Pawley gave me a smile which was half bland and half sickly, and wholly mysterious. And suddenly feeling that I had as good a right as another to indulge an entirely natural sense of inquisitiveness, I went up to him and bade him good morning. He responded civilly enough, and it struck me that he was rather glad to see me and not indisposed to talk. He was eating bread and butter and sipping tea; I got some coffee and biscuits, and for a moment or two we stood side by side, silent. But I had an idea that Pawley wanted me to speak.
“Leaving?” I asked, with a glance at his belongings.
“That’s it, Mr. Craye,” he replied, almost eagerly. “By the seven-forty, sir. I’m through with my job after last night.”
I noticed a difference in his tone and manner. He was no longer the amateur antiquary, affecting a knowledge and a jargon carefully acquired; he talked like what he probably was, an inquiry agent of some sort. And in consonance with my previous feeling of intuition, I thought that however much he might keep back, he was not against communicating some of his knowledge.
“Last night’s proceedings,” I remarked, “were somewhat mysterious, Mr. Pawley.”
“Mysterious!” he exclaimed. “I believe you! I’ve been concerned in some queer things in my time, Mr. Craye, but in none queerer than this! Beyond me! But no doubt you know more than I do.”
“I know nothing,” I answered. “Nothing, that is, beyond what I’ve seen. And what I’ve seen I haven’t understood. For instance, I didn’t understand how you came to be at Bickerdale’s last night.”
“Oh, that’s easy!” he said. “I was left here to keep an eye on Bickerdale and to get in touch with him. And, incidentally, to find out, if I could, whether Bickerdale had discovered anything in that copper box when he had it.”
“Did anybody suspect that something might have been concealed in the copper box?” I asked.
“To be sure, Mr. Craye! Sir Charles Sperrigoe suspected—does suspect. That’s what he sent me up here for—to take a preliminary look round. Then—came himself. Gone back now—but kept me here for a day or two. To watch Bickerdale—as I said. And last night, just as I was hoping to worm something out of Bickerdale and his son-in-law, that ratty little chap—Weech—in walks Mr. Parslewe!”