Whiskers very soon spotted it. That was all rot about the sideboard! He wasn't looking at the sideboard at all; his eyes were glued on the copper box."
"He'll come back!" she exclaimed, suddenly. "I'm sure he'll come back! And I'm wondering if, when he comes back, he'll bring the police."
"The police! What on earth makes you think that?" I asked. "Police? Come!"
"Didn't you see Sir Charles Sperrigoe—whoever he may be—in conversation with our local police inspector last night?" she answered. "Obvious! The old person is in consultation with the police. Perhaps—don't you see?—the box has been stolen."
"You don't imply that Mr. Parslewe stole it?" I suggested.
"Well, I have heard that antiquaries are not above appropriating things!" she answered with a laugh. "Their sense of mine and thine, I believe, is somewhat indefinite. But we'll acquit Jimmie. Only, he may have bought it from somebody who stole it."
"That's more like it," said I. "But in that case, why all this mystery? Why didn't Paw-
