"Is he more friendly with the mother and daughter than the last Squire was?" asked Copplestone, who had been much interested in this chapter of family history.
Mrs. Wooler made several stitches in her sewing before she answered this direct question, and when, she spoke it was in lower tones and with a glance of caution.
"He would be, if he could!" she said. "There are those in the village who say that he wants to marry his cousin. But the truth is—so far as one can see or learn it—that for some reason or other, neither Mrs. Valentine Greyle nor Miss Audrey can bear him! They took some queer dislike to the young man when he first came, and they've kept it up. Of course, they're outwardly friendly, and he occasionally, I believe, goes to the cottage, but they rarely go to the big house, and it's very seldom they're ever seen together. I have heard—one does hear things in villages—that he'd be very glad to do something handsome for them, but they're both as proud as they're poor, and not the sort to accept aught from anybody. I believe they've just enough to live on, but it can't be a great deal, for everybody knows that Valentine Greyle made ducks and drakes of his fortune long before he came back to Scarhaven, and old Stephen John only left them a few hundreds of pounds. However—there it is. However much the new Squire wants to marry his cousin, it's very flat she'll not have anything to say to him. I've once or twice had an opportunity of seeing those two together, and it's my private opinion that Miss Audrey dislikes that young man just about as heartily as she possibly could!"
"What does Mr. Marston Greyle find to do with himself in this place?" asked Copplestone, turning the conversation. "Can't be very lively for him if he's a man of any activity."
"Oh, I don't know," replied Mrs. Wooler. "I think he's a good deal like his uncle, the last squire—he certainly never goes anywhere, except out to sea in his yacht. He shoots a bit, and fishes a bit, and so on, and spends a lot of time with Peeping Peter—he's a widower, is Chatfield, and lives alone, except when his daughter runs down to see him. And that daughter, bye-the-bye, Mr. Copplestone, is on the stage."
"Dear me!" said Copplestone. "That is surprising! Her father made several contemptuous references to play-actors when he was talking to me."
"Oh, he hates them, and all connected with them!" replied Mrs. Wooler, laughing. "All the same, his own daughter has been on the stage for a good five years, and I fancy she's doing well. A fine, handsome girl she is, too—she's been down here a good deal lately, and—"
The landlady suddenly paused, hearing a light step in the hall. She glanced through the window and then turned to Copplestone with an arch smile.
"Talk of the—you know," she exclaimed. "Here's Addie Chatfield herself!"
Copplestone looked up with interest as the door of the private parlour was thrown open, and a tall, handsome young woman burst in with a briskness of movement which betokened unusual energy and vivacity. He got an impression of the old estate agent's daughter in one glance, and wondered how Chatfield came to have such a good-looking girl as his progeny. The impression was of dark, sparkling eyes, a mass of darker, highly-burnished hair, bright colour, a flashing vivacious smile, a fine figure, a general air of sprightliness and glowing health—this was certainly the sort of personality that would recommend itself to a considerable mass of theatre-goers, and Copplestone, as a budding dramatist, immediately began to cast Addie Chatfield for an appropriate part.
The newcomer stopped short on the threshold as she caught sight of a stranger, and she glanced with sharp inquisitiveness at Copplestone as he rose from his chair.
"Oh!—I supposed you were alone, Mrs. Wooler," she exclaimed. "You usually are, you know, so I came in anyhow—sorry!"
"Come in," said the landlady. "Don't go, Mr. Copplestone. This is MissAdela Chatfield. Your father has just been to see this gentleman,Addie—perhaps he told you?"
Addie Chatfield dropped into a chair at Mrs. Wooler's side, and looked the stranger over slowly and carefully.
"No," she answered. "My father didn't tell me—he doesn't tell me anything about his own affairs. All his talk is about mine—the iniquity of them, and so on."
She showed a fine set of even white teeth as she made this remark, and her eyes sought Copplestone's again with a direct challenge. Copplestone looked calmly at her, half-smiling; he was beginning, in his youthful innocence, to think that he already understood this type of young woman. And seeing him smile, Addie also smiled.
"Now I wonder whatever my father wanted to see you about?" she said, with a strong accent on the personal pronoun. "For you don't look his sort, and he certainly isn't yours—unless you're deceptive."
"Perhaps I am," responded Copplestone, still keeping his eyes on her."Your father wanted to see me about the strange disappearance of Mr.Bassett Oliver. That was all."
The girl's glance, bold and challenging, suddenly shifted before Copplestone's steady look. She half turned to Mrs. Wooler, and her colour rose a little.
"I've heard of that," she said, with an affectation of indifference. "And as I happen to know a bit of Bassett Oliver, I don't see what all this fuss is about. I should say Bassett Oliver took it into his head to go off somewhere yesterday on a little game of his own, and that he's turned up at Norcaster by this time, and is safe in his dressing-room, or on the stage. That's my notion."
"I wish I could think it the correct one," replied Copplestone. "But we can soon find out if it is—there's a telephone in the hall. Yet—I'm so sure that you're wrong, that I'm not even going to ring Norcaster up. Mr. Bassett Oliver has—disappeared here!"
"Are you a member of his company?" asked Addie, again looking Copplestone over with speculative glances.
"Not at all! I'm a humble person whose play Mr. Oliver was about to produce next month, in consequence of which I came down to see him, and to find this state of affairs. And—having nothing else to do—I'm now here to help to find him—alive or dead."
"Oh!" said Addie. "So—you're a writer?"
"I understand that you are an actress?" responded Copplestone. "I wonder if I've ever seen you anywhere?"
Addie bowed her head and gave him a sharp glance.
"Evidently not!" she retorted. "Or you wouldn't wonder! As if anybody could forget me, once they'd seen me! I believe you're pulling my leg, though. Do you live in town?"
"I live," replied Copplestone slowly and with affected solemnity, "in chambers in Jermyn Street."
"And do you mean to tell me that you didn't see me last year inTheClever Lady Hartletop?" she exclaimed.
Copplestone put the tips of his fingers together and his head on one side and regarded her critically.
"What part did you play?" he asked innocently.
"Part? Why,thepart, of course!" she retorted. "Goodness! Why, I created it! And played it to crowded houses for nearly two hundred nights, too!"
"Ah!" said Copplestone. "But I'll make a confession to you. I rarely visit the theatre. I never sawLady Hartletop.I haven't been in a theatre of any sort for two years. So you must forgive me. I congratulate you on your success."
Addie received this tribute with a mollified smile, which changed to a glance of surprised curiosity.
"You never go to the theatre?—and yet you write plays!" she exclaimed. "That's queer, isn't it? But I believe writing people are queer—they look it, anyhow. All the same, you don't look like a writer—what does he look like, Mrs. Wooler? Oh, I know—a sort of nice little officer boy, just washed and tidied up!"
The landlady, who had evidently enjoyed this passage at arms, laughed as she gave Copplestone a significant glance.
"And when did you come down home, Addie?" she asked quietly. "I didn't know you were here again."
"Came down Saturday night," said Addie. "I'm on my way to Edinburgh—business there on Wednesday. So I broke the journey here—just to pay my respects to my worshipful parent."
