“Well,” I answered. “A little. He thinks the copper box has a false bottom, a narrow cavity, in it, and that something has been concealed there, and stolen from it. Possibly by our friend Weech.”
“Weech!” she exclaimed. “When?”
“When we left him alone with the box while we went up to the library,” I replied. “Of course, that’s possible—if Weech knew the secret.”
This seemed to fill her with new ideas.
“I wonder!” she said, musingly. “And is—is that what he’s after, here, in Newcastle?”
“Something of the sort,” I assented. “At least, I gather so. You know what he is—better than I do.”
She sat for a time in silence—in fact, till the cab drew up at the theatre. Then she spoke.
“There’s one thing about Jimmie,” she remarked, reassuringly, “nobody will get the better of him! So let him work things out.”
I did not tell her that there was no question of choice on my part. We saw the play which Parslewe had commended so highly; we went back to the hotel; we had supper together; then Madrasia went off to her room. And it was then twenty minutes to twelve, and I sat out every one of them, waiting, watching the door, listening for a step in the corridor without. But Parslewe did not come.
And at one minute past twelve I seized my overcoat and cap and left the room.