These three all looked towards us as we entered, each with a different expression. Bickerdale’s face became angry, almost savage; Pawley appeared, after his first glance of surprise, to be intensely annoyed. But Parslewe, half turning, motioned to the inspector and whispered a few words to him; the inspector, his plain-clothes man, and myself remained after that in the doorway by which we had entered, and Parslewe gave his attention to Bickerdale, to whose side, near the fireplace, Weech, still nervous and upset, had made his way round the table.
“Now then, Bickerdale!” he said. “Without any more to do about it, you’ll give me that document—you, or Weech, or both of you! Do you hear—hand it over!”
“No!” exclaimed Pawley. “I object. If there’s any handing over, Mr. Parslewe, it’ll be to me. And as you’ve brought police here, I’d better say at once that——”
Parslewe suddenly rose from his chair. He held up his left hand—towards Pawley. There was something in the gesture that made Pawley break off short in his words and remain silent. As for Parslewe’s right hand, it went into his pocket and brought out his cigar case. Silently he handed it to the inspector, motioning him to help himself and to pass it to his man. Then he turned to Pawley again.
“Mr. Pawley!” he said in his most matter-of-fact tones. “It’s very evident to me that you and I had better have a little conversation in strict privacy. Bickerdale!—where have you a spare room?”
Bickerdale turned to Weech, growling something that sounded more like a curse than an intimation. But Weech opened a door in the rear of the room, and revealed a lighted kitchen place, and Parslewe, motioning Pawley to follow him, went within. The door closed on them.
They were in that kitchen a good half-hour. As for those of us—five men—who were left in the sitting-room, we kept to our respective camps. Bickerdale and Weech, at their end of the place, hung together, eyeing us furtively, and occasionally whispering. Weech in particular looked venomous, and by that time I had come to the conclusion that he had bluffed Madrasia and myself very cleverly on the occasion of his visit to Kelpieshaw. As for the inspector and his man and myself, we sat in a line, on three very stiff-seated, straight-backed chairs, smoking Parslewe’s cigars, for lack of anything better to do, and watched and waited. Only once during that period of suspense did any of us speak; that was when the inspector, happening to catch my eye, gave me a quiet whisper.
“Queer business, Mr. Craye!” he said. “Odd!”
“Very,” said I.
He smiled and looked round at his man. But the man was one of those stolid-faced individuals who seem as if nothing could move them; also, he appeared to be relishing Parslewe’s cigar. With this in one corner of his lips he sat immovable, watching the door through which Parslewe and Pawley had vanished. I think he never took his eyes off it; anyway, my recollection of him is as of a man who could sit down and watch a thing or a person for hours and hours and hours, without as much as flickering an eyelid—an uncanny, uncomforting man—doubtless fitted, by some freak of nature, to his trade of sleuth-hound.