THE COPPER BOX

J. S. FLETCHER

Novels by
J. S. FLETCHER

THE HEAVEN-KISSED HILL
THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL
EXTERIOR TO THE EVIDENCE
THE VALLEY OF HEADSTRONG MEN
THE LOST MR. LINTHWAITE

THE COPPER BOX

BY
J. S. FLETCHER

NEW

YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1923,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

THE COPPER BOX. I
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

THE COPPER BOX

THE COPPER BOX

I
The Lady of Kelpieshaw

ALTHOUGH it was springtide by the calendar, and already some little way advanced, the snow time was by no means over in that wild Border country. The exact date was April 19. I fix it by the fact that my birthday falls on the 18th, and that I spent that one, the twenty-third, in an old-fashioned hotel at Wooler, and celebrated it by treating myself at dinner to the best bottle of wine the house afforded. It may have been the bottle of wine—but more likely it was sheer ignorance and presumption—that prompted me next morning to attempt what proved to be an impossible feat of pedestrianism. I set out immediately after breakfast intending before nightfall to make a complete circuit of the country which lies between Wooler and the Scottish border, going round by Kirknewton, Coldburn, and the Cheviot, and getting back to my starting-point by Hedgehope Hill and Kelpie Strand. That would have been a big walk on a long and fair summer day; in the uncertainty of a northern April it was a rash venture, which landed me in a highly unpleasant situation before the close of the afternoon. The morning was bright and promising, and for many enjoyable hours all went well. But about three o’clock came a disappearance of the sun and a suspicious darkening of the sky and lowering of temperature; before long snow began to fall, and in a fashion with which I, a Southerner, was not at all familiar. It was thick, it was blinding, it was persistent; it speedily obscured tracks, and heaped itself up in hollows; I began to have visions of being lost in it. And between five and six o’clock I found myself in this position—as far as I could make out from my pocket-map, I was at some point of the Angle between the Cheviot, Cairn Hill, and Hedgehope Hill and at the western extremity of Harthope Burn, but for all practical purposes I might as well have been in the heart of the Andes. I could just make out the presence of the three great hills, but I could see nothing of any farmstead or dwelling; what was worse, no house, wayside inn, or village was marked on my map—that is, within any reasonable distance. As for a path, I had already lost the one I was on, and the snow by that time had become a smooth thick white carpet in front of me; I might be safe in stepping farther on that carpet, and I might sink into a hole or bog and be unable to get out. And the nearest indicated place—Middleton—was miles and miles away, and darkness was coming, and coming quickly.

The exact spot in which I made these rough reckonings was at the lee side of a coppice of young fir, whereat I had paused to rest a while and to consider what was best to be done. Clearly, there was only one thing to do!—to struggle on and trust to luck. I prepared for that by taking a pull at my flask, in which, fortunately, there was still half its original contents of whisky and water left, and finishing the remains of my lunch. But the prospect that faced me when I presently left my shelter and rounded the corner of the coppice was by no means pleasant. The snow was falling faster and thicker, and darkness was surely coming. It looked as if I was either to struggle through the snow for more miles than I knew of, or be condemned to creep under any shelter I could find and pass a miserable night. But even then my bad luck was on the turn. Going onward and downward, from off the moorland towards the valley, I suddenly realised that I had struck some sort of road or made track; it was hard and wide, as I ascertained by striking my stick through the snow at various places. And just as suddenly, a little way farther to the east, I saw, bright and beckoning, the lights of a house.

The dusk was now so much fallen, and the whirling snow-flakes so thick that I had come right up to it before I could make out what manner of house it was that I had chanced upon so opportunely. It stood a little back from the road, on its north side, and in a sort of recess in the moorland, with the higher ground shelving down to its walls on all sides except that on which I stood. There was a courtyard all round it; on three sides of this the walls were unusually high, but on mine lower—low enough to enable me to see what stood inside. And that was as queer-looking a house as ever I had seen. Its centre was a high, square tower, with a battlemented head; from its west and east angles lower buildings projected—lower, yet of considerable height; at one of the angles of these wings, connecting it and the tower, there was a round turret, with a conical top—altogether the place was so mediæval in appearance that it made me think of marauding barons, cattle forays, and all the rest of it. That the house was ancient I gathered from one circumstance—there was not a window anywhere in its lower parts. These seemed to be of solid masonry, unpierced by window or door; the lights I had seen came from windows fifteen or twenty feet above the level of the courtyard—one in the round turret, one in the left wing, a third in the right.

It was not until I was in the courtyard, knee-deep in drifting snow, that I made out where the door stood. It was at the foot of the turret, and when I reached it, I saw that it was in keeping with the rest of the place—a stout oak affair, black with age, studded with great square-headed iron nails, and set in a frame as sturdy as itself. It was one of those doors which look, being shut, as if it would never open, and when after a brief inspection I beat loudly on its formidable timbers—no bell being visible—it was with a wonder as to whether such a feeble summons would carry through that evident thickness.

But the great door swung back almost at once. There, before me, a lamp held above her head, stood an elderly woman, a tall, gaunt, hard-featured woman, who first started with obvious surprise at seeing me, and then stared at me with equally apparent suspicion. There was no friendliness in her face, and the lack of it drove out of my head whatever it was that I had meant to say. But I managed to stammer an inquiry.

“Oh—er—can you tell me where I am?” I said. “I mean—what is the nearest village, or inn? I’m making my way to Wooler, and——”

It seemed to me that the door was about to be closed in my face; certainly the woman narrowed the already small opening between us.

“There’s nothing’ll be nearer than Middleton,” she answered, “and you’ll keep straight on the road outside, and that’ll be maybe six miles.”

“Six miles—in this snow!” I exclaimed. “I’ll be——”

“There’s nothing nearer,” she made haste to say. “There’s no house at all between this and Middleton. And I’d advise you to be getting along, for the snow’ll be far worse ere the night’s fallen than what it is, and the road is not——”

The voice of a girl, clear, musical, and with a touch of masterfulness in it, broke in on the woman’s harsh accents.

“Tibbie! What is it?—who is there?”

The woman frowned. But—involuntarily—she opened the door wider. I saw then that she was standing in a square stone hall of very small dimensions, and that from her right hand stone steps, obviously set in a newel stair, gave access to the upper regions of this queer old place. And I saw more—I saw a pair of slim and shapely ankles, in smart stockings and shoes; the edge of a dainty skirt, and the projection of the stair out of all else.

“It’s a young man, miss, wants to know his way,” said the janitor. “He’s for Wooler, and I’ve told him——”

“For Wooler? In this snow? Impossible, Tibbie! Why——”

The smart shoes suddenly tripped down the stair. Before I could realise my luck their owner was confronting me with curiosity and interest. I suppose I looked pretty forlorn and tramp-like; my water-proof coat was none of the newest, and I was wearing a disreputable, favourite old hat. But I uncovered and made my best bow. And if I stared it was because the light of the old woman’s lamp showed me the prettiest girl I had ever had the good fortune to see. Perhaps, because we were both young, I made bold to smile at her—knowingly.

“You think I shall be—lost in the snow and found dead in the morning?” I suggested.

“That’s precisely what you will be if you try to reach Wooler to-night,” she answered, with some liveliness. “Such a thing’s impossible! even if you knew the way, and I think you don’t. Of course, you must stay here. My guardian, Mr. Parslewe, is out, but——”

“The master is not one for strangers, miss,” interrupted the old woman. “His orders——”

The girl turned on her with a flash of her grey eyes that gave me a good notion of her imperious temper and general masterfulness.

