J. S. Fletcher

“ Murthwaite laughed, and turning to the sideboard took the copper box from it.
“I’ve no more idea of the solution of the mystery than you have,” he answered. “This article is certainly a curiosity in itself. Fine old beaten copper, beautifully made, and beautifully engraved. But why all this fuss about it—as you say—I can’t think. Still, when a dying man mutters what old Matthew Palkeney did, over and over again, eh? Naturally his man-of-law wants to get at some sort of clearing up. My own notion is that it’s not the copper box, but what may have been in the copper box! ”

“ Rot! The whole thing’s much more serious than you think!”
Murthwaite looked from her to me.
“That your opinion, too, Mr. Craye?” he asked.
“It is!” said I. “My absolute opinion.”
He shook hands with us, and got into his saddle. He bent down for a last word.
“Never been so curious about a matter in my life!” he said. “But it must end!”
Then he rode off across the moor and disappeared. And next morning Madrasia and I journeyed to Newcastle, she carrying the copper box, neatly tied up and sealed. Our train ran in at the very time at which we were to meet Parslewe. But we saw no Parslewe. ”

“ We’re in an absolute muddle here—mentally, I mean—and now you’ll clear everything up for us! The sight of you is as good as sunshine after storm. Come in!—old Edie shall take your horse. This gentleman is Mr. Alvery Craye, a famous artist, and he’s nearly as much out of his wits as I am!”
“Then I find myself in queer and possibly dangerous company!” remarked Mr. Murthwaite, with another half wink at me. “However, I hope you’re sane enough to give me some tea, Miss Durham? Good!—then I’ll come in.” He handed his horse over to old Muir and followed Madrasia up the stair, I coming behind. ”