Copplestone shook his head.
"My orders," he said, with a significant look, "are—to say nothing to any one."
"Except to me," responded Gilling. "Sir Cresswell Oliver's card is my passport. You can tell me anything."
"Tell me something first," replied Copplestone. "Precisely what are you here for? If I'm to talk confidentially to you, you must talk in the same fashion to me."
He stopped at a deserted stretch of the quay, and leaning against the wall which separated it from the sand, signed to Gilling to stop also.
"If we're going to have a quiet talk," he went on, "we'd better have it now—no one's about, and if any one sees us from a distance they'll only think we're, what we look to be—casual acquaintances. Now—what is your job?"
Gilling looked about him and then perched himself on the wall.
"To watch Marston Greyle," he replied.
"They suspect him?" asked Copplestone.
"Undoubtedly!"
"Sir Cresswell Oliver said as much to me—but no more. Have they said more to you?"
"The suspicion seemed to have originated with Petherton. Petherton, in spite of his meek old-fashioned manners, is as sharp an old bird as you'll find in London! He fastened at once on what Bassett Oliver said to that fisherman, Ewbank. A keen nose for a scent, Petherton's! And he 's determined to find out who it was that Bassett Oliver met in the United States under the name of Marston Greyle. He's already set the machinery in motion. And in the meantime, I'm to keep my eye on this Squire—as I shall!"
"Why watch him particularly?"
"To see that he doesn't depart for unknown regions—or, if he does, to follow in his track. He's not to be lost sight of until this mystery is cleared. Because—something is wrong."
Copplestone considered matters in silence for a few moments, and decided not to reveal the story of Zachary Spurge to Gilling—yet awhile at any rate. However, he had news which there was no harm in communicating.
"Marston Greyle," he said, presently, "or his agent, Peter Chatfield, or both, in common agreement, are already doing something to solve the mystery—so far as Greyle's property is concerned. They've closed the Keep and its surrounding ruins to the people who used to be permitted to go in, and they're conducting an exhaustive search—for Bassett Oliver, of course."
Gilling made a grimace.
"Of course!" he said, cynically. "Just so! I expected something of that sort. That's all part of a clever scheme."
"I don't understand you," remarked Copplestone. "How—a clever scheme?"
"Whitewash!" answered Gilling. "Sheer whitewash! You don't suppose that either Greyle or Chatfield are fools?—I should say they're far from it, from what little I've heard of 'em. Well—don't they know very well that Marston Greyle is under suspicion? All right—they want to clear him. So they close their ruins and make a search—a private search, mind you—and at the end they announce that nothing's been found—and there you are! And—supposing they did find something—supposing they found Bassett Oliver's body—What is it?" he asked suddenly, seeing Copplestone staring hard across the sands at the opposite quay. "Something happened?"
"By Gad!—I believe something has happened!" exclaimed Copplestone. "Look there—men running down the hillside from the Keep. And listen—they're shouting to those fellows on the other quay. Come on across! Will it be out of keeping with your invalid pose if you run?"
Gilling answered that question by lightly vaulting the wall and dropping to the sands beneath.
"I'm not an invalid in my legs, anyhow," he answered, as they began to splash across the pools left by the recently retreated tide. "By George!—I believe something has happened, too! Look at those people, running out of their cottages!"
All along the south quay the fisher-folk, men, women, and children, were crowding eagerly towards the gate of the path by which Bassett Oliver had gone up towards the Keep. When Copplestone and his companion gained the quay and climbed up its wall they were pouring in at this gate, and swarming up to the woods, all talking at the top of their voices. Copplestone suddenly recognized Ewbank on the fringe of the crowd and called to him.
"What is it?" he demanded. "What's happened?"
Ewbank, a man of leisurely movement, paused and waited for the two young men to come up. At their approach he took his pipe out of his mouth, and inclined his head towards the Keep.
"They're saying something's been found up there." he replied. "I don't know what. But Chatfield, he's sent two men down here to the village. One of 'em's gone for the police and the doctor, and t'other's gone to the 'Admiral,' looking for you. You're wanted up there—partiklar!"
By the time Copplestone and the pseudo-curate had reached the plateau of open ground surrounding the ruins it seemed as if half the population of Scarhaven had gathered there. Men, women and children were swarming about the door in the curtain wall, all manifesting an eager desire to pass through. But the door was strictly guarded. Chatfield, armed with a new oak cudgel stood there, masterful and lowering; behind him were several estate labourers, all keeping the people back. And within the door stood Marston Greyle, evidently considerably restless and perturbed, and every now and then looking out on the mob which the fast-spreading rumour had called together. In one of these inspections he caught sight of Copplestone, and spoke to Chatfield, who immediately sent one of his body-guard through the throng.
"Mr. Greyle says will you go forward, sir?" said the man. "Your friend can go in too, if he likes."
"That's your clerical garb," whispered Copplestone as he and Gilling made their way to the door. "But why this sudden politeness?"
"Oh, that's easy to reckon up," answered Gilling. "I see through it. They want creditable and respectable witnesses to something or other. This big, heavy-jowled man is Chatfield, of course?"
"That's Chatfield," responded Copplestone. "What's he after?"
For the agent, as the two young men approached, ostentiously turned away from them, moving a few steps from the door. He muttered a word or two to the men who guarded it and they stood aside and allowed Copplestone and the curate to enter. Marston Greyle came forward, eyeing Gilling with a sharp glance of inspection. He turned from him to Copplestone.
"Will you come in?" he asked, not impolitely and with a certain anxiety of manner. "I want you to—to be present, in fact. This gentleman is a friend of yours?"
"An acquaintance of an hour," interposed Gilling, with ready wit. "I have just come to stay at the inn—for my health's sake."
"Perhaps you'll be kind enough to accompany us?" said Greyle. "The fact is, Mr. Copplestone, we've found Mr. Bassett Oliver's body."
"I thought so," remarked Copplestone.
"And as soon as the police come up," continued Greyle, "I want you all to see exactly where it is. No one's touched it—no one's been near it. Of course, he's dead!"
He lifted his hand with a nervous gesture, and the two others, who were watching him closely, saw that he was trembling a good deal, and that his face was very pale.
"Dead!—of course," he went on. "He—he must have been killed instantaneously. And you'll see in a minute or two why the body wasn't found before—when we made that first search. It's quite explainable. The fact is—"
A sudden bustle at the door in the wall heralded the entrance of two policemen. The Squire went forward to meet them. The prospect of immediate action seemed to pull him together and his manner changed to one of assertive superintendence of things.
