He grinned knowingly at me as we shook hands at the door of my room; then he moved off to his own. His door closed. The queer old house became silent.
I slept like a top the remainder of that night—so soundly, indeed, that it was late when I awoke. I had to hurry over my shaving and dressing, but after all, I was first in the parlour. A cheery fire burned in the hearth; the table was laid for breakfast, and on my plate I saw an envelope; another lay before Madrasia’s. I snatched mine up, recognised Parslewe’s crabbed writing, and broke the seal—to stare and wonder at what he had written on a half-sheet of paper within.
“Dear Craye,” ran his note, “you’re a good fellow and dependable. Just take good care of the girl until you either hear from or see me again. What you told me early this morning inclines me to believe that I’d better attend to a possibly urgent affair, at once.—Vale!—J. P.”
I had scarcely read and comprehended this truly remarkable message when Madrasia ran into the room. She was singing—some old country song. It came to a dead stop as she saw me pointing to the envelope that lay by her plate.
V
Sir Charles Sperrigoe
I STOOD silently watching Madrasia as she broke open her letter, drew out the scrap of paper inside (Parslewe, as I had already noticed, was an absolute miser in his use of stationery, and made any stray fragment serve his immediate purpose), and read whatever was there written. The slight pucker of astonishment between her eyebrows deepened to a frown, and with a gesture that was not exactly definable she tossed the paper across to me.
“What on earth does that mean?” she exclaimed. “And where is he?”
I glanced at this second communication; it was comprised in one line—
“Be a good girl and do as you’re told.”
“Do as you’re told!” she added. “Good heavens!—who’s to do the telling?”