“Aye, why not?” he answered. “As long as it’s sensible.”
“Sensible enough,” she retorted. “Where are we?”
“Just so!” said I. “The same question has suggested itself to me, limited as my intelligence is. For I don’t know!”
Parslewe regarded us with calm eyes and manner.
“We’re in the ancient and eminently picturesque and very comfortable Crown Hotel at Medminster,” he answered. “Which stands in the Market Place, and commands a remarkable view of one of the last bits of mediæval England, as you can read in the guide books, and, better still, see for yourselves in the morning.”
“Medminster,” exclaimed Madrasia. “But that’s where old Sperrigoe comes from! At least, that was the address given in The Times advertisement that Weech showed us.”
“Precisely!” agreed Parslewe, drily. “It was here in this very room, at that table, that I had the honour of meeting Sperrigoe.”
“When?” demanded Madrasia.
“Oh! Some time ago,” he answered, indifferently.
“Then, if you’d been at home when he called at Kelpieshaw the other morning, he’d have known you?” said Madrasia, giving me a kick under the table. “Of course he would, as you’d met before.”