"Now, Mr. Chatfield!" he called out. "Keep all these people away! Close the door and let no one enter on any excuse. Stay there yourself and see that we are not interrupted. Come this way now," he went on, addressing the policemen and the two favoured spectators.
"You've found him, then, sir?" asked the police-sergeant in a thick whisper, as Greyle led his party across the grass to the foot of the Keep. "I suppose it's all up with the poor gentleman; of course? The doctor, he wasn't in, but they'll send him up as soon—"
"Mr. Bassett Oliver is dead," interrupted Greyle, almost harshly. "No doctors can do any good. Now, look here," he continued, pulling them to a sudden halt, "I want all of you to take particular notice of this old tower—the Keep. I believe you have not been in here before, Mr. Copplestone—just pay particular attention to this place. Here you see is the Keep, standing in the middle of what I suppose was the courtyard of the old castle. It's a square tower, with a stair-turret at one angle. The stair in that turret is in a very good state of preservation—in fact, it is quite easy to climb to the top, and from the top there's a fine view of land and sea: the Keep itself is nearly a hundred feet in height. Now the inside of the Keep is completely gutted, as you'll presently see—there isn't a floor left of the five or six which were once there. And I'm sorry to say there's very little protection when one's at the top—merely a narrow ledge with a very low parapet, which in places is badly broken. Consequently, any one who climbs to the top must be very careful, or there's the danger of slipping off that ledge and falling to the bottom. Now in my opinion that's precisely what happened on Sunday afternoon. Oliver evidently got in here, climbed the stairs in the turret to enjoy the view and fell from the parapet. And why his body hasn't been found before I'll now show you."
He led the way to the extreme foot of the Keep, and to a very low-arched door, at which stood a couple of the estate labourers, one of whom carried a lighted lantern. To this man the Squire made a sign.
"Show the way," he said, in a low voice.
The man turned and descended several steps of worn and moss-covered stone which led through the archway into a dark, cellar-like place smelling strongly of damp and age. Greyle drew the attention of his companions to a heap of earth and rubbish at the entrance.
"We had to clear all that out before we could get in here," he said. "This archway hadn't been opened for ages. This, of course, is the very lowest story of the Keep, and half beneath the level of the ground outside. Its roof has gone, like all the rest, but as you see, something else has supplied its place. Hold up your lantern, Marris!"
The other men looked up and saw what the Squire meant. Across the tower, at a height of some fifteen or twenty feet from the floor, Nature, left unchecked, had thrown a ceiling of green stuff. Bramble, ivy, and other spreading and climbing plants had, in the course of years, made a complete network from wall to wall. In places it was so thick that no light could be seen through it from beneath; in other places it was thin and glimpses of the sky could be seen from above the grey, tunnel-like walls. And in one of those places, close to the walls, there was a distinct gap, jagged and irregular, as if some heavy mass had recently plunged through the screen of leaf and branch from the heights above, and beneath this the startled searchers saw the body, lying beside a heap of stones and earth in the unmistakable stillness of death.
"You see how it must have happened," whispered Greyle, as they all bent round the dead man. "He must have fallen from the very top of the Keep—from the parapet, in fact—and plunged through this mass of green stuff above us. If he had hit that where it's so thick—there!—it might have broken his fall, but, you see, he struck it at the very thinnest part, and being a big and heavyish man, of course, he'd crash right through it. Now of course, when we examined the Keep on Monday morning, it never struck us that there might be something down here—if you go up the turret stairs to the top and look down on this mass of green stuff from the very top, you'll see that it looks undisturbed; there's scarcely anything to show that he fell through it, from up there. But—he did!"
"Whose notion was it that he might be found here?" asked Copplestone.
"Chatfield's," replied the Squire. "Chatfield's. He and I were up at the top there, and he suddenly suggested that Oliver might have fallen from the parapet and be lying embedded in that mass of green stuff beneath. We didn't know then—even Chatfield didn't know—that there was this empty space beneath the green stuff. But when we came to go into it, we found there was, so we had that archway cleared of all the stone and rubbish and of course we found him."
"The body'll have to be removed, sir," whispered the police-sergeant."It'll have to be taken down to the inn, to wait the inquest."
Marston Greyle started.
"Inquest!" he said. "Oh!—will that have to be held? I suppose so—yes.But we'd better wait until the doctor comes, hadn't we? I want him—"
The doctor came into the gloomy vault at that moment, escorted by Chatfield, who, however, immediately retired. He was an elderly, old-fashioned somewhat fussy-mannered person, who evidently attached much more importance to the living Squire than to the dead man, and he listened to all Marston Greyle's explanations and theories with great deference and accepted each without demur. "Ah yes, to be sure!" he said, after a perfunctory examination of the body. "The affair is easily understood. It is precisely as you suggest, Squire. The unfortunate man evidently climbed to the top of the tower, missed his footing, and fell headlong. That slight mass of branch and leaf would make little difference—he was, you see, a heavy man—some fourteen or fifteen stone, I should think. Oh, instantaneous death, without a doubt! Well, well, these constables must see to the removal of the body, and we must let my friend the coroner know—he will hold the inquest tomorrow, no doubt. Quite a mere formality, my dear sir!—the whole thing is as plain as a pikestaff. It will be a relief to know that the mystery is now satisfactorily solved."
Outside in the welcome freshness, Copplestone turned to the doctor.
"You say the inquest will be held tomorrow?" he asked. The doctor looked his questioner up and down with an inquiry which signified doubt as to Copplestone's right to demand information.
"In the usual course," he replied stiffly.
"Then his brother, Sir Cresswell Oliver, and his solicitor, Mr. Petherton, must be wired for from London," observed Copplestone, turning to Greyle. "I'll communicate with them at once. I suppose we may go up the tower?" he continued as Greyle nodded his assent. "I'd like to see the stairs and the parapet."
Greyle looked a little doubtful and uneasy.
"Well, I had meant that no one should go up until all this was gone into," he answered. "I don't want any more accidents. You'll be careful?"
"We're both young and agile," responded Copplestone.
"There's no need for alarm. Do you care to go up, Mr. Gilling?"
The pseudo-curate accepted the invitation readily, and he andCopplestone entered the turret. They had climbed half its height beforeCopplestone spoke.
"Well?" he whispered. "What do you think?"
"It may be accident," muttered Gilling. "It—mayn't."
