“Oh, in general, sir!” he said. “Things like this here are not pleasant to have in a quiet, respectable community like ours. There’s very wicked people in this world, mister, and they will not control what’s termed the unruly member. They will talk. You’ll excuse me, but I doubt not that I’m a good deal more than twice your age, and I’ve learnt experience. My experience, sir, is that a wise man holds his tongue until he’s called upon to use it. Now, in my opinion, it was a very unwise thing of yon there seagoing man, Ewbank, to say that this unfortunate playactor told him that he’d met our Squire in America—very unfortunate!”
Copplestone pricked his ears. Had the estate agent come there to tell him that? And if so, why?
“Oh!” he said. “You’ve heard that, have you? Now who told you that, Mr. Chatfield? For I don’t think that’s generally known.”
“If you knew this here village, mister, as well as what I do,” replied Chatfield coolly, “you’d know that there is known all over the place by this time. The constable told me, and of course yon there man, Ewbank, he’ll have told it all round since he had that bit of talk with you and your friend. He’ll have been in to every public there is in Scarhaven, repeating of it. And a very, very serious complexion, of course, could be put on them words, sir.”
“How?” asked Copplestone.
“Put it to yourself, sir,” replied Chatfield. “The unfortunate man comes here, tells Ewbank he knew Mr. Greyle in that faraway land, says he’ll call on him, is seen going towards the big house—and is never seen no more! Why, sir, what does human nature—which is wicked—say?”
“What does your human nature—which I’m sure is not wicked, say?” suggested Copplestone. “Come, now!”
“What I say, sir, is neither here nor there,” answered the agent. “It’s what evil-disposed tongues says.”
“But they haven’t said anything yet,” said Copplestone.
“I should say they’ve said a deal, sir,” responded Chatfield, lugubriously. “I know Scarhaven tongues. They’ll have thrown out a deal of suspicious talk about the Squire.”
“Have you seen Mr. Greyle?” asked Copplestone. He was already sure that the agent was there with a purpose, and he wanted to know its precise nature. “Is he concerned about this?”
“I have seen Mr. Greyle, mister, and he is concerned about what yon man, Ewbank, related,” replied Chatfield. “Mr. Greyle, sir, came straight to me—I reside in a residence within the park. Mr. Greyle, mister, says that he has no recollection whatever of meeting this playactor person in America—he may have done and he mayn’t. But he doesn’t remember him, and it isn’t likely he should—him, an English landlord and a gentleman wouldn’t be very like to remember a playactor person that’s here today and gone tomorrow! I hope I give no offence, sir—maybe you’re a playactor yourself.”
“I am not,” answered Copplestone. He sat staring at his visitor for awhile, and when he spoke again his voice had lost its cordial tone. “Well,” he said, “and what have you called on me about?”
Chatfield looked up sharply, noticing the altered tone.
“To tell you—and them as you no doubt represent—that Mr. Greyle will be glad to help in any possible way towards finding out something in this here affair,” he answered. “He’ll welcome any inquiry that’s opened.”
“Oh!” said Copplestone. “I see! But you’re making a mistake, Mr. Chatfield. I don’t represent anybody. I’m not even a relation of Mr. Bassett Oliver. In fact, I never met Mr. Oliver in my life: never spoke to him. So—I’m not here in any representative or official sense.”
Chatfield’s small eyes grew smaller with suspicious curiosity.
“Oh?” he said questioningly. “Then—what might you be here for, mister?”
Copplestone stood up and rang the bell.
“That’s my business.” he answered. “Sorry I can’t give you any more time,” he went on as Mrs. Wooler opened the door. “I’m engaged now. If you or Mr. Greyle want to see Mr. Oliver’s friends I believe his brother, Sir Cresswell Oliver, will be here tomorrow—he’s been wired for anyhow.”
Chatfield’s mouth opened as he picked up his hat. He stared at this self-assured young man as if he were something quite new to him.
“Sir Cresswell Oliver!” he exclaimed. “Did you say, sir?”
“I said Sir Cresswell Oliver—quite plainly,” answered Copplestone.
Chatfield’s mouth grew wider.
“You don’t mean to tell me that a playactor’s own brother to a titled gentleman!” he said.
“Good night!” replied Copplestone, motioning his visitor towards the door. “I can’t give you any more time, really. However, as you seem anxious, Mr. Bassett Oliver is the younger brother of Rear Admiral Sir Cresswell Oliver, Baronet, and I should imagine that Sir Cresswell will want to know a lot about what’s become of him. So you’d better—or Mr. Greyle had better—speak to him. Now once more—good night.”
When Chatfield had gone, Copplestone laughed and flung himself into an easy chair before the fire. Of course, the stupid, ignorant, self-sufficient old fool had come fishing for news—he and his master wanted to know what was going to be done in the way of making inquiry. But why?—why so much anxiety if they knew nothing whatever about Bassett Oliver’s strange disappearance? Why this profession of eager willingness to welcome any inquiry that might be made? Nobody had accused Marston Greyle of having anything to do with Bassett Oliver’s strange exit—if it was an exit—why, then—
“But it’s useless speculating,” he mused. “I can’t do anything—and here I am, with nothing to do!”
He had pleaded an engagement, but he had none, of course. There was a shelf of old books in the room, but he did not care to read. And presently, hands in pockets, he lounged out into the hall and saw Mrs. Wooler standing at the door of the little parlour into which she had shown him and Stafford earlier in the day.
“There’s nobody in here, sir,” she said, invitingly; “if you’d like to smoke your pipe here—”
“Thank you—I will,” answered Copplestone. “I got rid of that old fellow,” he observed confidentially when