“Fiddle-de-dee, Tibbie!” she exclaimed. “Your master would have a good deal to say if we turned anybody from his door on a night like this. You must come in,” she went on, turning smilingly to me. “Mr. Parslewe is the most hospitable man alive, and if he were in he’d welcome you heartily. I don’t know whether he’ll manage to get home to-night or not. But I’m at home!” she concluded with a sudden glint in her eye. “Come up the stair!”

I waited for no second invitation. She was already tripping up the stair, holding her skirts daintily away from the grey stone wall, and I hastened to follow. We climbed some twenty steps, the old woman following with her lamp; then we emerged upon another and larger hall, stone-walled like that below, and ornamented with old pikes, muskets, broadswords, foxes’ masks; two doors, just then thrown wide, opened from it; one revealed a great kitchen place in which an old man sat near a huge fire, the other admitted to a big, cosy parlour, wherein the firelight was dancing on panelled walls.

“Take off your things and give them to Tibbie,” commanded my hostess. “And, Tibbie—tea! At once. Now come in,” she went on, leading me into the parlour, “and if you’d like whisky until the tea comes, there it is, on the sideboard. Have some!”

“Thank you, but I’ve just had a dose,” I answered. “I had some in my flask, very fortunately. You are extremely kind to be so hospitable.”

“Nonsense!” she laughed. “You couldn’t turn a dog out on a night like this. I don’t know if my guardian will manage to get home—he and his old pony can do wonders, and they’ve sometimes got through when the drifts were two or three feet thick. But you’re all right—sit down.”

She pointed to a big arm-chair near the fire, and I obeyed her and dropped into it—to make a more leisurely inspection of my surroundings, and my hostess. The room was evidently a part of the square tower I had seen from without, and filled a complete story of it; there were two high windows in it, filled with coloured glass; the panelling all round was of some dark wood, old and time-stained; the furniture was in keeping; there were old pictures, old silver and brass, old books—it was as if I had suddenly dropped into a setting of the seventeenth century.

But the girl was modern enough. She seemed to be about nineteen or twenty years old. She was tallish, slenderish, graceful; her hair was brown, her eyes grey, her face bright with healthy colour. I thought it probable that she spent most of her life out of doors, and I pictured her in tweeds and strong shoes, tramping the hills. But just then she was very smart in indoor things, and I was thankful that I myself, now that my outer wrappings had been discarded, was wearing a new suit, and looked rather more respectable than when I knocked at the door.

There was a lamp on the table, recently lighted, and the girl turned up the wick, and as its glow increased turned and looked at me, more narrowly.

“You’re a stranger, aren’t you?” she said. “You don’t belong to these parts?”

“Quite a stranger,” I answered, “or I shouldn’t have been so foolish as to attempt what I was attempting.” I gave her a brief account of what I had been after. “So you see how lucky I am to be saved, as you have saved me! And please allow me to introduce myself—my name’s Alvery Craye, and I come from London.”

“London!” she exclaimed, wonderingly. “Where I have never been! My name—you’ll think it a curious one—is Madrasia—Madrasia Durham. Did you ever hear such a queer name as Madrasia?”

“Never!” said I. “How did you get it?”

“Born in Madras,” she answered. “My father was a merchant there. Mr. Parslewe, my guardian, with whom I live here, was his partner. They died—my father and mother, I mean—when I was little, so Mr. Parslewe has looked after me ever since. We came to England three years ago, and Mr. Parslewe bought this old place, and fitted it up. Do you like it?”

“From what I’ve seen of it, immensely,” I answered. “What is it, exactly—or, rather, what has it been?”

“Mr. Parslewe says it was a sixteenth-century peel tower—a sort of castle, you know,” she answered. “There are a good many here and there, on each side of the Tweed. We stayed for some time at Berwick when we came to England, looking round for an old place. Then we found this, and settled down. It’s delightful in summer, and in winter it’s weird!”

“Has it a name?” I asked. “Because it’s not marked on my map.”

“Name?—Yes!” she answered. “It’s called Kelpieshaw—that’s Kelpie Strand, that lies outside it, between Langlee Crags and Hedgehope Hill. But you’ll see more in the morning—if the storm’s cleared.”

The old woman came in with the tea-tray. Whether she resented my presence or not, she knew her duties, and her home-made cakes were as good as her face was stern.

“That’s our sole domestic,” observed my hostess, as she poured out the tea. “Tibbie Muir: she’s been with us ever since we came here. The old man you saw in the kitchen is her husband, Edie Muir. He’s a sort of useful adjunct. He grooms the pony, potters about the house, and nods over the fire. He’s very little to do, but Tibbie is a marvel of activity.”

“I hope she’ll forgive me for coming,” I said.

“Oh, her bark is worse than her bite! She’s one of the faithful servants you read about in books and rarely meet in real life. She’s under the impression that if Mr. Parslewe happens not to be at home it’s her duty to be on guard. I believe she thinks of me as a mere child. But I’m mistress, of course!”

“I hope Mr. Parslewe will not think me an intruder?” I suggested. “I suppose I could have struggled through.”

“And I suppose you couldn’t,” she retorted imperatively. “As for Mr. Parslewe, he’ll be delighted to see you. If you can talk to him about anything old—old books, or pictures, old pots, pans, and plates, he’ll be more than delighted.”

I glanced round the room. It was one of those rooms which are difficult to light—there were dark and shadowy places and recesses. But I could see cabinets and presses, shelves and cases, evidently full of the sort of things of which Miss Durham had just spoken; there was also, on my left hand, a massive sideboard, covered with what looked to me like old silver.

“Is Mr. Parslewe a collector, then?” I asked. “Or is he an antiquary?”

“A bit of both, I think,” she answered, as she handed me a tea-cup. “Anyway, he’s always bringing home some curiosity or other that he’s picked up. And he spends most of his time reading his old books—there’s a room higher in the tower full of books—big things that one can scarcely lift.”

“And how do you spend your time?” I inquired. “Not that way?”

She shook her head, laughing.

“That way?” she said. “No!—not yet, anyway; I’ll leave that sort of thing till I’m old and frumpy. No, I spend my time out of doors mostly. A bit of fishing, a bit of running after the beagles, and a good bit of shooting. We have the shooting round about; it’s rough shooting, but good.”

“You’re a regular Diana,” I remarked. “And Mr. Parslewe, does he go in for sport?”

“Not much,” she replied. “Sometimes he goes fishing, and now and then he’ll carry a gun. But he usually becomes meditative over a stream, and is generally looking somewhere else if anything gets up in front of his gun, so his performances don’t amount to much.” She laughed again, and then looked half-archly, half-inquisitively at me.

“I’m wondering what you do with yourself,” she said.

“I? Oh! I paint a bit,” I answered.

“So, sometimes, does my guardian,” she remarked. “He calls it daubing, but they aren’t bad. There are two of his works of art on that panel.”

She pointed to two small water-colour sketches which, framed in gilt, hung in a recess near the hearth. I rose and looked at them. One was of the house, the other a view of the Cheviot. There was some feeling of performance in both.

“What do you think of them?” she asked. “Perhaps you’re a swell hand at that sort of thing?”

“Very nice,” I replied. “And interesting, to me. My reason for wandering round to-day was that I wanted to find a good subject. I think I’ve found one, this place. I could make a good picture of it, with the hills as the background.”

“Do, do!” she exclaimed. “And I’ll make my guardian buy it from you; he often buys pictures. You might put me in it, with my gun and my dogs; I’ll show you the dogs in the morning—beauties!”

