“Aye, likely enough,” he muttered. “He’s the sort that would turn out Sir Charles, for sure! But I hadn’t heard of it.”
“That’s the lot, Mr. Parslewe,” I concluded. “I left Sir Charles and the police inspector smoking their cigars and drinking their whisky. I saw them through the open door of the smoking-room, and they were hob-nobbing comfortably enough. And then I raced through the night—to tell you!”
“Aye!” he said. “But to tell me—what?”
“What I have told you,” I replied.
He gave me a queer, questioning look.
“Sounds very mysterious, my lad, eh!” he said.
“To me—uncommonly so!” said I.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and then took a pull at his glass.
“You’ve no doubt amused yourself with theories about it?” he suggested.
“No!” I retorted. “It’s too deep for theories, Mr. Parslewe. Too deep for me to theorise about, I mean.”