"You think he might have been—what?—thrown down?"
"Might have been caught unawares, and pushed over. Let's see what there is up above, anyway."
The stair in the turret, much worn, but comparatively safe, and lighted by loopholes and arrow-slits, terminated in a low arched doorway, through which egress was afforded to a parapet which ran completely round the inner wall of the Keep. It was in no place more than a yard wide; the balustrading which fenced it in was in some places completely gone, a mere glance was sufficient to show that only a very cool-headed and extremely sure-footed person ought to traverse it. Copplestone contented himself with an inspection from the archway; he looked down and saw at once that a fall from that height must mean sure and swift death: he saw, too, that Greyle had been quite right in saying that the sudden plunge of Oliver's body through the leafy screen far beneath had made little difference to the appearance of that screen as seen from above. And now that he saw everything it seemed to him that the real truth might well lie in one word—accident.
"Coming round this parapet?" asked Gilling, who was looking narrowly about him.
"No!" replied Copplestone. "I can't stand looking down from great heights. It makes my head swim. Are you?"
"Sure!" answered Gilling. He took off his heavy overcoat and handed it to his companion. "Mind holding it?" he asked. "I want to have a good look at the exact spot from which Oliver must have fallen. There's the gap—such as it is, and it doesn't look much from here, does it?—in the green stuff, down below, so he must have been here on the parapet exactly above it. Gad! it's very narrow, and a bit risky, this, when all's said and done!"
Copplestone watched his companion make his way round to the place from which it was only too evident Oliver must have fallen. Gilling went slowly, carefully inspecting every yard of the moss and lichen-covered stones. Once he paused some time and seemed to be examining a part of the parapet with unusual attention. When he reached the precise spot at which he had aimed, he instantly called across to Copplestone.
"There's no doubt about his having fallen from here!" he said. "Some of the masonry on the very edge of this parapet is loose. I could dislodge it with a touch."
"Then be careful," answered Copplestone. "Don't cross that bit!"
But Gilling quietly continued his progress and returned to his companion by the opposite side from which he had set out, having thus accomplished the entire round. He quietly reassumed his overcoat.
"No doubt about the fall," he said as they turned down the stair. "The next thing is—was it accidental?"
"And—as regards that—what's to be done next?" asked Copplestone.
"That's easy. We must go at once and wire for Sir Cresswell and old Petherton," replied Gilling. "It's now four-thirty. If they catch an evening express at King's Cross they'll get here early in the morning. If they like to motor from Norcaster they can get here in the small hours. But—they must be here for that inquest."
Greyle was talking to Chatfield at the foot of the Keep when they got down. The agent turned surlily away, but the Squire looked at both with an unmistakable eagerness.
"There's no doubt whatever that Oliver fell from the parapet," saidCopplestone. "The marks of a fall are there—quite unmistakably."
Greyle nodded, but made no remark, and the two made their way through the still eager crowd and went down to the village post-office. Both were wondering, as they went, about the same thing—the evident anxiety and mental uneasiness of Marston Greyle.
Copplestone saw little of his bed that night. At seven o'clock in the evening came a telegram from Sir Cresswell Oliver, saying that he and Petherton were leaving at once, would reach Norcaster soon after midnight, and would motor out to Scarhaven immediately on arrival. Copplestone made all arrangements for their reception, and after snatching a couple of hours' sleep was up to receive them. By two o'clock in the morning Sir Cresswell and the old solicitor and Gilling—smuggled into their sitting-room—had heard all he had to tell about Zachary Spurge and his story.
"We must have that fellow at the inquest," said Petherton. "At any cost we must have him! That's flat!"
"You think it wise?" asked Sir Cresswell. "Won't it be a bit previous?Wouldn't it be better to wait until we know more?"
"No—we must have his evidence," declared Petherton. "It will serve as an opening. Besides, this inquest will have to be adjourned—I shall ask for that. No—Spurge must be produced."
"If Spurge comes into Scarhaven," observed Copplestone, "he'll be promptly collared by the police. They want him for poaching."
"Then they can get him when the proceedings are over," retorted the old lawyer, dryly. "They daren't touch him while he's giving evidence and that's all we want. Perhaps he won't come?—Oh he'll come all right if we make it worth his while. A month in Norcaster gaol will mean nothing to him if he knows there's a chance of that reward or something substantial out of it at the end of his sentence. You must go out to this retreat of his and bring him in—we must have him. Better go very early in the morning.
"I'll go now," said Copplestone. "It's as easy to go by night as by day." He left the other three to seek their beds, and himself slipped quietly out of the hotel by one of the ground-floor windows and set off in a pitch-black night to seek Spurge in his lair. And after sundry barkings of his shins against the rocks and scratchings of his hands and cheeks by the undergrowth of Hobkin's Hole he rounded the poacher out and delivered his message.
Spurge, blinking at his visitor in the pale light of a guttering candle, shook his head.
"I'll come, guv'nor," he said. "Of course. I'll come—and I'll trust to luck to get away, and it don't matter a deal if the luck's agen me—I've done a month in Norcaster before today, and it ain't half a bad rest-cure, if you only take it that way. But guv'nor—that old lawyer's making a mistake! You didn't ought to have my bit of evidence at this stage. It's too soon. You want to work up the case a bit. There's such a thing, guv'nor, in this world as being a bit previous. This here's too previous—you want to be surer of your facts. Because you know, guv'nor nobody'll believe my word agen Squire Greyle's. Guv'nor—this here inquest'll be naught but a blooming farce! Mark me! You ain't a native o' this part—I am. D'you think as how a Scarhaven jury's going to say aught agen its own Squire and landlord? Not it! I say, guv'nor—all a blooming farce! Mark my words!"
"All the same, you'll come?" asked Copplestone, who was secretly ofSpurge's opinion. "You won't lose by it in the long run."
"Oh, I'll be there," responded Spurge. "Out of curiosity, if for nothing else. You mayn't see me at first, but, let the lawyer from London call my name out, and Zachary Spurge'll step forward."