We got on very well together, chatting in this light-hearted fashion. The evening passed on, but Mr. Parslewe did not come. We had supper; still he did not come. And at ten o’clock my hostess pronounced a decision.

“He won’t come to-night, now,” she said. “And it’s my bed-time. Tibbie will take charge of you, Mr. Craye, and I can promise you that your bed is properly aired. Don’t be afraid of the room; it looks as if it were haunted, but it isn’t.”

She gave me her hand, smiled, and went off, and presently the old woman appeared and conducted me to a chamber in one of the wings. It was more mediæval in appearance than the parlour, but it was remarkably comfortable, and there were hot bottles in the bed.

I believe I fell asleep as soon as my head fairly settled on the pillow, and at once dropped into a sound slumber. I have no idea as to what time it was during the night when I woke suddenly and sharply, to find a man standing at my bedside, and, by the light of a bull’s-eye lantern, looking down on me with a half-shrewd, half-whimsical expression.

II
The Second Stranger

I  SAT straight up in bed, blinking at the light and its holder. Half-asleep though I was, I got an impression of my visitor. An ascetic-looking, clean-shaven man, with a big, well-shaped nose, and firm thin lips, which, in unison with a pair of keen, observant eyes, could, as I found out later, assume various expressions, changing from intense disagreeableness to peculiar sweetness. Just then eyes and lips were quite agreeable—in fact, their owner laughed gently.

“All right, young master!” he said, in a voice as sweet and mellow as his smile. “Fall to your sleep again—I only just wanted to see what strange bird we’d got in our roost.”

He laughed again and made for the door. I found my voice.

“Mr. Parslewe?” I asked interrogatively.

“At your service, sir,” he answered, with a sort of mock politeness. “James Parslewe.”

“I hope I’m not——” I began.

“Are you warm enough?” he inquired, suddenly stepping back to the bedside and laying a hand on its coverings. “It’s a gey cold night, and I’m thinking you’re not of these parts.”

“Oh, I’m warm enough indeed, thank you,” I assured him. “Couldn’t be more comfortable, sir.”

“Then go to sleep again,” he commanded, with another of his half-jesting, half-cynical laughs. “You’re heartily welcome to my ancient roof.”

He went away then, quietly closing the door behind him, and I obeyed his behest and fell asleep again. Nor did I awake until the old man that I had seen by the kitchen fire the night before appeared in my room, bringing me hot water, shaving tackle, tea. He drew back curtains and blinds, and I saw that the sky was still grey and heavy.

“More snow in the night?” I asked him.

He started, as if unused to being spoken to, and nodded his old head.

“Aye, there’ll have been a deal more snow, master,” he answered. “Many feet deep it is all round the house.”

I got up, drank the tea, made as careful a toilet as I could, and eventually went off to the room in the tower wherein I had spent the evening with my youthful hostess. It was so far untenanted, but there was a great fire of logs blazing in the big open hearth, and the breakfast table was laid before it; from the adjacent kitchen came highly appetizing odours. I warmed myself at the hearth, looking round; now, in the morning light, dull though it was, I could see the room better. It was easy to get from it an idea of its owner’s tastes—the beautiful old furniture, the panelling, the arrangement of the cabinets and their contents, all showed the inclination and love of the collector, who was also a good judge of what he collected. There were many things of great interest in that room—one struck me particularly, perhaps because the fire flames kept glinting sharply on its burnished front. This was a small copper box, a thing some six or seven inches square, which stood in the middle of the ancient sideboard, one out of many curious articles placed there. I could see, from where I stood, that it was a bit of unusually good work, and I presently went closer and took it into my hands. Anything worked in old brass or copper had always appealed to me; this quaint little coffer, or chest, beautifully elegant in its severe simplicity, took my fancy. It was a plain thing throughout, except that on the lid was engraven a coat-of-arms, and on the scroll beneath it a legend—

Thatte I please I wylle.

I had just replaced the copper box and was turning away wondering what these words signified when I caught sight of something which I had certainly not expected to see. There, hung in two panels above the sideboard, obscured in shadow the previous evening but plain enough now, as they faced the big window, hung two small pictures of my own, water-colour sketches of scenery in Teesdale which I had shown at the Royal Academy a year before and had subsequently sold to a Bond Street dealer. I was looking at them when Miss Durham came in, followed by the old woman and the breakfast dishes.

Miss Durham and I shook hands solemnly. Then we both smiled, and eventually laughed. She nodded at a door in the corner of the room.

“Mr. Parslewe came after all,” she said.

“I’m aware of it,” said I. “He came to see me—some time or other.”

“No?” she exclaimed. “What for?”

“Wanted to know if I’d enough blankets, I think,” I answered.

“Oh, I hope you had!” she said. “Had you? But how——”

Just then the door in the corner opened and my host entered. I saw then that he was a rather tall, loose-limbed man of probably fifty-five to sixty, with a remarkably intellectual face, sphinx-like in expression, and as I have already said, capable of looking almost fiendishly disagreeable or meltingly sweet. It was sweet enough now as he came forward, offering me his hand with old-fashioned courtesy.

“Good morning, master!” he cooed—no other word expresses his suavity of tone. “I trust you slept well and refreshingly after all your privations.”

“My privations, sir, had been of short duration, and their recompense full,” I replied, imitating his half-chaffing tone. “I slept excellently well, thank you.”

“Why, that’s a blessing!” he said, rubbing his hands. “So did I!”

“It was very unkind of you, though, Jimmie, to wake up a guest in the middle of the night,” said Miss Durham. “How inconsiderate!”

Mr. Parslewe motioned me to the breakfast table with a bow and a wave of his delicately fingered hand, and favoured his ward and myself with one of his sweetest smiles.

“Well, I don’t know, my dear,” he retorted. “He might have been a burglar!—you never can tell.”

He laughed, with full enjoyment, at his own joke, and bent towards me as he handed me a plate.

“I was sorry I woke you!” he said, still smiling. “I was enjoying looking at you. I thought I’d never seen such a refreshingly innocent young mortal in my life! In fact, I was just thinking of fetching Madrasia to look at you when you woke.”

He laughed more than ever at this, and I glanced from him to his ward.

“Don’t mind him!” she said. “That’s his way. He possesses a curious form of humour—a very twisted form sometimes. You’re a queer man, Jimmie, aren’t you? And I gave you such a splendid character last night!—said that you’d have been furious if I hadn’t insisted on bringing Mr. Craye in, and lots more—didn’t I, Mr. Craye?”

“Well, I’d certainly rather see him sitting there alive, eating his bacon, than dig him out of the snow, dead,” remarked Mr. Parslewe, good-humouredly. “But Craye, now—do you happen to be related to Craye, the landscape painter?”

“I am Craye, the landscape painter, Mr. Parslewe,” I replied. “That’s why I’m in this neighbourhood. I was looking out all yesterday for a likely subject.”

His face lighted up with genuine pleasure, and he stretched out his hand across the table and shook mine heartily.

“Man!” he exclaimed, “I’m delighted to have you in my house! You’re a clever young fellow; I’ve admired your work ever since I was first privileged to see it. And bought it, too; there’s two water-colours of yours behind you there, and——”

“I’ve seen them,” said I.

“And I’ve two more upstairs in my study,” he continued. “Aye, well, I’m greatly pleased! And you’re staying in these parts?”

“I came to the hotel at Wooler three days ago, just to look round the Cheviots,” I answered.

