When Chatfield had gone, Copplestone laughed and flung himself into an easy chair before the fire. Of course, the stupid, ignorant, self-sufficient old fool had come fishing for newshe and his master wanted to know what was going to be done in the way of making inquiry. But why?why so much anxiety if they knew nothing whatever about Bassett Oliver's strange disappearance? "Why this profession of eager willingness to welcome any inquiry that might be made? Nobody had accused Marston Greyle of having anything to do with Bassett Oliver's strange exitif it was an exitwhy, then
"But it's useless speculating," he mused. "I can't do anythingand here I am, with nothing to do!"
He had pleaded an engagement, but he had none, of course. There was a shelf of old books in the room, but he did not care to read. And presently, hands in pockets, he lounged out into the hall and saw Mrs. Wooler standing at the door of the little parlour into which she had shown him and Stafford earlier in the day.
"There's nobody in here, sir," she said, invitingly; "if you'd like to smoke your pipe here"
"Thank youI will," answered Copplestone. "I got rid of that old fellow," he observed confidentially when he had followed the landlady within, and had dropped into a chair near her own. "I think he had comefishing."
"That's his usual occupation," said Mrs. Wooler, with a meaning smile. "I told you he was called Peeping Peter. He's the sort of man who will have his nose in everybody's affairs. But," she added, with a shake of the head which seemed to mean a good deal more than the smile, "he doesn't often come here. This is almost the only house in Scarhaven that doesn't belong to the Greyle estate. This house, and the land round it, have belonged to the Wooler family as long as the rest of the place has belonged to the Greyles. And many a Greyle has wanted to buy it, and every Wooler has refused to sell itand always will!"
"That's very interesting," said Copplestone. "Does the present Greyle want to buy?"
The landlady picked up a piece of sewing and sat down in a chair which seemed to be purposely placed so that she could keep an eye on the adjacent bar-parlour on one side and the hall on the other.
"I don't know much about what the present Squire would like," she said. "Nobody does. He's a newcomer, and nobody knows anything about him. You saw him this afternoon?"
"I met a young lady on the sands who turned out to be his cousin, and he came up while I was talking to her," replied Copplestone. "Yes, I saw him. I'm afraid Mr. Stafford, who came in here with me, you know, offended him," he continued, and gave Mrs. Wooler an account of what had happened. "Is he rathertouchy?" he concluded.
"I don't know that he is," she said. "No one sees much of him. You see he's a stranger: although he's a Greyle, he's not a Scarhaven man. Of course, I know all his family historyI'm Scarhaven born and bred. In my time there have been three generations of Greyles. The first one I knew was this Squire's grandfather, old Mr. Stephen Greyle: he died when I was a girl in my 'teens. He had three sons and no daughters. The three sons were all different in their tastes and ideas; the eldest, Stephen John, who came into the estates on his father's death, was a real home birdhe never left Scarhaven for more than a day or two at a time all his life. And he never marriedhe was a real old bachelor, almost a woman-hater. The next one, Marcus, went out to America and settled therehe was the father of this present Squire, Mr. Marston Greyle. Then there was the third son, Valentinehe went to live in London. And years after he came back here, very poor, and settled down in a little house near Scarhaven Church with his wife and daughterthat was the daughter you met this afternoon, Miss Audrey. I don't know why, and nobody else knows, either, but the last Squire, Stephen John, never had anything to do with Valentine and his family; what's more, when Valentine died and left the widow and daughter very poorly off, Stephen John did nothing for them. But he himself died very soon after Valentine, and then of course, as Marcus had already died in America, everything came to this Mr. Marston. And, as I said, he's a stranger to Scarhaven folk and Scarhaven ways. Indeed, you might say to England and English ways, for I understand he'd never been in England until he came to take up the family property."
"Is he more friendly with the mother and daughter than the last Squire was?" asked Copplestone, who had been much interested in this chapter of family history.
Mrs. Wooler made several stitches in her sewing before she answered this direct question, and when, she spoke it was in lower tones and with a glance of caution.
