pointed to seven, and knowing that neither Parslewe nor Madrasia would be ready for breakfast much before nine, I turned into the refreshment room for a cup of coffee. And there at the counter, a suit-case at his feet and a rug over his arm, stood Pawley.
Pawley gave me a smile which was half bland and half sickly, and wholly mysterious. And suddenly feeling that I had as good a right as another to indulge an entirely natural sense of inquisitiveness, I went up to him and bade him good morning. He responded civilly enough, and it struck me that he was rather glad to see me and not indisposed to talk. He was eating bread and butter and sipping tea; I got some coffee and biscuits, and for a moment or two we stood side by side, silent. But I had an idea that Pawley wanted me to speak.
"Leaving?" I asked, with a glance at his belongings.
"That's it, Mr. Craye," he replied, almost eagerly. "By the seven-forty, sir. I'm through with my job after last night."
I noticed a difference in his tone and manner. He was no longer the amateur antiquary,