There was abundant cover for Zachary Spurge and for half-a-dozen like him in the village school-house when the inquest was opened at ten o'clock that morning. It seemed to Copplestone that it would have been a physical impossibility to crowd more people within the walls than had assembled when the coroner, a local solicitor, who was obviously testy, irritable, self-important and afflicted with deafness, took his seat and looked sourly on the crowd of faces. Copplestone had already seen him in conversation with the village doctor, the village police, Chatfield, and Marston Greyle's solicitor, and he began to see the force of Spurge's shrewd remarks. What, of course, was most desired was secrecy and privacy—the Scarhaven powers had no wish that the attention of all the world should be drawn to this quiet place. But outsiders were there in plenty. Stafford and several members of Bassett Oliver's company had motored over from Norcaster and had succeeded in getting good places: there were half-a-dozen reporters from Norcaster and Northborough, and plain-clothes police from both towns. And there, too, were all the principal folk of the neighbourhood, and Mrs. Greyle and her daughter, and, a little distance from Audrey, alert and keenly interested, was Addie Chatfield.
It needed very little insight or observation on the part of an intelligent spectator to see how things were going. The twelve good men and true, required under the provisions of the old statute to form a jury, were all of them either Scarhaven tradesmen or Scarhaven householders or labourers on the estate. Their countenances, as they took their seats under the foremanship of a man whom Copplestone already knew as Chatfield's under-steward, showed plainly that they regarded the whole thing as a necessary formality and that they were already prepared with a verdict. This impression was strengthened by the coroner's opening remarks. In his opinion, the whole affair—to which he did not even refer as unfortunate—was easily and quickly explained and understood. The deceased had come to the village to look round—on a Sunday be it observed—had somehow obtained access to the Keep, where, the ruins being strictly private and not open to the public on any consideration on Sunday, he had no right to be; had indulged his curiosity by climbing to the top of the ancient tower and had paid for it by falling down from that terrible height and breaking his neck. All that was necessary was for them to hear evidence bearing out these facts—after which they would return a verdict in accordance with what they had heard. Very fortunately the facts were plain, and it would not be necessary to call many witnesses.
Sir Cresswell Oliver turned to Copplestone who sat at one side of him, while Petherton sat on the other.
"I don't know if you notice that Greyle isn't here?" he whispered grimly."In my opinion, he doesn't intend to show! We'll see!"
Certainly the Squire was not in the place. And there were soon signs that those who conducted the proceedings evidently did not consider his presence necessary. The witnesses were few; their examinations was perfunctory; they were out of the extemporised witness-box as soon as they were in it. Sir Cresswell Oliver—to give formal identification. Mrs. Wooler—to prove that the deceased man came to her house. One of the foremen of the estate—to prove the great care with which the Squire had searched for traces of the missing man. One of the estate labourers—to prove the actual finding of the body. The doctor—to prove, beyond all doubt, that the deceased had broken his neck.
The coroner, an elderly man, obviously well satisfied with the trend of things, took off his spectacles and turned to the jury.
"You have heard everything there is to be heard, gentlemen," said he. "As I remarked at the opening of this inquest, the case is one of great simplicity. You will have no difficulty in deciding that the deceased came to his death by accident—as to the exact wording of your verdict, you had better put it in this way:—that the deceased Bassett Oliver died as the result—"
Petherton, who, noticing the coroner's deafness, had contrived to seat himself as close to his chair of office as possible, quietly rose.
"Before the jury consider any verdict," he said in his loudest tones, "they must hear certain evidence which I wish to call. And first of all—is Mr. Marston Greyle present in this room?"
The coroner frowned, and the Squire's solicitor turned to Petherton.
"Mr. Greyle is not present," he said. "He is not at all well. There is no need for his presence—he has no evidence to give."
"If you don't have Mr. Greyle down here at once," said Petherton, quietly, "this inquest will have to be adjourned for his attendance. You had better send for him—or I'll get the authorities to do so. In the meantime, we'll call one or two witnesses,—Daniel Ewbank!—to begin with."
There was a brief and evidently anxious consultation between Greyle's solicitor and the coroner; there were dark looks at Petherton and his companions. Then the foreman of the jury spoke, sullenly.
"We don't want to hear no Ewbanks!" he said. "We're quite satisfied, us as sits here. Our verdict is—"
"You'll have to bear Ewbank and anybody I like to call, my good sir," retorted Petherton quietly. "I am better acquainted with the law than you are." He turned to the coroner's officer. "I warned you this morning to produce Ewbank," he said. "Now, where is he?"
Out of a deep silence a shrill voice came from the rear of the crowd.
"Knows better than to be here, does Dan'l Ewbank, mister! He's off!"
"Very good—or bad—for somebody," remarked Petherton, quietly."Then—until Mr. Marston Greyle comes—we will call Zachary Spurge."
The assemblage, jurymen included, broke into derisive laughter as Spurge suddenly appeared from the most densely packed corner of the room, and it was at once evident to Copplestone that whatever the poacher might say, no one there would attach any importance to it. The laughter continued and increased while Spurge was under examination. Petherton appealed to the coroner; the coroner affected not to hear. And once more the foreman of the jury interrupted.
"We don't want to hear no more o' this stuff!" he said. "It's an insult to us to put a fellow like that before us. We don't believe a word o' what he says. We don't believe he was within a mile o' them ruins on Sunday afternoon. It's all a put-up job!"
Petherton leaned towards the reporters.
"I hope you gentlemen of the press will make a full note of these proceedings," he observed suavely. "You at any rate are not biassed or prejudiced."
The coroner heard that in spite of his deafness, and he grew purple.
"Sir!" he exclaimed. "That is a most improper observation! It's a reflection on my position, sir, and I've a great mind—"
"Mr. Coroner," observed Petherton, leaning towards him, "I shall hand in a full report concerning your conduct of these proceedings to the Home Office tomorrow. If you attempt to interfere with my duty here, all the worse for you. Now, Spurge, you can stand down. And as I see Mr. Greyle there—call Marston Greyle!"
The Squire had appeared while Spurge was giving his evidence, and had heard what the poacher alleged. He entered the box very pale, angry, and disturbed, and the glances which he cast on Sir Cresswell Oliver and his party were distinctly those of displeasure.
"Swear him!" commanded Petherton. "Now, Mr. Greyle—"
But Greyle's own solicitor was on his legs, insisting on his right to put a first question. In spite of Petherton, he put it.
"You heard the evidence of the last witness?—Spurge. Is there a word of truth in it?"
Marston Greyle—who certainly looked very unwell—moistened his lips.
"Not one word!" he answered. "It's a lie!"
The solicitor glanced triumphantly at the Coroner and the jury, and the crowd raised unchecked murmurs of approval. Again the foreman endeavoured to stop the proceedings.
