ham, could mistake you for anything else than that!"
I coughed—discreetly. And Madrasia took the hint.
"I'm sorry Mr. Parslewe is not at home," she began. "Can I give him any message?"
Sir Charles drew out a card case, and laid a card on the table. Then he rose, and we both saw his eyes turn to the copper box. He gave it a good, straight glance.
"Thank you, thank you!" he answered. "My card, and my compliments and regrets, and perhaps I may do myself the pleasure of waiting upon him again, if he returns soon. I should much like to see his—ah—collections."
Madrasia picked up the card.
"And you are staying, Sir Charles?" she asked.
"For a day or two at the hotel at Wooler," he replied. "After that, perhaps, for a few days in Berwick. The address at Wooler will find me, at any rate, during my stay in these parts; letters would be forwarded."
He was still looking at the copper box, and presently he became mendacious.
"What a truly beautiful old sideboard!" he
