Durham, ain't you? I've heard of you. Now if I might sit down———"
He had dropped into a chair at the side of the table before Madrasia had had time to invite him thereto; laying his hat by his side he ran his right hand through a rather abundant crop of fair hair—his action seemed to signify a preliminary to business.
"I recognized that as soon as I walked in!" he said, with another frank and almost childlike smile. "Queer business, ain't it, about that old box?"
"I gather that you know something about it," observed Madrasia.
"I do, Miss, that's why I'm here," he answered candidly. "Yes, I know something—so, too, I guess, does that young gentleman. I saw him t'other day—yesterday, to be exact—coming out of Bickerdale's shop."
"You did?" I exclaimed.
"I did! You came out as I was crossing over to it," he answered. "You made old Bickerdale jolly waxy, too, some way or other. You see Bickerdale, he's my father-in-law."
Madrasia and I looked at each other. I
