II
The Second Stranger
I sat straight up in bed, blinking at the light and its holder. Half-asleep though I was, I got an impression of my visitor. An ascetic-looking, clean-shaven man, with a big, well-shaped nose, and firm thin lips, which, in unison with a pair of keen, observant eyes, could, as I found out later, assume various expressions, changing from intense disagreeableness to peculiar sweetness. Just then eyes and lips were quite agreeable—in fact, their owner laughed gently.
"All right, young master!" he said, in a voice as sweet and mellow as his smile. "Fall to your sleep again—I only just wanted to see what strange bird we'd got in our roost."
He laughed again and made for the door. I found my voice.
"Mr. Parslewe?" I asked interrogatively.
"At your service, sir," he answered, with a sort of mock politeness. "James Parslewe."
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