“For a day or two at the hotel at Wooler,” he replied. “After that, perhaps, for a few days in Berwick. The address at Wooler will find me, at any rate, during my stay in these parts; letters would be forwarded.”
He was still looking at the copper box, and presently he became mendacious.
“What a truly beautiful old sideboard!” he remarked, going nearer to that article of furniture. “Mr. Parslewe is, I see, a connoisseur in Chippendale work.”
He went nearer to the sideboard, but we both saw that he was not looking at it at all; he was staring at the coat-of-arms on the copper box.
“Delightful pursuit, collecting,” he said, straightening himself. “Well, I must run away. Pleasure must not be put before business, and I have a car waiting, and business at the other end of a drive.”
He shook hands with Madrasia with—I thought—unnecessary cordiality. Madrasia turned to me.
“Perhaps you’ll see Sir Charles safely down the stair?” she suggested. “It’s rather dangerous if you don’t know it.”
I preceded Sir Charles down the stair and opened the door at its foot. It had been shadowy in the room, and more so on the stair, but there was a full glare of spring sunlight on us as we emerged into the courtyard, and now, seeing me clearly for the first time, the old gentleman let out a sudden sharp exclamation.
“Hallo, young man!” he said, staring at me, while his face flushed under the surprise of his recognition. “I’ve seen you before! Last night, at the hotel in Wooler. And—and—somewhere before that!”
“In Newcastle, no doubt,” said I. “I saw you there two or three times.”