“Any definite time?” he asked.

“No,” said I. “I’m my own master as to that.”

“Then when old Edie can get through the snow, we’ll just send across to Wooler for your things, and you’ll consider this house yours, Mr. Craye,” he said, with a nod of his head which implied that he would take no refusal. “Your very obedient servant, sir, as long as you like to stop in it!”

“There!” exclaimed Miss Durham; “I knew you’d get on together like a house on fire! But perhaps Mr. Craye thinks he might be dull?”

“Mr. Craye thinks nothing of the sort,” I retorted hastily. “He’s overwhelmed on all sides. You’re extremely kind, Mr. Parslewe; your sense of hospitality is princely.”

“Pooh, pooh!” he said. “We’ll just be glad. And there’s no need to be dull, my girl, when you’re about!” he added, nodding at his ward. “A lively damsel, this, Craye; the air of the hills is in her blood!”

“Miss Durham, sir, is, I am sure, one of those admirable hostesses who could never let a guest be anything but happy,” I said, with a glance towards the object of my compliment. “And,” I added, more seriously, “I should be very ungrateful not to accept your kind invitation. I won’t let you get tired of me.”

“Mr. Craye thinks he could paint a picture of the house, with the hills for a background, Jimmie,” remarked Miss Durham. “You’d buy that, wouldn’t you?”

“Hoots, toots! We’ll see, woman, we’ll see!” answered Mr. Parslewe. “There’s finer subjects than this old place, but you’ll not see them to-day, my lad,” he added, turning to me. “The snow’s thick and deep all round our walls, and what you’ll see of the land for the next twenty-four hours, and maybe more, ’ll be from the top of our tower. And a grand observation post it is, too!”

He took me up the tower after breakfast was over. From the leads at its battlemented head there was a wonderful view of the surrounding country; he indicated the chief features as we stood there, looking out on the snow-clad expanse. And I saw then what I had not been able to see the night before, that this place, Kelpieshaw, was absolutely isolated; as far as I could see, on any side, there was not even a shepherd’s hut or gamekeeper’s lodge in view.

“You love solitude, Mr. Parslewe,” I remarked as I looked about me. “This, surely, is solitude!”

“Aye, it is!” he agreed. “And it suits me. What’s more to the purpose, it suits my ward—up to now, anyway. When I brought her from India, where she was born, I looked about for a likely place in this district. We came across this—half-ruinous it was then. I bought it, did it up, furnished it, got a lot of things here that I’d left stored in London when I first went to India, many a year ago, and settled down. The girl loves it—and so do I.”

He gave me one of his half-serious, half-sardonic smiles, and we went down the stair again, and into a big room, a floor above the parlour, wherein he kept his books and his collections. It was something of a cross between a museum and a library, and I could see that he was remarkably proud of the things in it. I saw, too, that my host was a man of means—only a well-to-do man could have afforded to bring together the things that he had there. Like all antiquaries he began to point out to me his chief treasures, and to talk about them, and finding that I had some knowledge of such things, to dig into old chests and presses in order to unearth others. Once, while he was thus engaged, I was looking at some small volumes bound in old calf which were ranged in one of the recesses; once more, on the side of one of these, in faded gilt, I came across the arms and legend which I had noticed on the copper box in the room below; he looked up from his task to find me regarding it.

“An odd motto that, Mr. Parslewe,” I observed. “I noticed it on your old copper chest, or coffer, downstairs, ‘That I please, I will!’ What does it mean?” He laughed satirically.

“I should say it means that the folk who sported it were pretty much inclined to have their own way, my lad!” he answered. “Whether they got it or not is another question. Now, here’s a fifteenth-century Book of Hours, with the illuminations as fresh as when they were done. Look you there for a bit of fine work!”

I had meant to ask him whose coat-of-arms and whose legend it was that had excited my curiosity, but I saw that the subject either possessed no interest for him or that he didn’t want to be questioned about it, and I turned to what he was showing me. We spent most of that morning examining his collection, and we got on together admirably. Still, I was not sorry when Miss Durham appeared and insisted on dragging me away from him to go out with her into the courtyard to inspect her horse, her dogs, and other live creatures. The old man had cleared much of the courtyard of snow, but beyond its walls the drifts were deep. From the gate I looked across them with a certain amount of impatience—I wanted to see more of the country, and I had notions that Miss Durham might not be unwilling to act as guide to it.

“Don’t think you’re going to be a prisoner for very long,” she suddenly remarked, interpreting my silent contemplation of the vast waste of whiteness. “At this time of the year the snow goes quickly. You needn’t be surprised if you find it vanished when you wake to-morrow, thick as it is.”

“If it is, and we can get out, you’ll show me some of your favourite scenes?” I suggested. “I could make a sketch or two.”

“Of course!” she assented. “There’s a lovely bit along the road towards Roddam. I’ll take you there as soon as the snow’s gone; you’ll be ravished with it!”

We had three days’ wait for that, and during that time, as if they felt themselves bound to compensate me for the delay, my host and hostess did all they could to amuse and interest me, though, to tell the truth, I was interested enough in them personally, and needed no other diversion. Mr. Parslewe was certainly a character, full of eccentricities, with a strong sense of humour, and a mordant wit; he had evidently seen much of men and of the world, and his comments on things in general were as interesting as they were amusing. I made out, however, that his knowledge of our own country and our own period was considerably out of date; he appeared to know little of present-day affairs, though he had a fine old store of anecdotes of a previous generation. But a chance remark of his accounted for this.

“I left England for India and the East when I was twenty-one,” he said to me one evening in casual conversation, “and I never saw its shores again until I’d turned fifty. And now that I’m back—and some years, too—I don’t want to see any more of it than I can see from the top of my dear old tower! Here I am, and here I stick!”

I wondered if he meant his young and pretty ward to stick there, too—but those were early days to put the question to him. Still, by that time I had fallen in love with Madrasia; it would have been a most unheard-of thing if I hadn’t! And already I meant to move all the powers that are in heaven and earth to win her—for which reason I was devoutly thankful when, on the fourth day of my stay, winter suddenly disappeared as if by magic, and springtide again asserted itself and flooded the hills and valleys with warmth and sunshine. For then she and I got out of the old house, leaving Mr. Parslewe with his books and papers, and began to wander abroad, improving our acquaintance—very pleasantly and successfully. There had been a comforting air of romance about our meeting which, I think, appealed to both of us; it was still there, making an atmosphere around us, and now the elements of a most puzzling and curious mystery were to be added to it.

Those elements were first introduced by a man who came along the road leading from Wooperton and Roddam, and chanced to find Madrasia and myself sitting on a shelf of rock by its side, I doing a bit of perfunctory sketching, and she watching me. He was a tourist-looking sort of man; that is to say, he wore the sort of garments affected by tourists; otherwise, I should have said that he was perhaps a commercial traveller, or a well-to-do tradesman who loved country walks—a biggish, well-fed, florid-faced man, shrewd of eye, and, as we presently discovered, very polite—too polite—of manner. He regarded us closely as he came up, and when he was abreast of us, he stopped in the centre of the road and lifted his cap; it was the latest thing in head-gear of that sort, and he raised it with something of a flourish.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, with a deprecating, ingratiating smile. “Can you tell me if, somewhere in this neighbourhood, there is a house called Kelpieshaw?”

It was Madrasia who answered—promptly.

“Two miles ahead, along the valley,” she said. “Can’t miss it.”

The man bowed, and smiled again; a little too obsequiously, I thought.

