one in real life. Finish your whisky, my lad, and let's go to bed."
I knew then that it was hopeless to get any explanation from Parslewe. I knew, too, that he could tell me a lot, if he wanted. But after all it was no concern of mine and I rose.
"I got the canvas I wanted," I told him, as we were leaving the room. "That's all right."
"Then you can make a start on your picture," he answered. "Good night, master!"
He grinned knowingly at me as we shook hands at the door of my room; then he moved off to his own. His door closed. The queer old house became silent.
I slept like a top the remainder of that night—so soundly, indeed, that it was late when I awoke. I had to hurry over my shaving and dressing, but after all, I was first in the parlour. A cheery fire burned in the hearth; the table was laid for breakfast, and on my plate I saw an envelope; another lay before Madrasia's. I snatched mine up, recognised Parslewe's crabbed writing, and broke the seal—to stare and wonder at what he had written on a half-sheet of paper within.
