“Mr. Craye, I’m sure?” he said. “I’ve heard of you. Staying here with Mr. Parslewe. Now, is Mr. Parslewe in? I mean, has he returned?”
“No!” I answered, bluntly enough.
He looked at me with a glance that was at once understanding and confidential; there was, I thought, something very like the suspicion of a wink in his eye.
“The fact of the case is, I’m his solicitor,” he remarked. “And——”
But just then Madrasia came flying down the stairs, and greeted the visitor so warmly that for the fraction of a second I really felt jealous.
“Mr. Murthwaite!” she cried, catching his readily extended hand and shaking it almost fervently. “Oh!—this is awfully good of you. We’re in an absolute muddle here—mentally, I mean—and now you’ll clear everything up for us! The sight of you is as good as sunshine after storm. Come in!—old Edie shall take your horse. This gentleman is Mr. Alvery Craye, a famous artist, and he’s nearly as much out of his wits as I am!”
“Then I find myself in queer and possibly dangerous company!” remarked Mr. Murthwaite, with another half wink at me. “However, I hope you’re sane enough to give me some tea, Miss Durham? Good!—then I’ll come in.” He handed his horse over to old Muir and followed Madrasia up the stair, I coming behind. His tone had been light and bantering up to then, but as soon as the three of us had reached the parlour and I had closed the door he turned to both with a quick, searching, earnest glance, and, unconsciously, I think, lowered his voice. “Now look here,” he said, in the tone of a man who wants a direct answer. “Do you young people, either of you, know where Parslewe is? What I really mean, though, is—is he in this house?”
“In this house!” exclaimed Madrasia. “Good heavens! Do you mean—hidden?”
“Why not?” answered Murthwaite. “I dare say one who knows it could hide in this old place for a month. But is he? Or anywhere about?”
Madrasia looked at me; I looked at the two telegrams which were lying on the table beyond the tea-tray.