closely as he came up, and when he was abreast of us, he stopped in the centre of the road and lifted his cap; it was the latest thing in head-gear of that sort, and he raised it with something of a flourish.
"I beg your pardon," he said, with a deprecating, ingratiating smile. "Can you tell me if, somewhere in this neighbourhood, there is a house called Kelpieshaw?"
It was Madrasia who answered—promptly.
"Two miles ahead, along the valley," she said. "Can't miss it."
The man bowed, and smiled again; a little too obsequiously, I thought.
"The residence of, I believe—er, Mr. Parslewe?" he suggested. "Mr. James Parslewe."
"Mr. Parslewe lives there," assented Madrasia. "Want him?"
He smiled again—enigmatically this time.
"I hope to have the pleasure of waiting upon Mr. Parslewe—and of finding him at home," he answered. "Er—Mr. Parslewe, I believe—perhaps you are acquainted with him?—is a gentleman learned in—er, antiquities—and that sort of thing?"
