Nobody answered this question. Everybody there was looking at Marston Greyle. The little group had drawn near to the light of one of the three gas lamps which feebly illuminated the quay; it seemed to Copplestone that the Squire’s face had paled when the fisherman arrived at the middle of his story. But it flushed as his companion turned to him, and he laughed, a little uneasily.
“Said he knew me—in America?” he exclaimed. “I don’t remember meeting Mr. Bassett Oliver out there. But then I met so many Englishmen in one place or another that I may have been introduced to him somewhere, at some time, and—forgotten all about it.”
Stafford spoke—with unnecessary abruptness, in Copplestone’s opinion.
“I don’t think it very likely that anyone would forget Bassett Oliver,” he said. “He isn’t—or wasn’t—the sort of man anybody could forget, once they’d met him. Anyhow—did he come to your house yesterday afternoon as this man suggests?”
Marston Greyle drew himself up. He looked Stafford up and down. Then he made a slight gesture to the girl, whose face had already assumed a troubled expression.
“If I had seen Mr. Bassett Oliver yesterday, sir, we should not be discussing his possible whereabouts now,” said Greyle, icily. “Are you coming, Audrey?”
The girl hesitated, glanced at Copplestone, and then walked away with her cousin. Stafford sniffed contemptuously.
“Ass!” he muttered. “Couldn’t he see that what I meant was that Oliver must either have been mistaken, or have referred to some other Greyle whom he met? Hang his pride! Well, now,” he went on, turning to the fisherman, “you’re dead certain about what you’ve told us?”
“As certain as mortal man can be of aught there is!” answered the informant. “Sure certain, mister.”
“Make a note of it, constable,” said Stafford. “Mr. Oliver was last seen going up the path to the Keep, having said he meant to call on Mr. Marston Greyle. I’ll call on you again tomorrow morning. Copplestone!” he went on, drawing his companion away, “I’m off to Norcaster—I shall see the police there and get detectives. There’s something seriously wrong here—and by heaven, we’ve got to get to the bottom of it! Now, look here—will you stay here for the night, so as to be on the spot? I’ll come back first thing in the morning and bring your luggage—I can’t come sooner, for there are heaps of business matters to deal with. You will—good! Now I can just catch a train. Copplestone!—keep your eyes and ears open. It’s my firm belief—I don’t know why—that there’s been foul play. Foul play!”
Stafford hurried away up hill to the station, and Copplestone, after waiting a minute or two, turned along the quay on the north of the bay—following Audrey Greyle, who was in front, alone.
IV
The Estate Agent
Copplestone had kept a sharp watch on Marston Greyle and his cousin when they walked off, and he had seen that they had parted at a point a little farther along the shore road—the man turning up into the wood, the girl going forward along the quay which led to the other half of the village. He quickened his pace and followed her, catching her up as she came to a path which led towards the old church. At the sound of his hurrying steps she turned and faced him, and he saw in the light of a cottage lamp that she still looked troubled and perplexed.
“Forgive me for running after you,” said Copplestone as he went up to her. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about—about that little scene down there, you know. Your cousin misunderstood Mr. Stafford—what Stafford meant was that—”
“I saw what Mr. Stafford meant,” she broke in quickly. “I’m sorry my cousin didn’t see it. It was—obvious.”
“All the same, Stafford put it rather—shall we say, brusquely,” remarked Copplestone. “Of course, he’s terribly upset about Oliver’s disappearance, and he didn’t consider the effect of his words. And it was rather a surprise to hear that Oliver had known some man of your cousin’s name over there in America, wasn’t it?”
“And that Mr. Oliver should mysteriously disappear just after making such an announcement,” said Audrey. “That certainly seems very surprising.”
The two looked at each other, a question in the eyes of each, and Copplestone knew that the trouble in the girl’s eyes arose from inability to understand what was already a suspicious circumstance.
“But after all, that may have been a mere coincidence,” he hastened to say. “Let’s hope things may be cleared. I only hope that Oliver hasn’t met with an accident and is lying somewhere without help. I’m going to remain here for the night, however, and Stafford will come back early in the morning and go more thoroughly into things—I suppose there’ll have to be a search of the neighbourhood.”
They had walked slowly up a path on the side of the cliff as they talked, and now the girl stopped before a small cottage which stood at the end of the churchyard, set in a tree-shaded garden, and looking out on the bay. She laid her hand on the gate, glancing at Copplestone, and suddenly she spoke, a little impulsively.
“Will you come in and speak to my mother?” she said. “She was a great admirer of Mr. Oliver’s acting—and she knew him at one time. She will be interested—and grieved.”
Copplestone followed her up the garden and into the house, where she led the way into a small old-fashioned parlour in which a grey-haired woman, who had once been strikingly handsome, and whose face seemed to the visitor to bear traces of great trouble, sat writing at a bureau. She turned in surprise as her daughter led Copplestone in, but her manner became remarkably calm and collected as Audrey explained who he was and why he was there. And Copplestone, watching her narrowly, fancied that he saw interest flash into her eyes when she heard of Bassett Oliver’s remark to the fisherman. But she made no comment, and when Audrey had finished the story, she turned to
