Outside the parlour, and with its door safely shut on our visitor, I looked at Madrasia, who, in her turn, looked inquiringly at me.
“Come up to the library!” I whispered. “Those books!”
“Yes!” she answered. “I thought of that!”
We stole up the stair, for all the world as if we were going to commit some nefarious deed, and into the room wherein Parslewe kept his various and many treasures. Within five minutes we had satisfied ourselves, and stood looking questioningly at each other. We had reason; the books specified in the advertisement were all there! Every one of them!—book-plates and all.
“What next?” muttered Madrasia at last. “Of course, we mustn’t tell him!”
She nodded at the floor, indicating the spot beneath which Mr. Weech was sipping his drink and nibbling biscuits.
“Tell him nothing!” said I. “But, let him tell us! Come down!”
We went down again; Mr. Weech looked very comfortable.
“We should like to hear more of your very interesting story, Mr. Weech,” I said. “You got to the point where Bickerdale showed you this advertisement. What happened after that?”
“Why, this,” he answered, evidently more ready to talk than ever. “Bickerdale and I consulted. He was all for writing to these lawyers at once, denouncing Mr. Parslewe as the thief. I said, metaphorically, you know—that he was an ass; it was much more likely that Mr. Parslewe had been taken in by the real and actual thief. I advised seeing Mr. Parslewe. But Bickerdale, he wrote, unbeknown to me, to these lawyers, saying that he was sure he’d had this copper box in his hands, and that where it was, probably the books would be. And those lawyers sent a man—a private detective—down to investigate——”