching at her spirit. “And I’m safe and sound, too, with a pack of adventures——”
“That’ll keep till morning,” interrupted Parslewe, pushing me into the room. “Go to sleep again, my girl!” He shut the door on us, drew the heavy curtain across it, and after poking up the fire and lighting the lamp, helped us both to whisky from the decanter and lighted his pipe. “Aye, and what’s the tale, Craye?” he asked.
I had been considering the telling of that all the way from Wooler—debating the best way of putting the various episodes before him. It seemed to me that the best fashion was one of consecutive narrative, leaving him to draw his own inferences and conclusions. So I began at the beginning, which was, of course, at the point where I first saw Pawley awaiting the arrival of the train from the south. I watched him carefully as I told the story, being anxious to see how it struck him and how things that had impressed me impressed him. And as I went on from one stage to another I was conscious of a curious, half-humorous, half-cynical imperturbability about him; his face remained mask-like, except for a sly gleam in his expressive eyes, and he never betrayed any sign of being surprised or startled but once, when his lips moved a little at the first mention of the copper box. And twice he smiled and nodded his head slightly—the first time was when I mentioned the coppersmith’s shop, whereat he stirred a bit and said softly, “Aye, that would be old Bickerdale!” and the second when I said that the police inspector had addressed White Whiskers as Sir Charles. He laughed outright at that.