“The residence of, I believe—er, Mr. Parslewe?” he suggested. “Mr. James Parslewe.”

“Mr. Parslewe lives there,” assented Madrasia. “Want him?”

He smiled again—enigmatically this time.

“I hope to have the pleasure of waiting upon Mr. Parslewe—and of finding him at home,” he answered. “Er—Mr. Parslewe, I believe—perhaps you are acquainted with him?—is a gentleman learned in—er, antiquities—and that sort of thing?”

“He is a bit inclined that way,” replied Madrasia, almost flippantly. “Are you?”

He waved his hand, shelving away from us.

“A neophyte—a mere neophyte,” he said, still smiling. “A—er, learner!”

He strode off up the valley: we looked after him meditatively.

“Don’t like the looks of that person,” said Madrasia, suddenly.

“Neither do I—though I don’t know why,” I answered. “Case of Dr. Fell, I suppose. Bit too given to smiling readily, eh?”

“Oily!” said Madrasia. “Wonder who he is—and what he’s after?”

“Doesn’t look like a dry-as-dust antiquary, anyhow,” I remarked.

But whatever the man looked like, we found him with Parslewe when we went home—one on each side of the parlour fire. And Parslewe introduced him, unceremoniously—Mr. Pawley.

III
Copper

MR. PAWLEY, who looked very comfortable in an easy chair, with a glass of whisky and soda conveniently at hand, smiled upon us as if we were old acquaintances. He was clearly one of those gentlemen who speedily make themselves at home anywhere, and, as it presently appeared, are by no means backward in the art of finding things out. Indeed, he at once began to put leading questions.

“Your daughter, I presume, sir?” he suggested, with a glance at Madrasia.

“Not a bit of it!” answered Parslewe, in his most off-hand manner. “My ward.”

“Dear me, sir! now I could have thought that I saw a distinct family resemblance,” said Mr. Pawley. “This young gentleman, perhaps——”

“Visitor of mine,” replied Parslewe. “Mr. Craye—a well-known artist.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” murmured Mr. Pawley. “I observed that you were doing something in your line when I saw you and Miss—I didn’t catch the young lady’s name, I think—Miss——?”

“Durham!” said Parslewe. “Durham!”

“Just so, sir—Miss Durham. Ah!—and a very pleasant country this is, Mr. Craye, for your form of art—and very delightful quarters, I’m sure,” added Mr. Pawley, with a bow towards our host. “And you were saying, Mr. Parslewe——?”

Madrasia, with an odd glance at me, went out of the room, and Parslewe, who, I thought, already looked bored to death by his visitor, turned to him.

“I was saying that if you’re really interested in that sort of thing—barrows and stone circles and so on, I’m scarcely the man to come to,” he said. “My tastes lie more chiefly in books. If you’re going to stay in the district a while, I can give you a list of titles of books—local and otherwise—that you can read up. I think you’d find all of them in the various libraries at Newcastle.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Parslewe, I’m sure,” replied Mr. Pawley. “I should value that, sir.”

Parslewe rose from his chair and left the room. I heard him climb the stair to his library on the next floor of the tower. Mr. Pawley looked at me. It was a peculiarly scrutinising, appraising glance—it gave me an idea that the man was wondering how much he could get out of me in the way of information.

“A very clever and learned gentleman, Mr. Parslewe,” he observed. “Uncommon!”

“I agree!” said I.

“Makes a man like me—just beginning to take an interest in these things, do you see—feel that he knows—ah, nothing!” he said.

“I quite understand you,” I assented.

“And what a—yes, you might call it—wealth of curiosities he’s gathered about him,” he continued. “Odds and ends of all sorts. Now, there’s an object that’s attracted my attention—a very pretty article!”

He rose suddenly, and walking across to the sideboard, picked up the copper box, holding it to the light, and examining it with exaggerated admiration.

“Beautiful bit of work, Mr.—Craye, I think—beautiful!” he said, unctuously. “Not made yesterday, that, sir. Old coat-of-arms, you see, and a motto. Um! You don’t happen to know whose family coat-of-arms that is, Mr. Craye?”

“No, I don’t,” said I. “Do you?”

“No, sir, no! as I remarked—when I saw you and the young lady down the road—I’m a learner, a novice, a neophyte, Mr. Craye,” he replied. “Fine coat-of-arms, though, that—and a peculiar motto. Now what would you take those words to signify, Mr. Craye?”

Before I could reply, we heard Parslewe coming back, and Mr. Pawley hastily put down the copper box and retreated to his chair, for all the world as if he had been caught or been about to be caught in the act of stealing something.

“These antiquaries!” he murmured, with a cautioning wink at me, “I know ’em!—they don’t like their treasures handled. Precious! Old pots—worth sixpence to some people—worth their weight in gold, to them. Just so!”

Parslewe came into the room with a sheet of notepaper in his hand; Mr. Pawley received it with gratitude as exaggerated as his admiration of the copper box. And presently he said that he must now be moving; I am sure it was with a desire to speed his departure that Parslewe offered to show him down the stair and to point out a short cut across the moor. So they vanished, and when Parslewe came back the tea-tray had just been brought in and Madrasia was busy at it. She turned on her guardian as he entered.

“Jimmie!” she exclaimed. “Who on earth was that creature?”

Parslewe laughed as he dropped into his favourite chair.

“No more idea than you have, my dear!” he answered. “Introduced himself as a humble fellow-labourer in the same field, in which—so he said—I’m a past master. Said he was holidaying in the neighbourhood, and had heard of me, so ventured to call and see me. Wanted to know if there were any objects worthy of his attention round about here—sepulchral things and so on. The odd thing,” continued Parslewe, with one of his sardonic laughs, “the very odd thing was that I never saw a man who looked less like an antiquary in my life!”

“Or talked less like one, I should think,” suggested Madrasia.

“Oh, he’d picked up a few cant phrases, somewhere or other,” observed Parslewe.

“He told me that he’d turned to this sort of thing, as he called it, for a hobby—a man, he observed, with the air of one uttering a hitherto-undiscovered truth, must have something to do. Ha-hah-hah!”

“He seems to have amused you, anyway,” remarked Madrasia.

“Aye!—why not?” assented Parslewe. “Of course he did; I thought he looked much more at home with a glass in his hand and a pipe in his mouth than he would amongst either books or barrows.”

“Well, really, I wondered whatever brought him here!” said Madrasia. “A neophyte, indeed!—in loud tweeds and a glaring necktie. I thought he was a sporting publican out for a walk.”

I did not say what I thought. The fact was I had some queer suspicions about Mr. Pawley. I had noticed his odd, shrewd, examining glances; he looked to me like a man who has an object, a mission; who is spying out the land; endeavouring to get at a discovery. That he had some purpose in view I was sure, but I said nothing to Parslewe and Madrasia. Just then we had a more pertinent and interesting matter to discuss.

Parslewe wanted me to stay there a while and to paint a landscape for him. He had a favourite view, near the house, and was keenly anxious that somebody should do justice to it—moreover, he wanted the picture to be painted in the freshness of springtide, though my own private inclination would have led me to paint it in the autumn. And he had offered me a handsome price for it, agreeing, too, that I should be allowed to submit it for the next Royal Academy exhibition. I was by no means unwilling to accept his offer, for apart from the advantages of the commission, the work meant spending at least a month or six weeks at Kelpieshaw—in the society of Madrasia. And I had already fallen in love with Madrasia.

