“Looks as if they’d all come from the same source. And he didn’t tell you anything as to where he got these things?”
“He never tells anybody anything as to where he gets things—never! He just brings them in and puts them down, somewhere—and that’s all. However, the copper box disappeared for a while—not so very long ago. I noticed that, and he vouchsafed to tell me that he’d taken it to be repaired by a man in Newcastle.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed. “Now I see some light! That man was Bickerdale, the coppersmith. Of course.”
“I’d thought of that already—thought of it as soon as you told me of the Bickerdale episode. But—what then?”
“Um! That’s a very big question,” I answered. “What, then, indeed! But I think somebody is very much concerned about that copper box—why, only heaven knows. This fatuous, white-whiskered old person, for instance. And that reminds me—he’ll turn up here this morning, sure as fate. What are we to say to him?”
“Why say more than that the master is away?” she asked.
“That won’t satisfy him,” said I. “He’s a pertinacious old party. And he’s Sir Charles Somebody-or-other, and he’ll resent being treated as if he were a footman leaving cards. Let me suggest something.”
“Well—what?” she asked dubiously. “We’ve got to be careful.”
“We’ll be careful enough,” said I. “Let’s do this. If the old chap comes—and come he will—let Tibbie bring him up here. We’ll receive him in state; you’ll, of course, play the part, your proper part, of chatelaine; I, of guest. You’ll regret that Mr. Parslewe is away from home—indefinitely—and we’ll both be warily careful to tell the old man nothing. But we’ll watch him. I particularly want to see if he looks for, sees, and seems to recognise the copper box. Pawley will have told him where it’s kept—on that sideboard; now let’s see if his eyes turn to it. He’ll come!—and before long.”
“Good!” she agreed. “Now, suppose he gets cross-examining us?”