"I think I heard you say that you knew Mr. Bassett Oliver?" askedCopplestone. "You've met him?"
"Met him in this country and in America," replied Addie, calmly. "He was on tour over there when I was—three years ago. We were in two or three towns together at the same time—different houses, of course. I never saw much of him in London, though."
"You didn't see anything of him yesterday, here?" suggested Copplestone.
Addie stared and glanced at the landlady.
"Here?" she exclaimed. "Goodness, no! When I'm here of a Sunday, I lie in bed all day, or most of it. Otherwise, I'd have to walk with my parent to the family pew. No—my Sundays are days of rest! You really think this disappearance is serious?"
"Oliver's managers—who know him best, of course—think it most serious," replied Copplestone. "They say that nothing but an accident of a really serious nature would have kept him from his engagements."
"Then that settles it!" said Addie. "He's fallen down the Devil's Spout. Plain as plain can be, that! He's made his way there, been a bit too daring, and slipped over the edge. And whoever falls in there never comes out again!—isn't that it, Mrs. Wooler?"
"That's what they say," answered the landlady.
"But I don't remember any accident at the Devil's Spout in my time."
"Well, there's been one now, anyway—that's flat," remarked Addie. "Poor old Bassett—I'm sorry for him! Well, I'm off. Good-night, Mr. Copplestone—and perhaps you'll so far overcome your repugnance to the theatre as to come and see me in one some day?"
"Supposing I escort you homeward instead—now?" suggested Copplestone."That will at least show that I am ready to become your devoted—"
"Admirer, I suppose," said Addie. "I'm afraid he's not quite as innocent as he looks, Mrs. Wooler. Well—you can escort me as far as the gates of the park, then—I daren't take you further, because it's so dark in there that you'd surely lose your way, and then there'd be a second disappearance and all sorts of complications."
She went out of the inn, laughing and chattering, but once outside she suddenly became serious, and she involuntarily laid her hand on Copplestone's arm as they turned down the hillside towards the quay.
"I say!" she said in a low voice. "I wasn't going to ask questions in there, but—what's going to be done about this Oliver affair? Of course you're stopping here to do something. What?"
Copplestone hesitated before answering this direct question. He had not seen anything which would lead him to suppose that Miss Adela Chatfield was a disingenuous and designing young woman, but she was certainly Peeping Peter's daughter, and the old man, having failed to get anything out of Copplestone himself, might possibly have sent her to see what she could accomplish. He replied noncommittally.
"I'm not in a position to do anything," he said. "I'm not a relative—not even a personal friend. I daresay you know that Bassett Oliver was—one's already talking of him in the past tense!—the brother of Rear-Admiral Sir Cresswell Oliver, the famous seaman?"
"I knew he was a man of what they call family, but I didn't know that," she answered. "What of it?"
"Stafford's wired to Sir Cresswell," replied Copplestone. "He'll be down here some time tomorrow, no doubt. And of course he'll take everything into his own hands."
"And he'll do—what?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't know," replied Copplestone. "Set the police to work, I should think. They'll want to find out where Bassett Oliver went, where he got to, when he turned up to the Keep, saying he'd go and call on the Squire, as he'd met some man of that name in America. By-the-bye, you said you'd been in America. Did you meet anybody of the Squire's name there?"
They were passing along the quay by that time, and in the light of one of its feeble gas-lamps he turned and looked narrowly at his companion. He fancied that he saw her face change in expression at his question; if there was any change, however, it was so quick that it was gone in a second. She shook her head with emphatic decision.
"I?" she exclaimed. "Never! It's a most uncommon name, that. I never heard of anybody called Greyle except at Scarhaven."
"The present Mr. Greyle came from America," said Copplestone.
"I know, of course," she answered. "But I never met any Greyles out there. Bassett Oliver may have done, though. I know he toured in a lot of American towns—I only went to three—New York, Chicago, St. Louis. I suppose," she continued, turning to Copplestone with a suggestion of confidence in her manner, "I suppose you consider it a very damning thing that Bassett Oliver should disappear, after saying what he did to Ewbank."
It was very evident to Copplestone that whether Miss Chatfield had spoken the truth or not when she said that her father had not told her of his visit to the "Admiral's Arms," she was thoroughly conversant with all the facts relating to the Oliver mystery, and he was still doubtful as to whether she was not seeking information.
"Does it matter at all what I think," he answered evasively. "I've no part in this affair—I'm a mere spectator. I don't know how what you refer to might be considered by people who are accustomed to size things up. They might say all that was a mere coincidence."
"But what do you think?" she said with feminine persistence. "Come, now, between ourselves?"
Copplestone laughed. They had come to the edge of the wooded park in which the estate agent's house stood, and at a gate which led into it, he paused.
"Between ourselves, then, I don't think at all—yet," he answered. "I haven't sized anything up. All I should say at present is that if—or as, for I'm sure the fisherman repeated accurately what he heard—as Oliver said he met somebody called Marston Greyle in America, why—I conclude he did. That's all. Now, won't you please let me see you through these dark woods?"
But Addie said her farewell, and left him somewhat abruptly, and he watched her until she had passed out of the circle of light from the lamp which swung over the gate. She passed on into the shadows—and Copplestone, who had already memorized the chief geographical points of his new surroundings, noticed what she probably thought no stranger would notice—that instead of going towards her father's house, she turned up the drive to the Squire's.
Stafford was back at Scarhaven before breakfast time next morning, bringing with him a roll of copies of theNorcaster Daily Chronicle, one of which he immediately displayed to Copplestone and Mrs. Wooler, who met him at the inn door. He pointed with great pride to certain staring headlines.
"I engineered that!" he exclaimed. "Went round to the newspaper office last night and put them up to everything. Nothing like publicity in these cases. There you are!
That's the style, Copplestone!—every human being along this coast'll be reading that by now!"
"So there was no news of him last night?" asked Copplestone.
"Neither last night nor this morning, my boy," replied Stafford. "Of course not! No—he never left here, not he! Now then, let Mrs. Wooler serve us that nice breakfast which I'm sure she has in readiness, and then we're going to plunge into business, hot and strong. There's a couple of detectives coming on by the nine o'clock train, and we're going to do the whole thing thoroughly."
"What about his brother?" inquired Copplestone.
"I wired him last night to his London address, and got a reply first thing this morning," said Stafford. "He's coming along by the 5:15 A.M. from King's Cross—he'll be here before noon. I want to get things to work before he arrives, though. And the first thing to do, of course, is to make sympathetic inquiry, and to search the shore, and the cliffs, and these woods—and that Keep. All that we'll attend to at once."
But on going round to the village police-station they found that Stafford's ideas had already been largely anticipated. The news of the strange gentleman's mysterious disappearance had spread like wild-fire through Scarhaven and the immediate district during the previous evening, and at daybreak parties of fisher-folk had begun a systematic search. These parties kept coming in to report progress all the morning: by noon they had all returned. They had searched the famous rocks, the woods, the park, the Keep, and its adjacent ruins, and the cliffs and shore for some considerable distance north and south of the bay, and there was no result. Not a trace, not a sign of the missing man was to be found anywhere. And when, at one o'clock, Stafford and Copplestone walked up to the little station to meet Sir Cresswell Oliver, it was with the disappointing consciousness that they had no news to give him.