"We regard all this here as very rude conduct to Mr. Greyle," he said angrily. "We're not concerned—"
"Mr. Foreman!" said Petherton. "You are a foolish man—you areinterfering with justice. Be warned!—I warn you, if the Coroner doesn't.Mr. Greyle, I must ask you certain questions. Did you see the deceasedBassett Oliver on Sunday last?"
"No!"
"I needn't remind you that you are on your oath. Have you ever met the deceased man in your life?"
"Never!"
"You never met him in America?"
"I may have met him—but not to my recollection. If I did, it was in such a casual fashion that I have completely forgotten all about it."
"Very well—you are on your oath, mind. Where did you live in America, before you succeeded to this estate?"
The Squire's solicitor intervened.
"Don't answer that question!" he said sharply. "Don't answer any more. I object altogether to your line," he went on, angrily, turning to Petherton. "I claim the Coroner's protection for the witness."
"I quite agree," said the Coroner. "All this is absolutely irrelevant. You can stand down," he continued, turning to the Squire. "I will have no more of this—and I will take the full responsibility!"
"And the consequences, Mr. Coroner," replied Petherton calmly. "And the first consequence is that I now formally demand an adjournment of this inquest,sine die."
"On what grounds, sir?" demanded the Coroner.
"To permit me to bring evidence from America," replied Petherton, with a side glance at Marston Greyle. "Evidence already being prepared."
The Coroner hesitated, looked at Greyle's solicitor, and then turned sharply to the jury.
"I refuse that application!" he said. "You have heard all I have to say, gentlemen," he went on, "and you can return your verdict."
Petherton quietly gathered up his papers and motioned to his friends to follow him out of the schoolroom. The foreman of the jury was returning a verdict of accidental death as they passed through the door, and they emerged into the street to an accompaniment of loud cheers for the Squire and groans for themselves.
"What a travesty of justice!" exclaimed Sir Cresswell. "That fellow Spurge was right, you see, Copplestone. I wish we hadn't brought him into danger."
Copplestone suddenly laughed and touched Sir Cresswell's arm. He pointed to the edge of the moorland just outside the school-yard. Spurge was disappearing over that edge, and in a moment had vanished.
Amongst the little group of actors and actresses who had come over from Norcaster to hear all that was to be told concerning their late manager, sat an old gentleman who, hands folded on the head of his walking cane, and chin settled on his hands, watched the proceedings with silent and concentrated attention. He was a striking figure of an old gentleman—tall, distinguished-looking, handsome, with a face full of character, the strong lines and features of which were further accentuated by his silvery hair. He was a smart old gentleman, too, well and scrupulously attired and groomed, and his blue bird's-eye necktie, worn at a rakish angle, gave him the air of something of a sporting man rather than of a follower of Thespis. His fellow members of the Oliver company seemed to pay him great attention, and at various points of the proceedings whispered questions to him as to an acknowledged authority.
This old gentleman, when the inquest came to its extraordinary end and the crowd went out murmuring and disputing, separated himself from his companions and made his way towards Mrs. Greyle and her daughter, who were quietly setting out homewards. To Audrey's surprise the two elders shook hands in silence, and inspected each other with a palpable wistfulness of look.
"And yet it's twenty-five years since we met, isn't it?" said the old gentleman, almost as if he were talking to himself. "But I knew you at once—I was wondering if you remembered me?"
"Why, of course," responded Mrs. Greyle. "Besides, I've had anadvantage over you. I've seen you, you know, several times—atNorcaster. We go to the theatre now and then. Audrey—this is Mr.Dennie—you've seen him, too."
"On the stage—on the stage!" murmured the old actor, as he shook hands with the girl. "Um!—I wonder if any of us are ever really off it! This affair, for instance—there's a drama for you! By the-bye—this young Squire—he's your relation, of course?"
"My nephew-in-law, and Audrey's cousin," replied Mrs. Greyle. Mr. Dennie, who had walked along with them towards their cottage, stopped in a quiet stretch of the quay, and looked meditatively at Audrey.
"Then this young lady," he said, "is next heir to the Greyle estates, eh?For I understand this present Squire isn't married. Therefore—"
"Oh, that's something that isn't worth thinking about," replied Mrs.Greyle hastily. "Don't put such notions into the girl's head, Mr. Dennie.Besides, the Greyle estates are not entailed, you know. The present ownercan do what he pleases with them—besides that, he's sure to marry."
"All the same," observed Mr. Dennie, imperturbably, "if this young man had not been in existence, this child would have succeeded, eh?"
"Why, of course," agreed Mrs. Greyle a little impatiently. "But what's the use of talking about that, my old friend! The young man is in possession—and there you are!"
"Do you like the young man?" asked Mr. Dennie. "I take an old fellow's privilege in asking direct questions, you know. And—though we haven't seen each other for all these years—you can say anything to me."
"No, we don't," replied Mrs. Greyle. "And we don't know why we don't—so there's a woman's answer for you. Kinsfolk though we are, we see little of each other."
Mr. Dennie made no remark on this. He walked along at Audrey's side, apparently in deep thought, and suddenly he looked across at her mother.
"What do you think about this extraordinary story of Bassett Oliver's having met a Marston Greyle over there in America?" he asked abruptly. "What do people here think about it?"
"We're not in a position to hear much of what other people think," answered Mrs. Greyle. "What I think is that if this Marston Greyle ever did meet such a very notable and noticeable man as Bassett Oliver it's a very, very strange thing that he's forgotten all about it!"
Mr. Dennie laughed quietly.
"Aye, aye!" he said. "But—don't you think we folk of the profession are a little bit apt to magnify our own importance? You say 'Bless me, how could anybody ever forget an introduction to Bassett Oliver!' But we must remember that to some people even a famous actor is of no more importance than—shall we say a respectable grocer? Marston Greyle may be one of those people—it's quite possible he may have been introduced, quite casually, to Oliver at some club, or gathering, something-or-other, over there and have quite forgotten all about it. Quite possible, I think."
"I agree with you as to the possibility, but certainly not as to the probability," said Mrs. Greyle, dryly. "Bassett Oliver was the sort of man whom nobody would forget. But here we are at our cottage—you'll come in, Mr. Dennie?"
"It will only have to be for a little time, my dear lady," said the old actor, pulling out his watch. "Our people are going back very soon, and I must join them at the station."
"I'll give you a glass of good old wine," said Mrs. Greyle as they went into the cottage. "I have some that belonged to my father-in-law, the old Squire. You must taste it—for old times' sake."
