“Mr. Bassett Oliver?” he said inquiringly. “Is he here? I—I’ve got an appointment with him for one o’clock, and I’m sorry I’m late—my train—”
“Mr. Oliver is not here yet,” broke in Stafford. “He’s late, too—unaccountably late, for him. An appointment, you say?”
He was looking the stranger over as he spoke, taking him for some stage-struck youth who had probably persuaded the good-natured actor to give him an interview. His expression changed, however, as he glanced at the card which the young man handed over; and he started a little and held out his hand with a smile.
“Oh!—Mr. Copplestone?” he exclaimed. “How do you do? My name’s Stafford—I’m Mr. Oliver’s business manager. So he made an appointment with you, did he—here, today? Wants to see you about your play, of course.”
Again he looked at the newcomer with a smiling interest, thinking secretly that he was a very youthful and ingenuous being to have written a play which Bassett Oliver, a shrewd critic, and by no means easy to please, had been eager to accept, and was about to produce. Mr. Richard Copplestone, seen in the flesh, looked very young indeed, and very unlike anything in the shape of a professional author. In fact he very much reminded Stafford of the fine and healthy young man whom one sees on the playing fields, and certainly does not associate with pen and ink. That he was not much used to the world on whose edge he just then stood Stafford gathered from a boyish trick of blushing through the tan of his cheeks.
“I got a wire from Mr. Oliver yesterday—Sunday,” replied Mr. Copplestone. “I ought to have had it in the morning, I suppose, but I’d gone out for the day, you know—gone out early. So I didn’t find it until I got back to my rooms late at night. I got the next train I could from King’s Cross, and it was late getting in here.”
“Then you’ve practically been travelling all night?” remarked Stafford. “Well, Mr. Oliver hasn’t turned up—most unusual for him. I don’t know where—” Just then another man came hurrying down the passage from the dressing rooms, calling the business manager by name.
“I say, Stafford!” he exclaimed, as he emerged on the street. “This is a queer thing!—I’m sure there’s something wrong. I’ve just rung up the Angel hotel. Oliver hasn’t turned up there! His rooms were all ready for him as usual yesterday, but he never came. They’ve neither seen nor heard of him. Did you see him yesterday?”
“No!” replied Stafford. “I didn’t. Never seen him since last thing Saturday night at Northborough. He ordered this rehearsal for one—no, a quarter to one, here, today. But somebody must have seen him yesterday. Where’s his dresser—where’s Hackett?”
“Hackett’s inside,” said the other man. “He hasn’t seen him either, since Saturday night. Hackett has friends living in these parts—he went off to see them early yesterday morning, from Northborough, and he’s only just come. So he hasn’t seen Oliver, and doesn’t know anything about him; he expected, of course, to find him here.”
Stafford turned with a wave of the hand towards Copplestone.
“So did this gentleman,” he said. “Mr. Copplestone, this is our stage-manager, Mr. Rothwell. Rothwell, this is Mr. Richard Copplestone, author of the new play that Mr. Oliver’s going to produce next month. Mr. Copplestone got a wire from him yesterday, asking him to come here today at one o’clock, He’s travelled all night to get here.”
“Where was the wire sent from?” asked Rothwell, a sharp-eyed, keen-looking man, who, like Stafford, was obviously interested in the new author’s boyish appearance. “And when?”
Copplestone drew some letters and papers from his pocket and selected one. “That’s it,” he said. “There you are—sent off from Northborough at nine thirty, yesterday morning—Sunday.”
“Well, then he was at Northborough at that time,” remarked Rothwell. “Look here, Stafford, we’d better telephone to Northborough, to his hotel. The Golden Apple, wasn’t it?”
“No good,” replied Stafford, shaking his head. “The Golden Apple isn’t on the phone—old-fashioned place. We’d better wire.”
“Too slow,” said Rothwell. “We’ll telephone to the theatre there, and ask them to step across and make inquiries. Come on!—let’s do it at once.”
He hurried inside again, and Stafford turned to Copplestone.
“Better send your cab away and come inside until we get some news,” he said. “Let Jerramy take your things into his sanctum—he’ll keep an eye on them till you want them—I suppose you’ll stop at the Angel with Oliver. Look here!” he went on, turning to the cab driver, “just you wait a bit—I might want you; wait ten minutes, anyway. Come in, Mr. Copplestone.”
Copplestone followed the business manager up the passage to a dressing room, in which a little elderly man was engaged in unpacking trunks and dress-baskets. He looked up expectantly at the sound of footsteps; then looked down again at the work in hand and went silently on with it.
“This is Hackett, Mr. Oliver’s dresser,” said Stafford. “Been with him—how long, Hackett?”
“Twenty years next January, Mr. Stafford,” answered the dresser quietly.
“Ever known Mr. Oliver late like this?” inquired Stafford.
“Never, sir! There’s something wrong,” replied Hackett. “I’m sure of it. I feel it! You ought to go and look for him, some of you gentlemen.”
“Where?” asked Stafford. “We don’t know anything about him. He’s not come to the Angel, as he ought to have done, yesterday. I believe you’re the last person who saw him, Hackett. Aren’t you, now?”
“I saw him at the Golden Apple at Northborough at twelve o’clock Saturday night, sir,” answered Hackett. “I took a bag of his to his rooms there. He was all right then. He knew I was going off first thing next morning to see an uncle of mine who’s a farmer on the coast between here and Northborough, and he told me he shouldn’t want me until one o’clock today. So of course, I came