Copplestone, who nourished a natural taste for celebrities of any sort, born of his artistic leanings and tendencies, had looked forward with interest to meeting Sir Cresswell Oliver, who, only a few months previously, had made himself famous by a remarkable feat of seamanship in which great personal bravery and courage had been displayed. He had a vague expectation of seeing a bluff, stalwart, sea-dog type of man; instead, he presently found himself shaking hands with a very quiet-looking, elderly gentleman, who might have been a barrister or a doctor, of pleasant and kindly manners. With him was another gentleman of a similar type, and of about the same age, whom he introduced as the family solicitor, Mr. Petherton. And to these two, in a private sitting-room at the "Admiral's Arms," Stafford, as Bassett Oliver's business representative, and Copplestone, as having remained on the spot since the day before, told all and every detail of what had transpired since it was definitely established that the famous actor was missing. Both listened in silence and with deep attention; when all the facts had been put before them, they went aside and talked together; then they returned and Sir Cresswell besought Stafford and Copplestone's attention.
"I want to tell you young gentlemen precisely what Mr. Petherton and I think it best to do," he said in the mild and bland accents which had so much astonished Copplestone. "We have listened, as you will admit, with our best attention. Mr. Petherton, as you know, is a man of law; I myself, when I have the good luck to be ashore, am a Chairman of Quarter Sessions, so I'm accustomed to hearing and weighing evidence. We don't think there's any doubt that my poor brother has met with some curious mishap which has resulted in his death. It seems impossible, going on what you tell us from the evidence you've collected, that he could ever have approached that Devil's Spout place unseen; it also seems impossible that he could have had a fatal fall over the cliffs, since his body has not been found. No—we think something befell him in the neighbourhood of Scarhaven Keep. But what? Foul play? Possibly! If it was—why? And there are three people Mr. Petherton and I would like to speak to, privately—the fisherman, Ewbank, Mr. Marston Greyle, and Mrs. Valentine Greyle. We should like to hear Ewbank's story for ourselves; we certainly want to see the Squire; and I, personally, wish to see Mrs. Greyle because, from what Mr. Copplestone there has told us, I am quite sure that I, too, knew her a good many years ago, when she was acquainted with my brother Bassett. So we propose, Mr. Stafford, to go and see these three people—and when we have seen them, I will tell you and Mr. Copplestone exactly what I, as my brother's representative, wish to be done."
The two younger men waited impatiently in and about the hotel while their elders went on their self-appointed mission. Stafford, essentially a man of activity, speculated on their reasons for seeing the three people whom Sir Cresswell Oliver had specifically mentioned: Copplestone was meanwhile wondering if he could with propriety pay another visit to Mrs. Greyle's cottage that night. It was drawing near to dusk when the two quiet-looking, elderly gentlemen returned and summoned the younger ones to another conference. Both looked as reserved and bland as when they had set out, and the old seaman's voice was just as suave as ever when he addressed them.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "we have paid our visits, and I suppose I had better tell you at once that we are no wiser as to actual facts than we were when we left you earlier in the afternoon. The man Ewbank stands emphatically by his story; Mr. Marston Greyle says that he cannot remember any meeting with my brother in America, and that he certainly did not call on him here on Sunday: Mrs. Valentine Greyle has not met Bassett for a great many years. Now—there the matter stands. Of course, it cannot rest there. Further inquiries will have to be made. Mr. Petherton and I are going on to Norcaster this evening, and we shall have a very substantial reward offered to any person who can give any information about my brother. That may result in something—or in nothing. As to my brother's business arrangements, I will go fully into that matter with you, Mr. Stafford, at Norcaster, tomorrow. Now, Mr. Copplestone, will you have a word or two with me in private?"
Copplestone followed the old seaman into a quiet corner of the room, where Sir Cresswell turned on him with a smile.
"I take it," he said, "that you are a young gentleman of leisure, and that you can abide wherever you like, eh?"
"Yes, you may take that as granted," answered Copplestone, wondering what was coming.
"Doesn't much matter if you write your plays in Jermyn Street or—anywhere else, eh?" questioned Sir Cresswell with a humorous smile.
"Practically, no," replied Copplestone.
Sir Cresswell tapped him on the shoulder.
"I want you to do me a favour," he said. "I shall take it as a kindness if you will. I don't want to talk about certain ideas which Petherton and I have about this affair, yet, anyway—not even to you—but wehaveformed some ideas this afternoon. Now, do you think you could manage to stay where you are for a week or two?"
"Here?" exclaimed Copplestone.
"This seems very comfortable," said Sir Cresswell, looking round. "The landlady is a nice, motherly person; she gave me a very well-cooked lunch; this is a quiet room in which to do your writing, eh?"
"Of course I can stay here," answered Copplestone, who was a good deal bewildered. "But—mayn't I know why—and in what capacity?"
"Just to keep your eyes and your ears open," said Sir Cresswell. "Don't seem to make inquiries—in fact, don't make any inquiry—do nothing. I don't want you to do any private detective work—not I! Just stop here a bit—amuse yourself—write—read—and watch things quietly. And—don't be cross—I've an elderly man's privilege, you know—you'll send your bills to me."
"Oh, that's all right, thanks!" said Copplestone, hurriedly. "I'm pretty well off as regards this world's goods."
"So I guessed when I found that you lived in the expensive atmosphere of Jermyn Street," said Sir Cresswell, with a sly laugh. "But all the same, you'll let me be paymaster here, you know—that's only fair."
"All right—certainly, if you wish it," agreed Copplestone. "But look here—won't you trust me? I assure you I'm to be trusted. You suspect somebody! Hadn't you better give me your confidence? I won't tell a soul—and when I say that, I mean it literally. I won't tell one single soul!"
Sir Cresswell waited a moment or two, looking quietly at Copplestone.Then he clapped a hand on the young man's shoulder.
"All right, my lad," he said. "Yes!—we do suspect somebody. MarstonGreyle! Now you know it."
"I expected that," answered Copplestone. "All right, sir. And my orders are—just what you said."
"Just what I said," agreed Sir Cresswell. "Carry on at that—eyes and ears open; no fuss; everything quiet, unobtrusive, silent. Meanwhile—Petherton will be at work. And I say—if you want company, you know—I think you'll find it across the bay there at Mrs. Greyle's—eh?"
"I was there last night," said Copplestone. "I liked both of them very much. You knew Mrs. Greyle once upon a time, I think; you and your brother?"
"We did!" replied Sir Cresswell, with a sigh. "Um!—the fact is, both Bassett and I were in love with her at that time. She married another man instead. That's all!"