Mr. Dennie followed Audrey into the little parlour as Mrs. Greyle disappeared to another part of the house. And the instant they were alone, he tapped the girl's arm and gave her a curiously warning look.
"Hush, my dear!" he whispered. "Not a word—don't want your mother to know! Listen—have you a specimen—letter—anything—of your cousin, the Squire's handwriting? Anything so long as it's his. You have? Give it to me—say nothing to your mother. Wait until tomorrow morning. I'll run over to see you again—about noon. It's important—but silence!"
Audrey, scarcely understanding the old man's meaning, opened a desk and drew out one or two letters. She selected one and handed it to Mr. Dennie, who made haste to put it away before Mrs. Greyle returned. He gave Audrey another warning look.
"That was what I wanted!" he said mysteriously. "I thought of it during the inquest. Never mind why, just now—you shall know tomorrow."
He lingered a few minutes, chatting to his hostess about old times as he sipped the old Squire's famous port; then he went off to the little station, joined Stafford and his fellow actors and actresses, and returned with them to Norcaster. And at Norcaster Mr. Dennie separated himself from the rest and repaired to his quiet lodgings—rooms which he had occupied for many years in succession whenever he went that way on tour—and once safely bestowed in them he pulled out a certain old-fashioned trunk, which he had owned since boyhood and lugged about wherever he went in two continents, and from it, after much methodical unpacking, he disinterred a brown paper parcel, neatly tied up with green ribbon. From this parcel he drew a thin packet of typed matter and a couple of letters—the type script he laid aside, the letters he opened out on his table. Then he took from his pocket the letter which Audrey Greyle had given him and put it side by side with those taken from the parcel. And after one brief glance at all three Mr. Dennie made typescript and letters up again into a neat packet, restored them to his trunk, locked them up, and turned to the two hours' rest which he always took before going to the theatre for his evening's work.
He was back at Scarhaven by eleven o'clock the next morning, with his neat packet under his arm and he held it up significantly to Audrey who opened the door of the cottage to him.
"Something to show you," he said with a quiet smile as he walked in. "To show you and your mother." He stopped short on the threshold of the little parlour, where Copplestone was just then talking to Mrs. Greyle. "Oh!" he said, a little disappointedly, "I hoped to find you alone—I'll wait."
Mrs. Greyle explained who Copplestone was, and Mr. Dennie immediately brightened. "Of course—of course!" he explained. "I know! Glad to meet you, Mr. Copplestone—you don't know me, but I know you—or your work—well enough. It was I who read and recommended your play to our poor dear friend. It's a little secret, you know," continued Mr. Dennie, laying his packet on the table, "but I have acted for a great many years as Bassett Oliver's literary adviser—taster, you might say. You know, he had a great number of plays sent to him, of course, and he was a very busy man, and he used to hand them over to me in the first place, to take a look at, a taste of, you know, and if I liked the taste, why, then he took a mouthful himself, eh? And that brings me to the very point, my dear ladies and my dear young gentleman, that I have come specially to Scarhaven this morning to discuss. It's a very, very serious matter indeed," he went on as he untied his packet of papers, "and I fear that it's only the beginning of something more serious. Come round me here at this table, all of you, if you please."
The other three drew up chairs, each wondering what was coming, and the old actor resumed his eyeglasses and gave obvious signs of making a speech.
"Now I want you all to attend to me, very closely," he said. "I shall have to go into a detailed explanation, and you will very soon see what I am after. As you may be aware, I have been a personal friend of Bassett Oliver for some years, and a member of his company without break for the last eight years. I accompanied Bassett Oliver on his two trips to the United States—therefore, I was with him when he was last there, years ago.
"Now, while we were at Chicago that time, Bassett came to me one day with the typescript of a one-act play and told me that it had been sent to him by a correspondent signing himself Marston Greyle; who in a covering letter, said that he sprang from an old English family, and that the play dealt with a historic, romantic episode in its history. The principal part, he believed, was one which would suit Bassett—therefore he begged him to consider the matter. Bassett asked me to read the play, and I took it away, with the writer's letter, for that purpose. But we were just then very busy, and I had no opportunity of reading anything for a time. Later on, we went to St. Louis, and there, of course, Bassett, as usual, was much fêted and went out a great deal, lunching with people and so on. One day he came to me, 'By-the-bye, Dennie!' he said, 'I met that Mr. Marston Greyle today who sent me that romantic one-act thing. He wanted to know if I'd read it, and I had to confess that it was in your hands. Have you looked at it?' I, too, had to confess—I hadn't. 'Well,' said he, 'read it and let me know what you think—will it suit me?' I made time to read the little play during the following week, and I told Bassett that I didn't think it would suit him, but I felt sure it might suit Montagu Gaines, who plays just such parts. Bassett thereupon wrote to the author and said what I, his reader, thought, and kindly offered, as he knew Gaines intimately, to show the little work to him on his return to England. And this Mr. Marston Greyle wrote back, thanking Bassett warmly and accepting his kind offer. Accordingly, I brought the play with me to England. Montagu Gaines, however, had just set off on a two years' tour to Australia—consequently, the play and the author's two letters have remained in my possession ever since. And—here they are!"
Mr. Dennie laid his hand dramatically on his packet, looked significantly at his audience, and went on.
"Now, when I heard all that I did hear at that inquest yesterday," he said, "I naturally remembered that I had in my possession two letters which were undoubtedly written to Bassett Oliver by a young man named Marston Greyle, whom Oliver—just as undoubtedly!—had personally met in St. Louis. And so when the inquest was over, Mr. Copplestone, I recalled myself to Mrs. Greyle here, whom I had known many years ago, and I walked back to this house with her and her charming daughter, and—don't be angry, Mrs. Greyle—while the mother's back was turned—on hospitable thoughts intent—I got the daughter to lend me—secretly—a letter written by the present Squire of Scarhaven. Armed with that, I went home to my lodgings in Norcaster, found the letter written by the American Marston Greyle, and compared it with them. And—here is the result!"
The old actor selected the two American letters from his papers, laid them out on the table, and placed the letter which Audrey had given him beside them.
"Now!" he said, as his three companions bent eagerly over these exhibits,"Look at those three letters. All bear the same signature, MarstonGreyle—but the hand-writing of those two is as different from that ofthis one as chalk is from cheese!"
