“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “I certainly never thought of that!”
“No doubt,” he remarked coolly. “But I did. However, now we come to another matter, though connected with the main one. I have business to-night which, I hope, will illuminate me as to if anything was in the box or has been abstracted from it since—by Weech—and I want you to do two or three things for me, chiefly in the way of looking after Madrasia. We’ll dine early, to begin with. Then you can take her to the play—here are the tickets while I remember them. When you come back, you’ll find a bit of supper in that private sitting-room. Before you go, I shall tell Madrasia that I may be very late in coming in, so after supper she’ll go to bed. Now comes in a job for you! I want you to wait up, in that sitting-room, until twelve o’clock—midnight. If I’m not in by exactly twelve”—here he paused and produced a sealed envelope which he placed in my hand—“put on your overcoat, and take that round, yourself, to the police station—it’s not far off—ask to see a responsible person, and hand it to him. Do you understand?”
“Every word!” said I. “But—police? Do you anticipate danger?”
“Not so much danger as difficulty, though I won’t deny that there may be danger,” he answered. “But do what I say. You’ll find an inspector on night duty—he’ll know my name when he reads my note, because I’m a county magistrate. If he asks you a question or two, answer. And, if you like, go with him if he goes himself, or with whoever he sends. Is it all clear?—midnight?”
“It’s all clear,” I replied, putting the sealed envelope in my pocket. “And I’ll carry it out. But I hope you’re not running into personal danger, Mr. Parslewe!”
His lips tightened, and he looked away, as if to intimate that that was a matter he wouldn’t discuss, and presently he began to talk about something of a totally different nature. I wanted to ask him what I should do supposing anything did happen to him, but I dared not; I saw well enough that he had done with things for the time being, and that there was nothing to be done but to carry out his instructions.
We dined quietly downstairs at half-past six; when, nearly an hour later, Madrasia and I drove off to the theatre, we left Parslewe calmly chatting to an old gentleman in the lounge. He waved his cigar to us as we passed, then called Madrasia back.
“You go to bed when you get in, child,” he said. “At least, when you’ve had some supper. Don’t wait for me; I mayn’t be in till the early hours.”
Then he waved her off, and we went away, Madrasia mildly excited at the thought of the play, and I feeling uncommonly anxious and depressed. For the possibilities of the situation which might arise at midnight were not pleasant to contemplate, and the more I thought about them the less I liked them. It was useless to deny that Parslewe was a strange, even an eccentric man, who would do things in his own fashion, and I was sufficiently learned in the ways of the world, young as I was, to know that such men run into danger. Where was he going that night, and to do—what? Evidently on some mission which might need police interference. And supposing that interference came along too late? What was I to do then? When all was said and done, and in spite of what he had said about myself and Madrasia in his easy-going fashion, I was almost a stranger to him and to her, and I foresaw complications if anything serious happened to him. I did not particularly love Parslewe that evening; I thought he might have given me more of his confidence. But there it was! and there was Madrasia. And Madrasia seemed to have been restored to a more serene state of mind by this rejoining of her guardian; evidently she possessed a sound belief in Parslewe’s powers.
“Did he tell you anything this afternoon when I was out shopping?” she inquired suddenly as we rode up Grey Street. “I’m sure you must have talked.”