"Have you come here to see old Sperrigoe?" demanded Madrasia.
Parslewe was the best hand I ever came across at the fine art of disregarding a direct question. His face became utterly blank and his lips set, and remained so until a new whim came over him, and he began to tell us something of the history of the old house to which he had brought us. Of that he would talk, but we both saw that it was no use questioning him on any other subject, and we left him alone. But I had already learned something—Parslewe had been there before; he had met White Whiskers there; White Whiskers would know him; without a doubt he had come there to meet White Whiskers. But why on earth did he elude White Whiskers at Kelpieshaw?
Before the evening closed I learned something else. Madrasia retired early; Parslewe began writing a letter in the smoking-room; left to myself, I strolled out to the front door of the hotel to take a look at my surroundings. The old Market Place was flooded in bright moonlight, and I saw at once that Parslewe had been right when he spoke of