There was little need for the three deeply interested listeners to look long at the letters—one glance was sufficient to show even a careless eye that the hand which had written one of them had certainly not written the other two. The letter which Audrey had handed to Mr. Dennie was penned in the style commonly known as commercial—plain, commonplace, utterly lacking in the characteristics which are supposed to denote imagination and a sense of artistry. It was the sort of caligraphy which one comes across every day in shops and offices and banks—there was nothing in any upstroke, downstroke or letter which lifted it from the very ordinary. But the other two letters were evidently written by a man of literary and artistic sense, possessing imagination and a liking for effect. It needed no expert in handwriting to declare that two totally different individuals had written those letters.
"And now," observed Mr. Dennie, breaking the silence and putting into words what each of the others was vaguely feeling, "the question is—what does all this mean? To start with, Marston Greyle is a most uncommon name. Is it possible there can be two persons of that name? That, at any rate, is the first thing that strikes me."
"It is not the first thing that strikes me," said Mrs. Greyle. She took up the typescript which the old actor had brought in his packet, and held its title-page significantly before him. "That is the first thing that strikes me!" she exclaimed. "The Marston Greyle who sent this to Bassett Oliver said according to your story—that he sprang from a very old family in England, and that this is a dramatization of a romantic episode in its annals. Now there is no other old family in England named Greyle, and this episode is of course, the famous legend of how Prince Rupert once sought refuge in the Keep yonder and had a love-passage with a lady of the house. Am I right, Mr. Dennie?"
"Quite right, ma'am, quite correct," replied the old actor. "It is so—you have guessed correctly!"
"Very well, then—the Marston Greyle who wrote this, and those letters, and who met Bassett Oliver was without doubt the son of Marcus Greyle, who went to America many years ago. He was the same Marston Greyle, who, his father being dead, of course succeeded his uncle, Stephen John Greyle—that seems an absolute certainty. And in that case," continued Mrs. Greyle, looking earnestly from one to the other, "in that case—who is the man now at Scarhaven Keep?"
A dead silence fell on the little room. Audrey started and flushed at her mother's eager, pregnant question; Mr. Dennie sat up very erect and took a pinch of snuff from his old-fashioned box. Copplestone pushed his chair away from the table and began to walk about. And Mrs. Greyle continued to look from one face to the other as if demanding a reply to her question.
"Mother!" said Audrey in a low voice. "You aren't suggesting—"
"Ahem!" interrupted Mr. Dennie. "A moment, my dear. There is nothing, I believe," he continued, waxing a little oracular, "nothing like plain speech. We are all friends—we have a common cause—justice! It may be that justice demands our best endeavours not only as regards our deceased friend, Bassett Oliver, but in the interests of—this young lady. So—"
"I wish you wouldn't, Mr. Dennie!" exclaimed Audrey. "I don't like this at all. Please don't!"
She turned, almost instinctively, to seek Copplestone's aid in repressing the old man. But Copplestone was standing by the window, staring moodily at the wind-swept quay beyond the garden, and Mr. Dennie waved his snuff-box and went on.
"An old man's privilege!" he said. "In your interests, my dear. Allow me." He turned again to Mrs. Greyle. "In plain words, ma'am, you are wondering if the present holder of the estates is really what he claims to be. Plain English, eh?"
"I am!" answered Mrs. Greyle with a distinct ring of challenge and defiance. "And now that it comes to the truth, I have wondered that ever since he came here. There!"
"Why, mother?" asked Audrey, wonderingly.
"Because he doesn't possess a single Greyle characteristic," replied Mrs. Greyle, readily enough, "I ought to know—I married Valentine Greyle, and I knew Stephen John, and I saw plenty of both, and something of their father, too, and a little of Marcus before he emigrated. This man does not possess one single scrap of the Greyle temperament!"
Mr. Dennie put away his snuff-box and drumming on the table with his fingers looked out of his eye corners at Copplestone who still stood with his back to the rest, staring out of the window.
"And what," said Mr. Dennie, softly, "what—er, does our good friend Mr.Copplestone say?"
Copplestone turned swiftly, and gave Audrey a quick glance.
"I say," he answered in a sharp, business-like fashion, "that Gilling, who's stopping at the inn, you know, is walking up and down outside here, evidently looking out for me, and very anxious to see me, and with your permission, Mrs. Greyle, I'd like to have him in. Now that things have got to this pitch, I'd better tell you something—I don't see any good in concealing it longer. Gilling isn't an invalid curate at all!—he's a private detective. Sir Cresswell Oliver and Petherton, the solicitor, sent him down here to watch Greyle—the Squire, you know—that's Gilling's job. They suspect Greyle—have suspected him from the very first—but of what I don't know. Not—not of this, I think. Anyway, they do suspect him, and Gilling's had his eye on him ever since he came here. And I'd like to fetch Gilling in here, and I'd like him to know all that Mr. Dennie's told us. Because, don't you see, Sir Cresswell and Petherton ought to know all that, immediately, and Gilling's their man."
Audrey's brows had been gathering in lines of dismay and perplexity all the time Copplestone was talking, but her mother showed no signs of anything but complete composure, crowned by something very like satisfaction, and she nodded a ready acquiescence in Copplestone's proposal.
"By all means!" she responded. "Bring Mr. Gilling in at once."
Copplestone hurried out into the garden and signalled to the pseudo-curate, who came hurrying across from the quay. One glance at him showed Copplestone that something had happened.
"Gad!—I thought I should never attract your attention!" said Gilling hastily. "Been making eyes at you for ten minutes. I say—Greyle's off!"
"Off!" exclaimed Copplestone. "How do you mean—off?"
"Left Scarhaven, anyhow—for London," replied Gilling. "An hour ago I happened to be at the station, buying a paper, when he drove up—luggage and man with him, so I knew he was off for some time. And I took good care to dodge round by the booking-office when the man took the tickets. King's Cross. So that's all right, for the time being."
"How do you mean—all right?" asked Copplestone. "I thought you were to keep him in sight?"
"All right," repeated Gilling. "I have more eyes than these, my boy! I've a particularly smart partner in London—name of Swallow—and he and I have a cypher code. So soon as the gentleman had left, I repaired to the nearest post office and wired a code message to Swallow. Swallow will meet that train when it strikes King's Cross. And it doesn't matter if Greyle hides himself in one of the spikes on top of the Monument or inside the lion house at the Zoo—Swallow will be there! No man ever got away from Swallow—once Swallow had set eyes on him."
Copplestone looked, listened, and laughed.
