I went down the stair, opened the great door, and found myself confronting a fresh-coloured, pleasant-faced man who had just dismounted from a serviceable but handsome cob and stood in the courtyard with its bridle over his arm. He smiled at sight of me.
"Mr. Craye, I'm sure?" he said. "I've heard of you. Staying here with Mr. Parslewe. Now, is Mr. Parslewe in? I mean, has he returned?"
"No!" I answered, bluntly enough.
He looked at me with a glance that was at once understanding and confidential; there was, I thought, something very like the suspicion of a wink in his eye.
"The fact of the case is, I'm his solicitor," he remarked. "And———"
But just then Madrasia came flying down the stairs, and greeted the visitor so warmly that for the fraction of a second I really felt jealous.
"Mr. Murthwaite!" she cried, catching his readily extended hand and shaking it almost fervently. "Oh!—this is awfully good of you. We're in an absolute muddle here—mentally, I mean—and now you'll clear everything up
