for us! The sight of you is as good as sunshine after storm. Come in!—old Edie shall take your horse. This gentleman is Mr. Alvery Craye, a famous artist, and he's nearly as much out of his wits as I am!"
"Then I find myself in queer and possibly dangerous company!" remarked Mr. Murthwaite, with another half wink at me. "However, I hope you're sane enough to give me some tea, Miss Durham? Good!—then I'll come in." He handed his horse over to old Muir and followed Madrasia up the stair, I coming behind. His tone had been light and bantering up to then, but as soon as the three of us had reached the parlour and I had closed the door he turned to both with a quick, searching, earnest glance, and, unconsciously, I think, lowered his voice. "Now look here," he said, in the tone of a man who wants a direct answer. "Do you young people, either of you, know where Parslewe is? What I really mean, though, is—is he in this house?"
"In this house!" exclaimed Madrasia. "Good heavens! Do you mean—hidden?"
"Why not?" answered Murthwaite. "I dare say one who knows it could hide in this old
