J. S. Fletcher

“ A dead silence fell on us. Madrasia turned wonderingly towards her guardian. I was already watching him. As for Sir Charles Sperrigoe, he flushed crimson—as if somebody had struck him an insulting blow. He leaned forward.
“You—my dear sir, I am, I fear, inclining to deafness,” he said. “Did I understand you to say——”
“I said I don’t want it, and I won’t have it!” repeated Parslewe, loudly. “I should have told old Matthew that if he’d ever asked me about it. I’m a man of fixed and immutable principle. ”

“ Then, as we settled round the table, Madrasia and I on his right and left hand, and Sir Charles opposite to him, he put a hand in his coat pocket, drew out the copper box, and with one of his queer smiles, set it before him. “Do you know what that is, Sperrigoe?” he asked.
Sir Charles made a wry face.
“The cause of much worry and anxiety to me, my dear sir!” he answered. “I can see what it is well enough!”
“Aye, and you want to know how I got it, don’t you?” suggested Parslewe. “So do these young people. I’ll tell you. Old Matthew Palkeney made me a present of it.” ”

“ Parslewe turned the full force of his grimmest smile on us.
“Well, my dear!” he retorted leisurely. “It’s his own fault if he hasn’t! I’m sure he’s had plenty of opportunity. But——”
Sir Charles rose to the occasion. He rose literally from his chair, bending towards Parslewe; he even allowed himself to indulge in a slight wink at Parslewe.
“My dear sir!” he cooed. “I think—er—if we left our young friends together, my dear sir! A little—er—informal conversation between them—eh?—while you and I—shall we try a glass of the famous Palkeney dry sherry in another apartment, my dear sir? ”