“You didn’t happen to buy a bag, or a case, or something to carry your impedimenta in?” he asked with a grin.
“Yes, I did,” retorted Madrasia. “Do you think I was going to carry a brown paper parcel back to Wooler? I bought a very nice bag.”
“Oh!” he said sweetly. “All right! Then you can just go and pack it, my girl, and be ready in three quarters of an hour, for we’re going.”
“Going where?” demanded Madrasia. “Home?”
“Not just yet,” he said. “We’re going south—by the express. A good way, too, and we must get seats in the luncheon car. So you be ready.”
Madrasia pointed a slim finger at me.
“You’ve never asked him!” she exclaimed.
“That’s all right,” replied Parslewe, calmly. “He’s going too. We’re all going. You go and pack your duds.” He turned to me as she went out of the room and his smile was sweeter than ever. “You may as well see it through, Craye,” he said. “I think we’ll have about settled things up by noon to-morrow. And I’ll show you something that’ll appeal to your artistic eye. Eh?”
“In for a penny, in for a pound, Mr. Parslewe,” I replied. “I’m game!—but hanged if I know what it’s all about!”
“I’m not so certain that I know that myself, my lad!” he answered. “But I think we’re getting near it. Well, be ready!”