“This is my cousin, Mr. Greyle, of Scarhaven Keep,” she murmured. “He may be able to help. Marston!” she went on, raising her voice, “Can you give any help here? This gentleman—” she paused, looking at Copplestone.
“My name is Richard Copplestone,” he said.
“Mr. Copplestone is looking for Mr. Bassett Oliver, the famous actor,” she continued, as the three met. “Mr. Oliver has mysteriously disappeared. Mr. Copplestone has traced him here, to Scarhaven—he was here yesterday, lunching at the inn—but he can’t get any further news. Did you see anything, or hear anything of him?”
Marston Greyle, who had been inspecting the stranger narrowly in the fading light, shook his head.
“Bassett Oliver, the actor,” he said. “Oh, yes, I saw his name on the bills in Norcaster the other day. Came here, and has disappeared, you say? Under what circumstances?”
Copplestone had listened carefully to the newcomer’s voice; more particularly to his accent. He had already gathered sufficient knowledge of Scarhaven to know that this man was the Squire, the master of the old house and grey ruin in the wood above the cliff; he also happened to know, being something of an archaeologist and well acquainted with family histories, that there had been Greyles of Scarhaven for many hundred years. And he wondered how it was that though this Greyle’s voice was pleasant and cultured enough, its accent was decidedly American.
“Perhaps I’d better explain,” said Copplestone. “I’ve already told most of it to this lady, but you will both understand more fully if I tell you more. It’s this way—” and he went on to tell everything that had happened and come to light since one o’clock that day. “So you see, it’s here,” he concluded; “we’re absolutely certain that Oliver went out of the Admiral’s Arms up there about half past two yesterday, but—where? From that moment, no one seems to have seen him. Yet how he could come along this village street, this quay, without being seen—”
“He need not have come along the quayside,” interrupted the girl. “There is a cliff path just below the inn which leads up to the Keep.”
“Also, he mayn’t have taken this side of the bay, either.” remarked Greyle. “He may have chosen the other. You didn’t see or hear of him on your side, Audrey?”
“Nothing!” replied the girl. “Nothing!”
Marston Greyle had fallen into line with the other two, and they were now walking along the quay in the direction of the Admiral’s Arms. And presently Stafford, accompanied by a policeman, came hurriedly round a corner and quickened his steps at sight of Copplestone. The policeman, evidently much puzzled and interested, saluted the Squire obsequiously as the two groups met.
“No news at all!” exclaimed Stafford, glancing at Copplestone’s companions. “You got any?”
“None,” replied Copplestone. “Not a word. This is Mr. Greyle, of the Keep—he has heard nothing. This lady—Miss Greyle?—was out a good deal yesterday afternoon; she knows Oliver quite well by sight, but she did not see him. So if you’ve no news—”
Marston Greyle interrupted, turning to the policeman.
“What ought to be done, Haskett?” he asked. “You’ve had cases of disappearance to deal with before, eh?”
“Can’t say as I have, sir, in my time,” answered the policeman. “Leastways, not of this sort. Of course, we can get search parties together, and one of ’em can go along the coast north’ards, and the other can go south’ards, and we might have a look round the rocks out yonder, tomorrow, as soon as it’s light. But if the gentleman went out there, and had the bad luck to fall into that Devil’s Spout, why, then, sir, I’m afraid all the searching in the world’ll do no good. And the queer thing is, gentlemen, if I may express an opinion, that nobody ever saw the gentleman after he had left Mrs. Wooler’s! That seems—”
A fisherman came lounging across the quay from the shadow of one of the neighbouring cottages. He touched his cap to Marston Greyle, and looked inquiringly at the two strangers.
“Are you the gentlemen as is asking after another gentleman?” he said. “ ’Cause if so, I make no doubt as how I had a word or two with him yesterday afternoon.”
Stafford and Copplestone turned sharply on the newcomer—an elderly man of plain and homely aspect who responded frankly to their questioning glances. He went on at once, before they could put their questions into words.
“It ’ud be about half past two, or maybe a bit nearer three o’clock,” he said. “Up yonder it was, about a hundred yards this side of the Admiral’s Arms. I was sitting on a baulk o’ timber there, doing nothing, when he comes along—a tall, fine-looking man. He gives me a pleasant sort o’ nod, and said it was a grand day, and we got talking a bit, about the scenery and suchlike, and he said he’d never been here before. Then he pointed up to the big house and the old Keep yonder, and asked whose place that might be, and I said that was the Squire’s. ‘And who may the Squire be?’ says he. ‘Mr. Marston Greyle,’ says I, ‘Recent come into the property.’ ‘Marston Greyle!’ he says, sharp-like. ‘Why, I used to know a young man of that very name in America!’ he says. ‘Very like,’ says I, ‘I have heard as how the Squire had been in them parts before he came here.’ ‘Bless me!’ he says, ‘I’ve a good mind to call on him. How do you get up there?’ he says. So I showed him that side path that runs up through the plantation to near the top, and I told him that if he followed that till he came to the Keep, he’d find another path there as would take him to the door of the house. And he gave me a shilling to drink his health, and off he went, the way as I’d pointed out. D’ye think that’ll be the