He gave Copplestone a squeeze of the elbow, laughed, and went across to the solicitor, who was chatting to Stafford in one of the bow windows. Ten minutes later all three were off to Norcaster, and Copplestone was alone, ruminating over this sudden and extraordinary change in the hitherto even tenor of his life. Little more than twenty-four hours previously, all he had been concerned about was the production of his play by Bassett Oliver—here he was now, mixed up in a drama of real life, with Bassett Oliver as its main figure, and the plot as yet unrevealed. And he himself was already committed to play in it—but what part?
Now that the others had gone, Copplestone began to feel strangely alone. He had accepted Sir Cresswell Oliver's commission readily, feeling genuinely interested in the affair, and being secretly conscious that he would be glad of the opportunity of further improving his acquaintance with Audrey Greyle. But now that he considered things quietly, he began to see that his position was a somewhat curious and possibly invidious one. He was to watch—and to seem not to watch. He was to listen—and appear not to listen. The task would be difficult—and perhaps unpleasant. For he was very certain that Marston Greyle would resent his presence in the village, and that Chatfield would be suspicious of it. What reason could he, an utter stranger, have for taking up his quarters at the "Admiral's Arms?" The tourist season was over: Autumn was well set in; with Autumn, on that coast, came weather which would send most southerners flying homewards. Of course, these people would say that he was left there to peep and pry—and they would all know that the Squire was the object of suspicion. It was all very well, his telling Mrs. Wooler that being an idle man he had taken a fancy to Scarhaven, and would stay in her inn for a few weeks, but Mrs. Wooler, like everybody else, would see through that. However, the promise had been given, and he would keep it—literally. He would do nothing in the way of active detective work—he would just wait and see what, if anything, turned up.
But upon one thing Copplestone had made up his mind determinedly before that second evening came—he would make no pretence to Audrey Greyle and her mother. And availing himself of their permission to call again, he went round to the cottage, and before he had been in it five minutes told them bluntly that he was going to stay at Scarhaven awhile, on the chance of learning any further news of Bassett Oliver.
"Which," he added, with a grim smile, "seems about as likely as that I should hear that I am to be Lord Chancellor when the Woolsack is next vacant!"
"You don't know," remarked Mrs. Greyle. "A reward for information is to be offered, isn't it?"
"Do you think that will do much good?" asked Copplestone.
"It depends upon the amount," replied Mrs. Greyle. "We know these people. They are close and reserved—no people could keep secrets better. For all one knows, somebody in this village may know something, and may at present feel it wisest to keep the knowledge to himself. But if money—what would seem a lot of money—comes into question—ah!"
"Especially if the information could be given in secret," said Audrey. "Scarhaven folk love secrecy—it's the salt of life to them: it's in their very blood. Chatfield is an excellent specimen. He'll watch you as a cat watches a mouse when he finds you're going to stay here."
"I shall be quite open," said Copplestone. "I'm not going to indulge in any secret investigations. But I mean to have a thorough look round the place. That Keep, now?—may one look round that?"
"There's a path which leads close by the Keep, from which you can get a good outside view of it," replied Audrey. "But the Keep itself, and the rest of the ruins round about it are in private ground."
"But you have a key, Audrey, and you can take Mr. Copplestone in there," said Mrs. Greyle. "And you would show him more than he would find out for himself—Audrey," she continued, turning to Copplestone, "knows every inch of the place and every stone of the walls."
Copplestone made no attempt to conceal his delight at this suggestion. He turned to the girl with almost boyish eagerness.
"Will you?" he exclaimed. "Do! When?"
"Tomorrow morning, if you like," replied Audrey. "Meet me on the south quay, soon after ten."
Copplestone was down on the quay by ten o'clock. He became aware as he descended the road from the inn that the fisher-folk, who were always lounging about the sea-front, were being keenly interested in something that was going on there. Drawing nearer he found that an energetic bill-poster was attaching his bills to various walls and doors. Sir Cresswell and his solicitor had evidently lost no time, and had set a Norcaster printer to work immediately on their arrival the previous evening. And there the bill was, and it offered a thousand pounds reward to any person who should give information which would lead to the finding of Bassett Oliver, alive or dead.
Copplestone purposely refrained from mingling with the groups of men and lads who thronged about the bills, eagerly discussing the great affair of the moment. He sauntered along the quay, waiting for Audrey. She came at last with an enigmatic smile on her lips.
"Our particular excursion is off, Mr. Copplestone," she said."Extraordinary events seem to be happening. Mr. Chatfield called on us anhour ago, took my key away from me, and solemnly informed us thatScarhaven Keep is strictly closed until further notice!"
The look of blank astonishment which spread over Copplestone's face on hearing this announcement seemed to afford his companion great amusement, and she laughed merrily as she signed to him to turn back towards the woods.
"All the same," she observed, "I know how to steal a countermarch onMaster Chatfield. Come along!—you shan't be disappointed."
"Does your cousin know of that?" asked Copplestone. "Are those his orders?"
Audrey's lips curled a little, and she laughed again—but this time the laughter was cynical.
"I don't think it much matters whether my cousin knows or not," she said. "He's the nominal Squire of Scarhaven, but everybody knows that the real over-lord is Peter Chatfield. Peter Chatfield does—everything. And—he hates me! He won't have had such a pleasant moment for a long time as he had this morning when he took my key away from me and warned me off."
"But why you?" asked Copplestone.
"Oh—Peter is deep!" she said. "Peter, no doubt, knew that you came to see us last night—Peter knows all that goes on in Scarhaven. And he put things together, and decided that I might act as your cicerone over the Keep and the ruins, and so—there you are!"
"Why should he object to my visiting the Keep?" demanded Copplestone.
"That's obvious! He considers you a spy," replied Audrey. "And—there may be reasons why he doesn't desire your presence in those ancient regions. But—we'll go there, all the same, if you don't mind breaking rules and defying Peter."
"Not I!" said Copplestone. "Hang Peter!"
"There are people who firmly believe that Peter Chatfield should have been hanged long since," she remarked quietly. "I'm one of them. Chatfield is a bad old man—thoroughly bad! But I'll circumvent him in this, anyhow. I know how to get into the Keep in spite of him and of his locks and bolts. There's a big curtain wall, twenty feet high, all round the Keep, but I know where there's a hole in it, behind some bushes, and we'll get in there. Come along!"
She led him up the same path through the woods along which Bassett Oliver had gone, according to Ewbank's account. It wound through groves of fir and pine until it came out on a plateau, in the midst of which, surrounded by a high irregular wall, towered at the angles and buttressed all along its length, stood Scarhaven Keep. And there, at the head of a path which evidently led up from the big house, stood Chatfield, angry and threatening. Beyond him, distributed at intervals about the other paths which converged on the plateau were other men, obviously estate labourers, who appeared to be mounting guard over the forbidden spot.
"Now there's going to be a row!—between me and Chatfield," murmured Audrey. "You play spectator—don't say a word. Leave it to me. We are on our rights along this path—take no notice of Peter."
But Chatfield was already bearing down on them, his solemn-featured face dark with displeasure. He raised his voice while he was yet a dozen yards away.
