“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 we have formed 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. Marston Greyle! 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
