noticed that, and he vouchsafed to tell me that he'd taken it to be repaired by a man in Newcastle."
"Ah!" I exclaimed. "Now I see some light! That man was Bickerdale, the coppersmith. Of course."
"I'd thought of that already—thought of it as soon as you told me of the Bickerdale episode. But—what then?"
"Um! That's a very big question," I answered. "What, then, indeed! But I think somebody is very much concerned about that copper box—why, only heaven knows. This fatuous, white-whiskered old person, for instance. And that reminds me—he'll turn up here this morning, sure as fate. What are we to say to him?"
"Why say more than that the master is away?" she asked.
"That won't satisfy him," said I. "He's a pertinacious old party. And he's Sir Charles Somebody-or-other, and he'll resent being treated as if he were a footman leaving cards. Let me suggest something."
"Well—what?" she asked dubiously. We've got to be careful."
