“It sounds like it,” I agreed. “And you think that it was that that Mr. Parslewe recovered last night?”
“I do,” he answered. “For I’ve heard—Sir Charles told me himself—that when the old man was struck down and lay dying, all he spoke of—as far as they could make out—was the copper box, coupled with the family name. Mr. Craye, I think he hid that will in the copper box, and that Mr. Parslewe now has it in his pocket!”
It seemed a probable suggestion, and I nodded my assent.
“I suppose we shall hear,” I said.
Pawley picked up his suit-case.
“I must go to my train,” he said. “Hear? Yes—and see, too, Mr. Craye! I think you’ll hear and see some queer things within this next day or two, if you’re remaining in Mr. Parslewe’s company. But, I’ll say this—Mr. Parslewe, though unmistakably a queer, a very queer, eccentric gentleman, is a straight ’un, and whatever he got from Bickerdale, it’s safe with him. Otherwise I shouldn’t be going south. And, as I say, if you’re stopping with Mr. Parslewe, I think you’ll have some entertainment. Better than a tale, I call it!”
He said good morning at that, and went off to his train, and after buying a morning newspaper, I turned into the hotel and went up to the private sitting-room. And then, presently, came Madrasia.
I was not going to say anything to Madrasia—I mean, as regarded the events of the night. Fortunately, she asked no questions—about the past, at any rate; her sole concern seemed to be about the immediate future. There was a waiter in the room, laying the table for breakfast, when she came in; she and I withdrew into the embrasure of the window, looking out on streets that had now grown busy.
“Have you seen him this morning?” she asked significantly. “No? Did you see him last night?”
“For a few minutes,” I answered.