“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 by, 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