"I thought I'd told you as you wasn't to come near these here ruins!" he said, addressing Audrey in a fashion which made Copplestone's fingers itch to snatch the oak staff from the agent and lay it freely about his person. "My orders was to that there effect! And when I give orders I mean 'em to be obeyed. You'll turn straight back where you came from, miss, and in future do as I instruct—d'ye hear that, now?"
"If you expect me to keep quiet or dumb under that sort of thing," whispered Copplestone, bending towards Audrey, "you're very much mistaken in me! I shall give this fellow a lesson in another minute if—"
"Well, wait another minute, then," said Audrey, who had continued to walk forward, steadily regarding the agent's threatening figure. "Let me talk a little, first—I'm enjoying it. Are you addressing me, Mr. Chatfield?" she went on in her sweetest accents. "I hear you speaking, but I don't know if you are speaking to me. If so, you needn't shout."
"You know very well who I'm a-speaking to," growled Chatfield. "I told you you wasn't to come near these ruins—it's forbidden, by order. You'll take yourself off, and that there young man with you—we want no paid spies hereabouts!"
"If you speak to me like that again I'll knock you down!" exclaimed Copplestone, stepping forward before Audrey could stop him. "Or to this lady, either. Stand aside, will you?"
Chatfield twisted on his heel with a surprising agility—not to stand aside, but to wave his arm to the men who stood here and there, behind him.
"Here, you!" he shouted. "Here, this way, all of you! This here fellow's threatening me with assault. You lay a finger on me, you young snapper, and I'll have you in the lock-up in ten minutes. Stand between us, you men!—he's for knocking me down. Now then!" he went on, as the bodyguard got between him and Copplestone, "off you go, out o' these grounds, both of you—quick! I'll have no defiance of my orders from neither gel nor boy, man nor woman. Out you go, now—or you'll be put out."
But Audrey continued to advance, still watching the agent. "You're under a mistake, Mr. Chatfield," she said calmly. "You will observe that Mr. Copplestone and I are on this path. You know very well that this is a public foot-path, with a proper and legal right-of-way from time immemorial. You can't turn us off it, you know—without exposing yourself to all sorts of pains and penalties. You men know that, too," she continued, turning to the labourers and dropping her bantering tone. "You all know this is a public footpath. So stand out of our way, or I'll summon every one of you!"
The last words were spoken with so much force and decision that the three labourers involuntarily moved aside. But Chatfield hastened to oppose Audrey's progress, planting himself in front of a wicket-gate which there stood across the path, and he laughed sneeringly.
"And where would you find money to take summonses out?" he said, with a look of contempt, "I should think you and your mother's something better to do with your bit o' money than that. Now then, no more words!—back you turn!"
Copplestone's temper had been gradually rising during the last few minutes. Now, at the man's carefully measured taunts, he let it go. Before Chatfield or the labourers saw what he was at, he sprang on the agent's big form, grasped him by the neck with one hand, twisted his oak staff away from him with the other, flung him headlong on the turf, and raised the staff threateningly.
"Now!" he said, "beg Miss Greyle's pardon, instantly, or I'll split your wicked old head for you. Quick, man—I mean it!"
Before Chatfield, moaning and groaning, could find his voice capable of words, Marston Greyle, pale and excited, came round a corner of the ruins.
"What's this, what's all this?" he demanded. "Here, yon sir, what are you doing with that stick! What—"
"I'm about to chastise your agent for his scoundrelly insolence to your cousin," retorted Copplestone with cheerful determination. "Now then, my man, quick—I always keep my word!"
"Hand the stick to Mr. Marston Greyle, Mr. Copplestone," said Audrey in her demurest manner. "I'm sure he would beat Chatfield soundly if he had heard what he said to me—his cousin."
"Thank you, but I'm in possession," said Copplestone, grimly. "Mr. Marston Greyle can kick him when I've thrashed him. Now, then—are you going to beg Miss Greyle's pardon, you hoary sinner?"
"What on earth is it all about?" exclaimed Greyle, obviously upset and afraid. "Chatfield, what have you been saying? Go away, you men—go away, all of you, at once. Mr. Copplestone, don't hit him. Audrey, what is it? Hang it all!—I seem to have nothing but bother—it's most annoying. What is it, I say?"
"It is merely, Marston, that your agent there, after trying to turn Mr. Copplestone and myself off this public foot-path, insulted me with shameful taunts about my mother's poverty," replied Audrey. "That's all! Whereupon—as you were not here to do it—Mr. Copplestone promptly and very properly knocked him down. And now—is Mr. Copplestone to punish him or—will you?"
Copplestone, keeping a sharp eye on the groaning and sputtering agent, contrived at the same time to turn a corner of it on Marston Greyle. That momentary glance showed him much. The Squire was mortally afraid of his man. That was certain—as certain as that they were there. He stood, a picture of vexation and indecision, glancing furtively at Chatfield, then at Audrey, and evidently hating to be asked to take a side.
"Confound it all, Chatfield!" he suddenly burst out. "Why don't you mind what you're saying? It's all very well, Audrey, but you shouldn't have come along here—especially with strangers. The fact is, I'm so upset about this Oliver affair that I'm going to have a thorough search and examination of the Keep and the ruins, and, of course, we can't allow any one inside the grounds while it's going on. You should have kept to Chatfield's orders—"
"And since when has a Greyle of Scarhaven kept to a servant's orders?" interrupted Audrey, with a sneer that sent the blood rushing to the Squire's face. "Never!—until this present régime, I should think. Orders, indeed!—from an agent! I wonder what the last Squire of Scarhaven would have said to a proposition like that? Mr. Copplestone—you've punished that bad old man quite sufficiently. Will you open the gate for me—and we'll go on our way."
The girl spoke with so much decision that Copplestone moved away from Chatfield, who struggled to his feet, muttering words that sounded very much like smothered curses.
"I'll have the law on you!" he growled, shaking his fist at Copplestone."Before this day's out, I'll have the law!"
"Sooner the better," retorted Copplestone. "Nothing will please me so much as to tell the local magistrates precisely what you said to your master's kinswoman. You know where I'm to be found—and there," he added, throwing a card at the agent's feet, "there you'll find my permanent address."
"Give me my walking-stick!" demanded Chatfield.
"Not I!" exclaimed Copplestone. "That's mine, my good man, by right of conquest. You can summon me, or arrest me, if you like, for stealing it."
He opened the wicket-gate for Audrey, and together they passed through, skirted the walls of the ruins, and went away into the higher portion of the woods. Once there the girl laughed.
"Now there'll be another row!" she said. "Between master and man this time."
"I think not!" observed Copplestone, with unusual emphasis. "For the master is afraid of the man."
"Ah!—but which is master and which is man?" asked Audrey in a low voice.
Copplestone stopped and looked narrowly at her.
"Oh?" he said quietly, "so you've seen that?"
"Does it need much observation?" she replied. "My mother and I have known for some time that Marston Greyle is entirely under Peter Chatfield's thumb. He daren't do anything—save by Chatfield's permission."
Copplestone walked on a few yards, ruminating.
"Why!" he asked suddenly.
"How do we know?" retorted Audrey.