We settled the affair of the picture over that tea-table. I decided to start on it at once, and the first thing then was to get a suitable canvas. Parslewe said I should be sure to find one in Newcastle, and I arranged to journey there next day, seek out an artist’s colourman, and buy what I wanted. On this errand I was in Newcastle about noon on the following morning, and the first person I saw there was our recent visitor, the somewhat mysterious Mr. Pawley.

Mr. Pawley did not see me. I caught sight of him by accident, but, having seen him, I made it my business to watch him a little. He stood at the exit of one of the arrival platforms, and he was absorbed in looking for somebody or other. An express came in from the south; its passengers began to stream through the exit; presently Mr. Pawley—who was still attired as when I had last seen him—removed his cap and bowed with sincere obsequiousness. The object of his reverence was an elderly, big-framed, very consequential-looking man, whose large face was ornamented by a pair of old-fashioned whiskers, and who, in my opinion, had family solicitor written big all over himself and his attire, from his silk hat to his stout-soled, gaitered, square-toed boots. That he was a person of much greater importance than Mr. Pawley was very evident from the fact that he replied to Mr. Pawley’s obsequious greeting with a mere condescending nod, and at once resigned into his hands a Gladstone bag and a travelling rug. There was an interchange of brief remarks between the two—then they marched across the platform to the hotel and vanished within its portals, the large man going first, and Mr. Pawley playing porter behind.

My curiosity had been aroused so keenly by that time that I had some absurd notion of following Pawley and the white-whiskered person into the hotel, just to see if I could find out a little more about their mutual relation. But on reflection I went off about my own business. Having some knowledge of Newcastle, I walked up town to a certain restaurant of which I knew and highly approved; there I lunched and idled an hour away afterwards. After that I set out in quest of a firm whose name Parslewe had given me. Its manager had not got a canvas of the precise size I wanted, but he promised to make me one by noon of the following day, and I accordingly decided to stay in Newcastle for the night, and, later, went to the hotel at the station to book a room. In the smoking-room there, writing letters, was the white-whiskered person. Pawley was not with him. Nor was Pawley with him when, after dinner that evening, he came into the smoking-room again and took a chair close by my own in a comfortable corner. But now he was not alone; he came in company with a younger man, a middle-aged, sharp-eyed individual whom I also set down as having some connection with the law.

These two men had evidently just dined; a waiter brought them coffee and liqueurs; the elder man produced a cigar-case and offered it to his companion. They began to talk; sometimes quite audibly, at others, sinking their voices to whisperings. But they had scarcely lighted their cigars before a word or two from the white-whiskered man made me prick my ears.

“Without doubt!” he said. “Without any doubt, the copper box—its presence there—the coat-of-arms—the odd legend on the scroll—is a most valuable piece of evidence! As soon as I heard of it——”

He bent nearer to his companion, and for a minute or two I failed to catch what he was saying. Out of my eye-corners, however, I could see that the younger man was listening, attentively and approvingly; from time to time he nodded his head as if in assent. Eventually he spoke.

“And you say that Pawley, in his opinion, took him to be of about that age?” he asked.

“That, of course, has to be considered.”

“Pawley is an observant fellow,” remarked the elder man. “I have employed Pawley on several occasions, and with excellent results. I can trust Pawley’s estimate of the age. It fits in exactly!”

The younger man regarded his cigar thoughtfully for a while.

“Odd!” he said at last. “Very odd! But I should say it is so!”

“I don’t think there’s any doubt of it,” answered the white-whiskered person. “At any rate, I am not going to travel all this way, and back again, without making sure. I shall not be deceived!” he added with strong emphasis on the personal pronoun, accompanied by a complacent chuckle. “Even a point-blank denial would not satisfy me! No dust will be thrown in my eyes!”

“You were fully acquainted with the circumstances of thirty years ago?” questioned the other. “Personally, I mean?”

“Fully! Thirty-five years ago, to be exact. He—if it is so—is now fifty-six years of age. Oh, yes, I knew everything, was concerned in everything,” affirmed the elder man.

“Up to a certain point, you know, up to a certain point. Now, if I can only get at close quarters, and Pawley assures me that’s by no means difficult, I can satisfy myself rather cleverly. For instance——”

Once more he leaned nearer to his companion and lowered his voice; the conversation tailed off into whisperings. And now, fearful lest I should in any way betray myself, I rose from my chair, left their neighbourhood, and under pretence of looking at the evening newspapers spread out on a centre table, went across to another part of the room. I picked up a paper and sat down, affecting to look at it. But in reality, I was still watching the two men, and wondering what it was that they were talking about.

For without doubt it had to do with my host, Parslewe. The references to the copper box, to the coat-of-arms engraved on it, to the curiously worded motto appearing on the scroll beneath, all that meant Parslewe. Pawley, again; whom had Pawley been visiting but Parslewe? And Pawley’s estimate, so much valued by White Whiskers, that was, of course, in relation to the age of Parslewe. It was all Parslewe, and it didn’t require much thought or reflection or analysis on my part to decide that about and around Parslewe hung a decided mystery.

But of what nature? It seemed to me, judging him by my short yet very intimate acquaintanceship, that Parslewe was a decidedly frank and candid man. He had told me a good deal about himself. He had left England as a very young man, gone East, settled down in Madras, gone into partnership there with another Englishman, Madrasia’s father, trading in cotton and indigo, made a big fortune, and, on the death of his partner and his partner’s wife, had brought Madrasia to England, to settle down as I had found them. All that seemed a plain and straight story, with nothing remarkable or mysterious about it. What, then, were these men after? For there was no doubt in my mind now that Pawley had come to Kelpieshaw as a spy, seeking some particular information, and evidently getting what he wanted in an inspection of Parslewe and an examination of the copper box.

That copper box began to assume a sinister significance in my thoughts of it and its relation to this affair. But what was its relation? It was a box, and it was made of copper. Beautifully made, to be sure, and by some man who had taken vast artistic pride in his work; the engraving of the coat-of-arms, too, was beautifully done. But, after all, it was only a copper box! What was there about it, then, or appertaining to it, that made these men, if not exactly keen about it, at any rate remarkably interested in the mere fact of its existence?

I saw no more of the two men in the smoking-room that night, except that I caught a glimpse of White Whiskers, as I had come to call him, going bedward at the same time as myself, and on my corridor. I saw him again next morning, in the coffee-room, at breakfast; he looked bigger, more solemn and judicial than ever. But no Pawley came to him; I wondered what had become of Pawley. Perhaps he had gone back to sneak round Kelpieshaw again—anyway, I myself was going back there as soon as my canvas was ready. And I had already made up my mind that when I got there I should tell Parslewe that at Newcastle there were people talking about him and his copper box.

The man who was making my canvas had his shop in a side street off Haymarket; I set off to it a little before noon, intending to get my parcel, return to the station, and depart for Wooler. But half-way up Percy Street I suddenly saw White Whiskers, a little way in front of me. With him was the man with whom I had seen him in conversation the night before. Once more they were in conversation; it seemed to be earnest and intense, judging by their attitude; White Whiskers had his arm linked in that of his companion, to whom he bent, confidently; the other listened with rapt attention. Out of sheer curiosity I followed them. They turned, eventually, into St. Thomas Street, and then began to look at the names over the shops. Finally, White Whiskers raised his umbrella and pointed to a sign; a moment later they entered the shop beneath it. And from a little distance I saw what was on the sign: Bickerdale, Whitesmith and Coppersmith.

