III
The Man Who Knew Something
It was not from any idle curiosity that Copplestone made up his mind to await the girl’s nearer approach. There was no other human being in view, and he was anxious to get some information about the rocks whose grim outlines were rapidly becoming faint and indistinct in the gathering darkness. And so as the girl came towards him, picking her way across the pools which lay amidst the brown ribs of sand, he went forward, throwing away all formality and reserve in his eagerness.
“Forgive me for speaking so unceremoniously,” he said as they met. “I’m looking for a friend who has disappeared—mysteriously. Can you tell me if, any time yesterday, afternoon or evening, you saw anywhere about here a tall, distinguished-looking man—the actor type. In fact, he is an actor—perhaps you’ve heard of him? Mr. Bassett Oliver.”
He was looking narrowly at the girl as he spoke, and she, too, looked narrowly at him out of a pair of grey eyes of more than ordinary intelligence and perception. And at the famous actor’s name she started a little and a faint colour stole over her cheeks.
“Mr. Bassett Oliver!” she exclaimed in a clear, cultured voice. “My mother and I saw Mr. Oliver at the Northborough Theatre on Friday evening. Do you mean that he—”
“I mean—to put it bluntly—that Bassett Oliver is lost,” answered Copplestone. “He came to this place yesterday, Sunday, morning, to look round; he lunched at the Admiral’s Arms, he went out, after a chat with the landlady, and he’s never been seen since. He should have turned up at the Angel at Norcaster last night, and at a rehearsal at the Theatre Royal there today at noon—but he didn’t. His manager and I have tracked him here—and so far I can’t hear of him. I’ve asked people all through the village—this side, anyway—nobody knows anything.”
He and the girl still looked attentively at each other; Copplestone, indeed, was quietly inspecting her while he talked. He judged her to be twenty-one or two; she was a little above medium height, slim, graceful, pretty, and he was quick to notice that her entire air and appearance suggested their present surroundings. Her fair hair escaped from a knitted cap such as fisherfolk wear; her slender figure was shown to advantage by a rough blue jersey; her skirt of blue serge was short and practical; she was shod in brogues which showed more acquaintance with sand and salt water than with polish. And her face was tanned with the strong northern winds, and the ungloved hands, small and shapely as they were, were brown as the beach across which she had come.
“I have not seen—nor heard—of Mr. Bassett Oliver—here,” she answered. “I was out and about all yesterday afternoon and evening, too—not on this side of the bay, though. Have you been to the police station?”
“The manager may have been there,” replied Copplestone. “He’s gone along the other shore. But—I don’t think he’ll get any help there. I’m afraid Mr. Oliver must have met with an accident. I wanted to ask you a question—I saw you coming from the direction of those rocks just now. Could he have got out there across those sands, yesterday afternoon?”
“Between three o’clock and evening—yes,” said the girl.
“And—is it dangerous out there?”
“Very dangerous indeed—to anyone who doesn’t know them.”
“There’s something there called the Devil’s Spout?”
“Yes—a deep fissure up which the sea boils. Oh! It seems dreadful to think of—I hope he didn’t fall in there. If he did—”
“Well?” asked Copplestone bluntly, “what if he did?”
“Nothing ever came out that once went in,” she answered. “It’s a sort of whirlpool that’s sucked right away into the sea. The people hereabouts say it’s bottomless.”
Copplestone turned his face towards the village.
“Oh, well,” he said, with an accent of hopelessness. “I can’t do any more down here, it’s growing dusk. I must go back and meet the manager.”
The girl walked along at his side as he turned towards the village.
“I suppose you are one of Mr. Oliver’s company?” she observed presently. “You must all be much concerned.”
“They’re all greatly concerned,” answered Copplestone. “But I don’t belong to the company. No—I came to Norcaster this morning to meet Mr. Oliver—he’s going—I hope I oughtn’t to say was going!—to produce a play of mine next month, and he wanted to talk about the rehearsals. Everything, of course, was at a standstill when I reached Norcaster at one o’clock, so I came with Stafford, the business manager, to see what we could do about tracking Mr. Oliver. And I’m afraid, I’m very much afraid—”
He paused, as a gate, set in the thick hedge of a garden at this point of the village, suddenly opened to let out a man, who at sight of the girl stopped, hesitated, and then waited for her approach. He was a tall, well-built man of apparently thirty years, dressed in a rough tweed knickerbocker suit, but the dusk had now so much increased that Copplestone could only gather an impression of