"Well, in cases like that," said Copplestone, "it generally means that one man has a hold on the other. What hold can Chatfield have on your cousin? I understand Mr. Marston Greyle came straight to his inheritance from America. So what could Chatfield know of him—to have any hold?"
"Oh, I don't know—and I don't care—much," replied Audrey, as they passed out of the woods on to the headlands beyond. "Never mind all that—here's the sea and the open sky—hang Chatfield, and Marston, too! As we can't see the Keep, let's enjoy ourselves some other way. What shall we do?"
"You're the guide, conductress, general boss!" answered Copplestone. "Shall I suggest something that sounds very material, though? Well, then, can't we go along these cliffs to some village where we can find a nice old fishing inn and get a simple lunch of some sort?"
"That's certainly material and eminently practical," laughed Audrey. "We can—that place, along there to the south—Lenwick. And so, come on—and no more talk of Squire and agent. I've a remarkable facility in throwing away unpleasant things."
"It's a grand faculty—and I'll try to imitate you," said Copplestone."So—today's our own, eh? Is that it?"
"Say until the middle of this afternoon," responded Audrey. "Don't forget that I have a mother at home."
It was, however, well past the middle of the afternoon when these two returned to Scarhaven, very well satisfied with themselves. They had found plenty to talk about without falling back on Marston Greyle, or Peter Chatfield, or the event of the morning, and Copplestone suddenly remembered, almost with compunction, that he had been so engrossed in his companion that he had almost forgotten the Oliver mystery. But that was sharply recalled to him as he entered the "Admiral's Arms." Mrs. Wooler came forward from her parlour with a mysterious smile on her good-looking face.
"Here's a billet-doux for you, Mr. Copplestone," she said. "And I can't tell you who left it. One of the girls found it lying on the hall table an hour ago." With that she handed Copplestone a much thumbed, very grimy, heavily-sealed envelope.
Copplestone carried the queer-looking missive into his private sitting-room and carefully examined it, back and front, before slitting it open. The envelope was of the cheapest kind, the big splotch of red wax at the flap had been pressed into flatness by the summary method of forcing a coarse-grained thumb upon it; the address was inscribed in ill-formed characters only too evidently made with difficulty by a bad pen, which seemed to have been dipped into watery ink at every third or fourth letter. And it read thus:—
The envelope contained nothing but a scrap of paper obviously torn from a penny cash book. No ink had been used in transcribing the two or three lines which were scrawled across this scrap—the vehicle this time was an indelible pencil, which the writer appeared to have moistened with his tongue every now and then, some letters being thicker and darker than others. The message, if mysterious, was straightforward enough. "Sir,"it ran, "if so be as you'd like to have a bit of news from one as has it, take a walk through Hobkin's Hole tomorrow morning and look out for Yours truly—Him as writes this."
Like most very young men Copplestone on arriving at what he called manhood (by which he meant the age of twenty-one years), had drawn up for himself a code of ethics, wherein he had mentally scheduled certain things to be done and certain things not to be done. One of the things which he had firmly resolved never to do was to take any notice of an anonymous letter. Here was an anonymous letter, and with it a conflict between his principles and his inclinations. In five minutes he learnt that cut-and-dried codes are no good when the hard facts of every-day life have to be faced and that expediency is a factor in human existence which has its moral values. In plain English, he made up his mind to visit Hobkin's Hole next morning and find out who the unknown correspondent was.
He was half tempted to go round to the cottage and show the queer scrawl to Audrey Greyle, of whom, having passed six delightful hours in her company—he was beginning to think much more than was good for him, unless he intended to begin thinking of her always. But he was still young enough to have a spice of bashfulness about him, and he did not want to seem too pushing or forward. Again, it seemed to him that the anonymous letter conveyed, in some subtle fashion, a hint that it was to be regarded as sacred and secret, and Copplestone had a strong sense of honour. He knew that Mrs. Wooler was femininely curious to hear all about that letter, but he took care not to mention it to her. Instead he quietly consulted an ordnance map of the district which hung framed and glazed in the hall of the inn, and discovering that Hobkin's Hole was marked on it as being something or other a mile or two out of Scarhaven on the inland side, he set out in its direction next morning after breakfast, without a word to anyone as to where he was going. And that he might not be entirely defenceless he carried Peter Chatfield's oaken staff with him—that would certainly serve to crack any ordinary skull, if need arose for measure of defence.
The road which Copplestone followed out of the village soon turned off into the heart of the moorlands that lay, rising and falling in irregular undulations, between the sea and the hills. He was quickly out of sight of Scarhaven, and in the midst of a solitude. All round him stretched wide expanses of heather and gorse, broken up by great masses of rock: from a rise in the road he looked about him and saw no sign of a human habitation and heard nothing but the rush of the wind across the moors and the plaintive cry of the sea-birds flapping their way to the cultivated land beyond the barrier of hills. And from that point he saw no sign of any fall or depression in the landscape to suggest the place which he sought. But at the next turn he found himself at the mouth of a narrow ravine, which cut deep into the heart of the hill, and was dark and sombre enough to seem a likely place for secret meetings, if for nothing more serious and sinister. It wound away from a little bridge which carried the road over a brawling stream; along the side of that stream were faint indications of a path which might have been made by human feet, but was more likely to have been trodden out by the mountain sheep. This path was quickly obscured by dwarf oaks and alder bushes, which completely roofed in the narrow valley, and about everything hung a suggestion of solitude that would have caused any timid or suspicious soul to have turned back. But Copplestone was neither timid nor suspicious, and he was already intensely curious about this adventure; wherefore, grasping Peter Chatfield's oaken cudgel firmly in his right hand, he jumped over the bridge and followed the narrow path into the gloom of the trees.
He soon found that the valley resolved itself into a narrow and rocky defile. The stream, level at first, soon came tumbling down amongst huge boulders; the path disappeared; out of the oaks and alder high cliffs of limestones began to lift themselves. The morning was unusually dark and grey, even for October, and as leaves, brown and sere though they were, still clustered thickly on the trees, Copplestone quickly found himself in a gloom that would have made a nervous person frightened. He also found that his forward progress became increasingly difficult. At the foot of a tall cliff which suddenly rose up before him he was obliged to pause; on that side of the stream it seemed impossible to go further. But as he hesitated, peering here and there under the branches of the dwarf oaks, he heard a voice, so suddenly, that he started in spite of himself.
"Guv'nor!"
Copplestone looked around and saw nothing. Then came a low laugh, as if the unseen person was enjoying his perplexity.
"Look overhead, guv'nor," said the voice. "Look aloft!"
Copplestone glanced upward, and saw a man's head and face, framed in a screen of bushes which grew on a shelf of the limestone cliff. The head was crowned by a much worn fur cap; the face, very brown and seamed and wrinkled, was ornamented by a short, well-blackened clay pipe, from the bowl of which a wisp of blue smoke curled upward. And as he grew accustomed to the gloom he was aware of a pair of shrewd, twinkling eyes, and a set of very white teeth which gleamed like an animal's.
"Hullo!" said Copplestone. "Come out of that!"