"Professional pride!" he said. "All right. I want you to come in here with me—to Mrs. Greyle's. Something's happened here, too. And of such a serious nature that I've taken the liberty of telling them who and what you really are. You'll forgive me when you hear what it is that we've learnt here this morning."
Gilling had looked rather doubtful at Copplestone's announcement, but he immediately turned towards the cottage.
"Oh, well!" he said good-naturedly. "I'm sure you wouldn't have told if you hadn't felt there was good reason. What is this fresh news?—something about—him?"
"Very much about him," answered Copplestone. "Come in."
He himself, at Mrs. Greyle's request, gave Gilling a brief account of Mr. Dennie's revelations, the old actor supplementing it with a shrewd remark or two. And then all four turned to Gilling as to an expert in these matters.
"Queer!" observed Gilling. "Decidedly queer! There may be some explanation, you know: I've known stranger things than that turn out to be perfectly straight and plain when they were gone into. But—putting all the facts together—I don't think there's much doubt that there's something considerably wrong in this case. I should like to repeat it to my principals—I must go up to town in any event this afternoon. Better let me have all those documents, Mr. Dennie—I'll give you a proper receipt for them. There's something very valuable in them, anyhow."
"What?" asked Copplestone.
"The address in St. Louis from which that Marston Greyle wrote to Bassett Oliver." replied Gilling. "We can communicate with that address—at once. We may learn something there. But," he went on, turning to Mrs. Greyle, "I want to learn something here—and now. I want to know where and under what circumstances the Squire came to Scarhaven. You were here then, of course, Mrs. Greyle? You can tell me?"
"He came very quietly," replied Mrs. Greyle. "Nobody in Scarhaven—unless it was Peter Chatfield—knew of his coming. In fact, nobody in these parts, at any rate—knew he was in England. The family solicitors in London may have known. But nothing was ever said or written to me, though my daughter, failing this man, is the next in succession."
"I do wish you'd leave all that out, mother!" exclaimed Audrey. "I don't like it."
"Whether you like it or not, it's the fact," said Mrs. Greyle imperturbably, "and it can't be left out. Well, as I say, no one knew the Squire had come to England, until one day Chatfield calmly walked down the quay with him, introducing him right and left. He brought him here."
"Ah!" said Gilling. "That's interesting. Now I wonder if you found out if he was well up in the family history?"
"Not then, but afterwards," answered Mrs. Greyle. "He is particularly well up in the Greyle records—suspiciously well up."
"Why suspiciously?" asked Cobblestone.
"He knows more—in a sort of antiquarian and historian fashion—than you'd suppose a young man of his age would," said Mrs. Greyle. "He gives you the impression of having read it up—studied it deeply. And—his usual tastes don't lie in that direction."
"Ah!" observed Mr. Dennie, musingly. "Bad sign, ma'am,—bad sign! Looks as if he had been—shall we say put up to overstudying his part. That's possible! I have known men who were so anxious to be what one calls letter-perfect, Mr. Copplestone, that though they knew their parts, they didn't know how to play them. Fact, sir!"
While the old actor was chuckling over this reminiscence, Gilling turned quietly to Mrs. Greyle.
"I think you suspect this man?" he said.
"Frankly—yes," replied Mrs. Greyle. "I always have done, though I have said so little—"
"Mother!" interrupted Audrey. "Is it really worth while saying so much now! After all, we know nothing, and if this is all mere supposition—however," she broke off, rising and going away from the group, "perhaps I had better say nothing."
Copplestone too rose and followed her into the window recess.
"I say!" he said entreatingly. "I hope you don't think me interfering? I assure you—"
"You!" she exclaimed. "Oh, no!—of course. I think you're anxious to clear things up about Mr. Oliver. But I don't want my mother dragged into it—for a simple reason. We've got to live here—and Chatfield is a vindictive man."
"You're frightened of him?" said Copplestone incredulously. "You!"
"Not for myself," she answered, giving him a warning look and glancing apprehensively at Mrs. Greyle, who was talking eagerly to Mr. Dennie and Gilling. "But my mother is not as strong as she looks and it would be a blow to her to leave this place and we are the Squire's tenants, and therefore at Chatfield's mercy. And you know that Chatfield does as he likes! Now do you understand?"
"It maddens me to think that you should be at Chatfield's mercy!" muttered Copplestone. "But do you really mean to say that if—if Chatfield thought you—that is, your mother—were mixed up in anything relating to the clearing up of this affair he would—"
"Drive us out without mercy," replied Audrey. "That's dead certain."
"And that your cousin would let him?" exclaimed Copplestone."Surely not!"
"I don't think the Squire has any control over Chatfield," she answered."You have seen them together."
"If that's so," said Copplestone, "I shall begin to think there is something queer about the Squire in the way your mother suggests. It looks as if Chatfield had a hold on him. And in that case—"
He suddenly broke off as a smart automobile drove up to the cottage door and set down a tall, distinguished-looking man who after a glance at the little house walked quickly up the garden. Audrey's face showed surprise.
"Mother!" she said, turning to Mrs. Greyle. "There's Lord Altmore here!He must want you. Or shall I go?"
Mrs. Greyle quitted the room hastily. The others heard her welcome the visitor, lead him up the tiny hall; they heard a door shut. Audrey looked at Copplestone.
"You've heard of Lord Altmore, haven't you?" she said. "He's our biggest man in these parts—he owns all the country at the back, mountains, valleys, everything. The Greyle land shuts him off from the sea. In the old days, Greyles and Altmores used to fight over their boundaries, and—"
Mrs. Greyle suddenly showed herself again and looked at her daughter.
"Will you come here, Audrey?" she said. "You gentlemen will excuse both of us for a few minutes?"
Mother and daughter went away, and the two young men drew up their chairs to the table at which Mr. Dennie sat and exchanged views with him on the curious situation. Half-an-hour went by; then steps and voices were heard in the hall and the garden; Mrs. Greyle and Audrey were seeing their visitor out to his car. In a few minutes the car sped away, and they came back to the parlour. One glance at their faces showed Gilling that some new development had cropped up and he nudged Copplestone.
"Here is remarkable news!" said Mrs. Greyle as she went back to her chair. "Lord Altmore called to tell me of something that he thought I ought to know. It is almost unbelievable, yet it is a fact. Marston Greyle—if he is Marston Greyle!—has offered to sell Lord Altmore the entire Scarhaven estate, by private treaty. Imagine it!—the estate which has belonged to the Greyles for five hundred years!"