Copper again! copper box, coppersmith—the whole thing was becoming more mysterious than ever! Here were these men, who had been talking about a copper box the night before, now entering the shop of a man who worked in copper. Why? I wanted to know. And instead of going off on my own proper business to the artist’s colourman’s shop, I crossed the street, walked on a little, turned, and kept an eye on the door into which White Whiskers and his companion had vanished.

They were in there about half-an-hour. I stuck to my post, though I knew I was running the risk of losing my train. At last they came out. They came nodding and wagging their heads as if whatever had transpired within had settled the question—White Whiskers, in particular, looked uncommonly satisfied with himself. They went away, round the corner into the Haymarket—and thereupon, with a desperate resolution generated by sheer curiosity, I boldly entered the coppersmith’s establishment. Its proprietor, an uncomfortably canny-looking sort of person, elderly and spectacled, stood behind the counter; his keen eyes fell upon me at once with such shrewd inquiry that I felt decidedly embarrassed, and knew myself to be growing red about cheeks and ears.

“Oh, ah, er,” I began lamely. “I—that is—have you any old articles in copper, you know—curiosities and that sort of thing—to sell?”

It seemed to me that he took an unconscionable time in replying. When he did reply, it was with a curt monosyllable.

“No!”

“The fact is I—sometimes—go in for collecting such things,” I said. “I——”

He suddenly bent forward across his counter, and gave me a keen, searching look.

“What are you after, young man?” he asked severely. “I saw you—watching those gentlemen.”

IV
Midnight Warning

I  GLANCED round, involuntarily, at the window of the man’s shop, and saw that, there being little in it, he would certainly have been able, while talking to White Whiskers and his companion, to command a view of the other side of the street, and so had doubtless seen me hanging about. But his curt manner helped to disperse my embarrassment and awkwardness, and I boldly took another line. After all, I had—as far as I knew—as good a right to ask questions as White Whiskers had.

“Well, supposing I was watching them?” I retorted. “I may have had a good reason, and very good reason! What do you say to that?”

He began to shift about the things on his counter, aimlessly. I remained watching him. Suddenly he looked up, nervously, but defiantly.

“You’re not going to get anything out of me!” he said. “I’ve said my say already, and I’ve been warned against such as you.” Then he assumed a sneering look and tone. “Old copper articles!” he flung at me. “You should think shame of yourself coming in on a man with false excuses like that!”

I saw now that there was something, and I gave him a thrust that was intended to go right home.

“Copper is a good word!” said I. “And I wonder if you’ve ever seen or handled an old copper box, a few inches square, with a coat-of-arms engraved on it, and an unusual motto beneath that? Come, now!”

He stood straight up at that, and I knew that he had seen such a thing, and that the two men who had just gone had been at him about it. And having made this discovery, and without another word, I turned on my heel and went swiftly out of the shop, leaving him staring after me.

But if he was bewildered, so was I. What on earth was all this mystery, plainly centring round Parslewe and his copper box? I had walked up the street, turned a corner, and gone far down another street before I remembered my canvas and my train. I turned back, got the canvas, and made for the hotel and the station. And of course, through poking my nose into other people’s affairs, I had missed the train to Alnwick and Wooler, and there wasn’t another until late in the afternoon. So I lunched in the hotel, and idled the time away there—chiefly wondering about this thing. Parslewe—Pawley—White Whiskers—the coppersmith—and that infernal copper box in the middle of them! What was the mystery attached to them and it? Was it fraud?—was it some matter of felony?—was it murder? I was going to tell Parslewe what I had discovered, anyway, and as quickly as possible. But I had to cool my heels until between five and six o’clock, and when at last I walked out on the platform to my train I saw White Whiskers standing at the door of a first-class carriage talking to the man who had gone with him to the coppersmith’s shop. White Whiskers had his bag and his rug in the carriage; I glimpsed them as I passed—evidently, he was going northward by my train, and was, of course, on his way to Kelpieshaw.

I had one of the hotel porters with me, carrying my bag and my canvas, and when he had found me a seat I engaged his attention.

“There are two gentlemen standing at the door of a first-class compartment up there,” I said. “Do you happen to know who they are?”

The man looked, and nodded.

“Don’t know the older gentleman, sir,” he replied. “He stopped at the hotel last night, but I didn’t hear his name mentioned. The other gentleman’s Mr. Pebling, sir.”

“And who,” I asked, “is Mr. Pebling?”

“Lawyer, sir—well-known lawyer in the town,” he answered. “Pebling, Spilsby and Pebling, solicitors—Grey Street. Everybody knows him.”

Accordingly, I departed for Kelpieshaw in an atmosphere of Law and Mystery—I imagined that atmosphere centring thickly around White Whiskers in his first-class compartment (I, as a matter of principle rather than pence, travelled third) and mingling with the smoke of his very excellent cigars. I would have given a good deal to pick the brains that lay behind his big, solemn, consequential countenance, but I knew that I should probably hear much on the morrow. For that he was bound for Kelpieshaw I had no more doubt than that our train was a slow one.

It was late when we got to Wooler—so late that I had already decided to spend the night there and go on to Parslewe’s in the early morning. I had some notion, too, that White Whiskers would, of course, repair to the principal hotel, whither I was also bound, and that there I might find out a little more about him—perhaps even get into conversation with him; from what I had seen of him at Newcastle, I judged him to be a talkative man, and at Wooler he would have small chance of indulging his propensities. Now if I could only foregather with him over a smoking-room fire——

But no sooner had the train come to a halt in Wooler station than I saw that White Whiskers was expected, and was met. He was met, and very politely—almost reverently—received by a tall military-looking man in a smart, dark uniform, braided and buttoned, who appeared to consider it an honour when White Whiskers—as I saw plainly—extended two fingers to him. They conversed for a minute or two; then, talking confidentially, as it appeared, they set off together. And being just behind them as they left the station, I indulged in more inquisitiveness.

“Who is that in the dark uniform?” I inquired of the clerk who was collecting the tickets at the entrance.

“Mr. Hilgrave,” he answered, promptly. “Inspector of police. Nice gentleman!—not been here so very long, though.”

I went on to the hotel, wondering what on earth White Whiskers wanted with the local police inspector. And upon getting into the hotel, I found them together. White Whiskers was just beginning a belated dinner in the coffee-room; Hilgrave sat with him, refreshing himself with a whisky-and-soda, and listening with apparent deep interest to his talk. I got some warmed-up dinner myself, but I did not overhear anything that was said between the two. The conversation seemed to be chiefly one-sided; White Whiskers evidently explaining and detailing, and the police inspector nodding his comprehension. But towards the close of this episode I got some information. White Whiskers, bringing his dinner to an end, summoned the waiter and gave him some audible commands. He must be called, with hot water and tea, at seven o’clock in the morning. Breakfast must be ready for him at precisely eight—sharp to the minute. And at nine o’clock the best car in the place must be at the door to take him to Kelpieshaw. How far away was this Kelpieshaw?—nine or ten miles by the road? Very good!—then nine o’clock, precisely.

These things settled, White Whiskers turned to Hilgrave, bland and affable.

“Well,” he said, now speaking in quite audible accents, the occasion for secrecy having evidently passed, “what do you say to a cigar?—I suppose there’s a smoking-room here?”

“Very kind of you, Sir Charles,” replied the inspector. “Smoking-room just across the hall.”

When they had gone away, I thought things over—rapidly. It was then close upon ten o’clock, and I already knew sufficient of the domestic habits of Kelpieshaw as to know that they kept early hours there. But I felt, more from instinct than anything, that Parslewe ought to be put in possession of my news, and that I ought not to leave the imparting of it until next morning, however early. So going out into the hall, I got hold of the boots, and, taking him aside, made inquiries about my chances of getting a car, late as it was. He got one for me—with considerable delay and difficulty—but I took good care not to let him nor its driver know where I was going until I had got clear of the hotel.