The white teeth showed themselves still more; their owner laughed again.
"You come up, guv'nor," he said. "There's a natural staircase round the corner. Come up and make yourself at home. I've a nice little parlour here, and a matter of refreshment in it, too."
"Not till you show yourself," answered Copplestone. "I want to see whatI'm dealing with. Come out, now!"
The unseen laughed again, moved away from his screen, and presently showed himself on the edge of the shelf of rock. And Copplestone found himself staring at a queer figure of a man—an under-sized, quaint-looking fellow, clad in dirty velveteens, a once red waistcoat, and leather breeches and gaiters, a sort of compound between a poacher, a game-keeper, and an ostler. But quainter than figure or garments was the man's face—a gnarled, weather-beaten, sea-and-wind stained face, which, in Copplestone's opinion, was honest enough and not without abundant traces of a sense of humour.
Copplestone at once trusted that face. He swung himself up by the nooks and crannies of the rock, and joined the man on his ledge.
"Well?" he said. "You're the chap who sent me that letter? Why?"
"Come this way, guv'nor," replied the brown-faced one. "Well talk more comfortable, like, in my parlour. Here you are!"
He led Copplestone along the ridge behind the bushes, and presently revealed a cave in the face of the overhanging limestone, mostly natural, but partly due to artifice, wherein were rude seats, covered over with old sacking, a box or two which evidently served for pantry and larder, and a shelf on which stood a wicker-covered bottle in company with a row of bottles of ale.
The lord of this retreat waved a hospitable hand towards his cellar.
"You'll not refuse a poor man's hospitality, guv'nor?" he said politely. "I can give you a clean glass, and if you'll try a drop of rum, there's fresh water from the stream to mix it with—good as you'll find in England. Or, maybe, it being the forepart of the day, you'd prefer ale, now? Say the word!"
"A bottle of ale, then, thank you," responded Copplestone, who saw that he had to deal with an original, and did not wish to appear stand-offish. "And whom am I going to drink with, may I ask?"
The man carefully drew the cork of a bottle, poured out its contents with the discrimination of a bartender, handed the glass to his visitor with a bow, helped himself to a measure of rum, and bowed again as he drank.
"My best respects to you, guv'nor," he said. "Glad to see you in Hobkin'sHole Castle—that's here. Queer place for gentlemen to meet in, ain't it?Who are you talking to, says you? My name, guv'-nor—well-knownhereabouts—is Zachary Spurge!"
"You sent me that note last night?" asked Copplestone, taking a seat and filling his pipe. "How did you get it there—unseen?"
"Got a cousin as is odd-job man at the 'Admiral's Arms,'" replied Spurge. "He slipped it in for me. You may ha' seen him there, guv'nor—chap with one eye, and queer-looking, but to be trusted. As I am!—down to the ground."
"And what do you want to see me about?" inquired Copplestone. "What's this bit of news you've got to tell?"
Zachary Spurge thrust a hand inside his velveteen jacket and drew out a much folded and creased paper, which, on being unwrapped, proved to be the bill which offered a reward for the finding of Bassett Oliver. He held it up before his visitor.
"This!" he said. "A thousand pound is a vast lot o' money, guv'nor! Now, if I was to tell something as I knows of, what chances should I have of getting that there money?"
"That depends," replied Copplestone. "The reward is to be given to—but you see the plain wording of it. Can you give information of that sort?"
"I can give a certain piece of information, guv'nor," said Spurge. "Whether it'll lead to the finding of that there gentleman or not I can't say. But something I do know—certain sure!"
Copplestone reflected awhile.
"Ill tell you what, Spurge," he said. "I'll promise you this much. If you can give any information I'll give you my word that—whether what you can tell is worth much or little—you shall be well paid. That do?"
"That'll do, guv'nor," responded Spurge. "I take your word as between gentlemen! Well, now, it's this here—you see me as I am, here in a cave, like one o' them old eremites that used to be in the ancient days. Why am I here! 'Cause just now it ain't quite convenient for me to show my face in Scarhaven. I'm wanted for poaching, guv'nor—that's the fact! This here is a safe retreat. If I was tracked here, I could make my way out at the back of this hole—there's a passage here—before anybody could climb that rock. However, nobody suspects I'm here. They think—that is, that old devil Chatfield and the police—they think I'm off to sea. However, here I am—and last Sunday afternoon as ever was, I was in Scarhaven! In the wood I was, guv'nor, at the back of the Keep. Never mind what for—I was there. And at precisely ten minutes to three o'clock I saw Bassett Oliver."
"How did you know him?" demanded Copplestone.
"Cause I've had many a sixpenn'orth of him at both Northborough and Norcaster," answered Spurge. "Seen him a dozen times, I have, and knew him well enough, even if I'd only viewed him from the the-ayter gallery. Well, he come along up the path from the south quay. He passed within a dozen yards of me, and went up to the door in the wall of the ruins, right opposite where I was lying doggo amongst some bushes. He poked the door with the point of his stick—it was ajar, that door, and it went open. And so he walks in—and disappears. Guv'nor!—I reckon that'ud be the last time as he was seen alive!—unless—unless—"
"Unless—what?" asked Copplestone eagerly.
"Unless one other man saw him," replied Spurge solemnly. "For there was another man there, guv'nor. Squire Greyle!"
Copplestone looked hard at Spurge; Spurge returned the stare, and nodded two or three times.
"Gospel truth!" he said. "I kept where I was—I'd reasons of my own. May be eight minutes or so—certainly not ten—after Bassett Oliver walked in there, Squire Greyle walked out. In a hurry, guv'nor. He come out quick. He looked a bit queer. Dazed, like. You know how quick a man can think, guv'nor, under certain circumstances? I thought quicker'n lightning. I says to myself 'Squire's seen somebody or something he hadn't no taste for!' Why, you could read it on his face! plain as print. It was there!"
"Well?" said Copplestone. "And then?"
"Then," continued Spurge. "Then he stood for just a second or two, looking right and left, up and down. There wasn't a soul in sight—nobody! But—he slunk off—sneaked off—same as a fox sneaks away from a farm-yard. He went down the side of the curtain-wall that shuts in the ruins, taking as much cover as ever he could find—at the end of the wall, he popped into the wood that stands between the ruins and his house. And then, of course, I lost all sight of him."
"And—Mr. Oliver?" said Copplestone. "Did you see him again?"
Spurge took a pull at his rum and water, and relighted his pipe.
"I did not," he answered. "I was there until a quarter-past three—then I went away. And no Oliver had come out o' that door when I left."
Spurge and his visitor sat staring at each other in silence for a few minutes; the silence was eventually broken by Copplestone.
"Of course," he said reflectively, "if Mr. Oliver was looking round those ruins he could easily spend half an hour there."
