think we both had the same thought—that our visitor looked very juvenile to be married.
"Oh!" I said. "Indeed?"
"Yes," he continued. "Been that for the last three years—a man of a queer and dour temper is Bickerdale. You set his back up yesterday, Mr.—I don't know your name?"
"My name is Craye," I replied.
"Mr. Craye—all right. Well, Mr. Craye and Miss Durham—or vice versa, if I'm to be polite—it's like this," he proceeded gaily. "There's a mystery about that copper box, isn't there? I guess Mr. Parslewe knows there is—but your old woman says he's away—queer old party, that old woman, isn't she?—a character, I should think. But if Mr. Parslewe's away, you ain't! And I want to get at something—and to get at it, I don't mind telling what I know. Between ourselves, of course."
Madrasia and I exchanged another glance; then we both sat down, one on either side of our loquacious visitor.
"What do you know, Mr. Weech?" I asked, in my friendliest tone.