The last stage of the road to Kelpieshaw was of such a nature that a car could do no more than crawl over it, and it was nearly midnight when I saw the tower of the old house standing dark and spectral against a moonlit sky. As I expected, there was not a light to be seen in any of the windows, not even in those of the upper part of the tower wherein Parslewe had his library. I felt very lonely when the car had driven off, leaving me in the solitude of the wind-swept courtyard. I knocked on the turret door several times without getting any response, and knowing the thickness of the walls and doors as I did, I began to fear that no summons of mine would be heard, and that I should have to camp out in one of the buildings. But my knocking roused the dogs; they set up a great barking, and at that a window opened, and Tibbie Muir’s voice, wrathful enough, demanded to know what ill body was below.

“Don’t be angry, Tibbie,” I called. “It’s I, Mr. Craye. Tell your master I’m back, and let me in.”

It was Parslewe himself who presently came down. He seemed in no way surprised, and he treated me to one of his sardonic grins.

“Well, young master?” he said, holding up his lamp and giving me a careful inspection as I stepped within. “You look a bit way-worn!” Then, in his eccentric, jocular fashion, and as he bolted and locked the big door behind me, he began to spout, dramatically:—

“‘Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,

So dull, so dead, so woe-begone,

Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night,

And would have told him half his Troy was burn’d!’

“But go up, Craye, my lad, and we’ll see if a drop of whisky’ll revive you!”

He laughed again and pushed me up the stair; I went, willingly.

“Mr. Parslewe!” said I. “I’m neither dull, nor dead, nor woe-begone, but I am cold, for the night’s bitter, and that miserable old car I got is a trap for draughts. And as to Priam and Troy, I’ve a tale to tell you that beats that!”

“Aye?” he said. “Well, a midnight tale is generally one that’s worth hearing. And if you’re cold, I believe there’s a bit of fire burning, and we’ll soon improve it. But——”

We were at the head of the stair by then, and Madrasia suddenly called from her room.

“Jimmie!—is that him?” she demanded, careless of grammar in her eagerness. “And what’s he after at this time?”

“Aye, it’s me!” I called out, catching at her spirit. “And I’m safe and sound, too, with a pack of adventures——”

“That’ll keep till morning,” interrupted Parslewe, pushing me into the room. “Go to sleep again, my girl!” He shut the door on us, drew the heavy curtain across it, and after poking up the fire and lighting the lamp, helped us both to whisky from the decanter and lighted his pipe. “Aye, and what’s the tale, Craye?” he asked.

I had been considering the telling of that all the way from Wooler—debating the best way of putting the various episodes before him. It seemed to me that the best fashion was one of consecutive narrative, leaving him to draw his own inferences and conclusions. So I began at the beginning, which was, of course, at the point where I first saw Pawley awaiting the arrival of the train from the south. I watched him carefully as I told the story, being anxious to see how it struck him and how things that had impressed me impressed him. And as I went on from one stage to another I was conscious of a curious, half-humorous, half-cynical imperturbability about him; his face remained mask-like, except for a sly gleam in his expressive eyes, and he never betrayed any sign of being surprised or startled but once, when his lips moved a little at the first mention of the copper box. And twice he smiled and nodded his head slightly—the first time was when I mentioned the coppersmith’s shop, whereat he stirred a bit and said softly, “Aye, that would be old Bickerdale!” and the second when I said that the police inspector had addressed White Whiskers as Sir Charles. He laughed outright at that.

“Aye, likely enough,” he muttered. “He’s the sort that would turn out Sir Charles, for sure! But I hadn’t heard of it.”

“That’s the lot, Mr. Parslewe,” I concluded. “I left Sir Charles and the police inspector smoking their cigars and drinking their whisky. I saw them through the open door of the smoking-room, and they were hob-nobbing comfortably enough. And then I raced through the night—to tell you!”

“Aye!” he said. “But to tell me—what?”

“What I have told you,” I replied.

He gave me a queer, questioning look.

“Sounds very mysterious, my lad, eh!” he said.

“To me—uncommonly so!” said I.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and then took a pull at his glass.

“You’ve no doubt amused yourself with theories about it?” he suggested.

“No!” I retorted. “It’s too deep for theories, Mr. Parslewe. Too deep for me to theorise about, I mean.”

“Aye—well, we’ll say speculate, then, instead of theorise,” he remarked, drily. “You’ve indulged in speculations?”

I pointed towards the sideboard behind him.

“I’ve certainly been wondering what on earth that copper box has to do with it!” said I. “Here’s a fat, solemn, self-important old buffer travels—possibly all the way from London—to talk about a copper box in a Newcastle hotel! A Newcastle shopkeeper starts with surprise when I mention a copper box to him! And there—with the firelight glinting on it—there is the copper box!”

“Aye!” he said. “Aye, there it is—and there it’ll remain, master!” He closed his lips in a tight, firm fashion that I had already come to know very well, in spite of our brief acquaintance, and when he relaxed them again it was to smile in his sweetest fashion. “But that doesn’t explain anything, Craye, does it?” he remarked.

“Explains nothing—to me,” I assented.

He got up, threw two or three small logs of wood on the fire, and standing with his back to it, thrust his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown. He puffed at his big pipe for a while, staring across the shadowy corners of the room, and suddenly he laughed.

“You can tell all that to Madrasia in the morning,” he said. “It’ll amuse her.”

“Mystify her, you mean!” I said.

“Well, both, then—they come to the same thing,” he answered. “Please her, too; she thought—being a woman, and having feminine intuition—that Master Pawley was—well, something of what he seems to be.”

“Then you think Pawley came here of set purpose—design?” I asked.

“Maybe!” he answered, coolly. “Didn’t strike me at the time. I took the fellow for being what he professed to be—though I certainly wasn’t impressed by his antiquarian knowledge. But then, the man described himself as a neophyte, a novice. Well, he was—very much so!”

“My opinion is that Pawley was a spy!” said I.

It was a direct challenge to him to let me into his mind. But as soon as I had thrown it down, I saw that he was not going to take it up. There was that about his attitude which showed me that he was not going to say one word in elucidation of the mystery—then, at any rate. But just then I remembered something.

“I forgot this!” said I—“It didn’t seem of much moment at the time—but it’s this: when Pawley was here, you left him and me together, here, in this room, while you went upstairs to write down some notes or memoranda for him. During your absence he picked up the copper box, and after some remarks on its workmanship asked me if I knew whose coat-of-arms that was, and some other questions about it. He was—suspiciously interested.”

“How do you mean—suspiciously?” he asked.

“It struck me—perhaps afterwards—that Pawley could have answered the question himself,” I replied. “Although he asked me, he knew—already.”

“Then the gentleman knew a bit more about heraldry than he did about sepulchral barrows!” he remarked with a sardonic laugh. “Well, tell that, too, to Madrasia in the morning—she likes mysteries in fiction and here’s one in real life. Finish your whisky, my lad, and let’s go to bed.”

I knew then that it was hopeless to get any explanation from Parslewe. I knew, too, that he could tell me a lot, if he wanted. But after all it was no concern of mine and I rose.

“I got the canvas I wanted,” I told him, as we were leaving the room. “That’s all right.”

“Then you can make a start on your picture,” he answered. “Good night, master!”