Madrasia. "Well, fish, then. What is all this mystery? What did you tell him last night?"
"This morning, rather," said I. "Early this morning. Well, I was to tell you. He said you'd enjoy it. Better than any fiction! But what it's all about, I don't know. I wish I did! Perhaps you do."
"I may do, when you tell me," she answered. "Go on!"
Between mouthfuls I told her the whole story of my adventures, from the moment of recognising Pawley to finding Parslewe's note on my plate. At the first mention of the copper box she turned and gazed at that mysterious article, reposing in its usual place on the sideboard; when I made an end of my narrative she stared at it again.
"Just so!" I said. "I wish it could speak. But—it can't. And what I want to know is precisely what you want to know—what is it all about? A first-class mystery, this, anyway! Pawley comes, and is seen examining the copper box. I go to Newcastle, and see Pawley meet a fat-faced, white-whiskered old party. I hear this person talk of the copper