"Just so," agreed Spurge. "He could spend an hour. If so be as he was one of these here antiquarian-minded gents, as loves to potter about old places like that, he could spend two hours, three hours, profitable-like. But he'd have come out in the end, and the evidence is, guv'nor, that he never did come out! Even if I am just now lying up, as it were, I'm fully what they term o-fay with matters, and, by all accounts, after Bassett Oliver went up that there path, subsequent to his bit of talk with Ewbank, he was never seen no more 'cepting by me, and possibly by Squire Greyle. Them as lives a good deal alone, like me guv'nor, develops what you may call logical faculties—they thinks—and thinks deep. I've thought. B.O.—that's Oliver—didn't go back by the way he'd come, or he'd ha' been seen. B.O. didn't go forward or through the woods to the headlands, or he'd ha' been seen, B.O. didn't go down to the shore, or he'd ha' been seen. 'Twixt you and me, guv'nor, B.O.'s dead body is in that there Keep!"
"Are you suggesting anything?" asked Copplestone.
"Nothing, guv'nor—no more than that," answered Spurge. "I'm making no suggestion and no accusation against nobody. I've seen a bit too much of life to do that. I've known more than one innocent man hanged there at Norcaster Gaol in my time all through what they call circumstantial evidence. Appearances is all very well—but appearances may be against a man to the very last degree, and yet him be as innocent as a new born baby! No—I make no suggestions. 'Cepting this here—which has no doubt occurred to you, or to B.O.'s brother. If I were the missing gentleman's friends I should want to know a lot! I should want to know precisely what he meant when he said to Dan'l Ewbank as how he'd known a man called Marston Greyle in America. 'Taint a common name, that, guv'nor."
Copplestone made no answer to these observations. His own train of thought was somewhat similar to his host's. And presently he turned to a different track.
"You saw no one else about there that afternoon?" he asked.
"No one, guv'nor," replied Spurge.
"And where did you go when you left the place?" inquired Copplestone.
"To tell you the truth, guv'nor, I was waiting there for that cousin o' mine—him as carried you the letter," answered Spurge. "It was a fixture between us—he was to meet me there about three o'clock that day. If he wasn't there, or in sight, by a quarter-past three I was to know he wasn't able to get away. So as he didn't come, I slipped back into the woods, and made my way back here, round by the moors."
"Are you going to stay in this place?" asked Copplestone.
"For a bit, guv'nor—till I see how things are," replied Spurge. "As I say, I'm wanted for poaching, and Chatfield's been watching to get his knife into me this long while. All the same, if more serious things drew his attention off, he might let it slide. What do you ask for, guv'nor?"
"I wanted to know where you could be found in case you were required to give evidence about seeing Mr. Oliver," replied Copplestone. "That evidence may be wanted."
"I've thought of that," observed Spurge. "And you can always find that much out from my cousin at the 'Admiral.' He keeps in touch with me—if it got too hot for me here, I should clear out to Norcaster—there's a spot there where I've laid low many a time. You can trust my cousin—Jim Spurge, that's his name. One eye, no mistaking of him—he's always about the yard there at Mrs. Wooler's."
"All right," said Copplestone. "If I want you, I'll tell him. By-the-bye, have you told this to anybody?"
"Not to a soul, guv'nor," replied Spurge. "Not even to Jim. No—I kept it dark till I could see you. Considering, of course, that you are left in charge of things, like."
Copplestone presently went away and returned slowly to Scarhaven, meditating deeply on what he had heard. He saw no reason to doubt the truth of Zachary Spurge's tale—it bore the marks of credibility. But what did it amount to? That Spurge saw Bassett Oliver enter the ruins of the Keep, by the one point of ingress; that a few moments later he saw Marston Greyle come away from the same place, evidently considerably upset, and sneak off in a manner which showed that he dreaded observation. That was all very suspicious, to say the least of it, taken in relation to Oliver's undoubted disappearance—but it was only suspicion; it afforded no direct proof. However, it gave material for a report to Sir Cresswell Oliver, and he determined to write out an account of his dealings with Spurge that afternoon, and to send it off at once by registered letter.
He was busily engaged in this task when Mrs. Wooler came into his sitting-room to lay the table for his lunch. Copplestone saw at once that she was full of news.
"Never rains but it pours!" she said with a smile. "Though, to be sure, it isn't a very heavy shower. I've got another visitor now, Mr. Copplestone."
"Oh?" responded Copplestone, not particularly interested. "Indeed!"
"A young clergyman from London—the Reverend Gilling," continued the landlady. "Been ill for some time, and his doctor has recommended him to try the north coast air. So he came down here, and he's going to stop awhile to see how it suits him."
"I should have thought the air of the north coast was a bit strong for an invalid," remarked Copplestone. "I'm not delicate, but I find it quite strong enough for me."
"I daresay it's a case of kill or cure," replied Mrs. Wooler. "Chest complaint, I should think. Not that the young gentleman looks particularly delicate, either, and he tells me that he's a very good appetite and that his doctor says he's to live well and to eat as much as ever he can."
Copplestone got a view of his fellow-visitor that afternoon in the hall of the inn, and agreed with the landlady that he showed no evident signs of delicacy of health. He was a good type of the conventional curate, with a rather pale, good-humoured face set between his round collar and wide brimmed hat, and he glanced at Copplestone with friendly curiosity and something of a question in his eyes. And Copplestone, out of good neighbourliness, stopped and spoke to him.
"Mrs. Wooler tells me you're come here to pick up," he remarked. "Pretty strong air round this quarter of the globe!"
"Oh, that's all right!" said the new arrival. "The air of Scarhaven will do me good—it's full of just what I want." He gave Copplestone another look and then glanced at the letters which he held in his hand. "Are you going to the post-office?" he asked. "May I come?—I want to go there, too."
The two young men walked out of the inn, and Copplestone led the way down the road towards the northern quay. And once they were well out of earshot of the "Admiral's Arms," and the two or three men who lounged near the wall in front of it, the curate turned to his companion with a sly look.
"Of course you're Mr. Copplestone?" he remarked. "You can't be anybody else—besides, I heard the landlady call you so."
"Yes," replied Copplestone, distinctly puzzled by the other's manner."What then?"
The curate laughed quietly, and putting his fingers inside his heavy overcoat, produced a card which he handed over.
"My credentials!" he said.
Copplestone glanced at the card and read "Sir Cresswell Oliver," He turned wonderingly to his companion, who laughed again.
"Sir Cresswell told me to give you that as soon as I conveniently could," he said. "The fact is, I'm not a clergyman at all—not I! I'm a private detective, sent down here by him and Petherton. See?"
Copplestone stared for a moment at the wide-brimmed hat, the round collar, the eminently clerical countenance. Then he burst into laughter. "I congratulate you on your make-up, anyway!" he exclaimed. "Capital!"
"Oh, I've been on the stage in my time," responded the private detective. "I'm a good hand at fitting myself to various parts; besides I've played the conventional curate a score of times. Yes, I don't think anybody would see through me, and I'm very particular to avoid the clergy."
"And you left the stage—for this?" asked Copplestone. "Why, now?"
"Pays better—heaps better," replied the other calmly. "Also, it's more exciting—there's much more variety in it. Well, now you know who I am—my name, by-the-bye is Gilling, though I'm not the Reverend Gilling, as Mrs. Wooler will call me. And so—as I've made things plain—how's this matter going so far?"