“This morning, rather,” said I. “Early this morning. Well, I was to tell you. He said you’d enjoy it. Better than any fiction! But what it’s all about, I don’t know. I wish I did! Perhaps you do.”
“I may do, when you tell me,” she answered. “Go on!”
Between mouthfuls I told her the whole story of my adventures, from the moment of recognising Pawley to finding Parslewe’s note on my plate. At the first mention of the copper box she turned and gazed at that mysterious article, reposing in its usual place on the sideboard; when I made an end of my narrative she stared at it again.
“Just so!” I said. “I wish it could speak. But—it can’t. And what I want to know is precisely what you want to know—what is it all about? A first-class mystery, this, anyway! Pawley comes, and is seen examining the copper box. I go to Newcastle, and see Pawley meet a fat-faced, white-whiskered old party. I hear this person talk of the copper box to another man, who turns out to be a solicitor. I have a passage-at-arms with a coppersmith, who, I feel sure, has seen and known the copper box—I have other passages. I come home and tell Parslewe—and Parslewe flees in the night, leaving me in charge of——”
“Thank you, but he’d far better have left you in charge of me!” she said. “And don’t you forget it—while he’s away, I’m boss!—never mind what he said—and you’ve got to be as good and obedient as they make ’em! I countermand his order, so you’re deposed—by me! But—I’m thinking.”
“What about?” I inquired meekly.
She pointed her fork at the sideboard.
“The copper box!” she answered. “What else?”
I helped myself to more bacon, and ate for a while in silent meditation.
“Perhaps it’s bewitched!” I observed at last. “Sort of Arabian Nights’ business, you know.”