"He would be, if he could!" she said. "There are those in the village who say that he wants to marry his cousin. But the truth isso far as one can see or learn itthat for some reason or other, neither Mrs. Valentine Greyle nor Miss Audrey can bear him! They took some queer dislike to the young man when he first came, and they've kept it up. Of course, they're outwardly friendly, and he occasionally, I believe, goes to the cottage, but they rarely go to the big house, and it's very seldom they're ever seen together. I have heardone does hear things in villagesthat he'd be very glad to do something handsome for them, but they're both as proud as they're poor, and not the sort to accept aught from anybody. I believe they've just enough to live on, but it can't be a great deal, for everybody knows that Valentine Greyle made ducks and drakes of his fortune long before he came back to Scarhaven, and old Stephen John only left them a few hundreds of pounds. Howeverthere it is. However much the new Squire wants to marry his cousin, it's very flat she'll not have anything to say to him. I've once or twice had an opportunity of seeing those two together, and it's my private opinion that Miss Audrey dislikes that young man just about as heartily as she possibly could!"
"What does Mr. Marston Greyle find to do with himself in this place?" asked Copplestone, turning the conversation. "Can't be very lively for him if he's a man of any activity."
"Oh, I don't know," replied Mrs. Wooler. "I think he's a good deal like his uncle, the last squirehe certainly never goes anywhere, except out to sea in his yacht. He shoots a bit, and fishes a bit, and so on, and spends a lot of time with Peeping Peterhe's a widower, is Chatfield, and lives alone, except when his daughter runs down to see him. And that daughter, bye-the-bye, Mr. Copplestone, is on the stage."
"Dear me!" said Copplestone. "That is surprising! Her father made several contemptuous references to play-actors when he was talking to me."
"Oh, he hates them, and all connected with them!" replied Mrs. Wooler, laughing. "All the same, his own daughter has been on the stage for a good five years, and I fancy she's doing well. A fine, handsome girl she is, tooshe's been down here a good deal lately, and"
The landlady suddenly paused, hearing a light step in the hall. She glanced through the window and then turned to Copplestone with an arch smile.
"Talk of theyou know," she exclaimed. "Here's Addie Chatfield herself!"
CHAPTER VI
THE LEADING LADY
Copplestone looked up with interest as the door of the private parlour was thrown open, and a tall, handsome young woman burst in with a briskness of movement which betokened unusual energy and vivacity. He got an impression of the old estate agent's daughter in one glance, and wondered how Chatfield came to have such a good-looking girl as his progeny. The impression was of dark, sparkling eyes, a mass of darker, highly-burnished hair, bright colour, a flashing vivacious smile, a fine figure, a general air of sprightliness and glowing healththis was certainly the sort of personality that would recommend itself to a considerable mass of theatre-goers, and Copplestone, as a budding dramatist, immediately began to cast Addie Chatfield for an appropriate part.
The newcomer stopped short on the threshold as she caught sight of a stranger, and she glanced with sharp inquisitiveness at Copplestone as he rose from his chair.
"Oh!I supposed you were alone, Mrs. Wooler," she exclaimed. "You usually are, you know, so I came in anyhowsorry!"
"Come in," said the landlady. "Don't go, Mr. Copplestone. This is Miss Adela Chatfield. Your father has just been to see this gentleman, Addieperhaps he told you?"
Addie Chatfield dropped into a chair at Mrs. Wooler's side, and looked the stranger over slowly and carefully.
"No," she answered. "My father didn't tell mehe doesn't tell me anything about his own affairs. All his talk is about minethe iniquity of them, and so on."
She showed a fine set of even white teeth as she made this remark, and her eyes sought Copplestone's again with a direct challenge. Copplestone looked calmly at her, half-smiling; he was beginning, in his youthful innocence, to think that he already understood this type of young woman. And seeing him smile, Addie also smiled.
"Now I wonder whatever my father wanted to see you about?" she said, with a strong accent on the personal pronoun. "For you don't look his sort, and he certainly isn't yoursunless you're deceptive."
"Perhaps I am," responded Copplestone, still keeping his eyes on her. "Your father wanted to see me about the strange disappearance of Mr. Bassett Oliver. That was all."
The girl's glance, bold and challenging, suddenly shifted before Copplestone's steady look. She half turned to Mrs. Wooler, and her colour rose a little.
"I've heard of that," she said, with an affectation of indifference. "And as I happen to know a bit of Bassett Oliver, I don't see what all this fuss is about. I should say Bassett Oliver took it into his head to go off somewhere yesterday on a little game of his own, and that he's turned up at Norcaster by this time, and is safe in his dressing-room, or on the stage. That's my notion."
"I wish I could think it the correct one," replied Copplestone. "But we can soon find out if it isthere's a telephone in the hall. YetI'm so sure that you're wrong, that I'm not even going to ring Norcaster up. Mr. Bassett Oliver hasdisappeared here!"
"Are you a member of his company?" asked Addie, again looking Copplestone over with speculative glances.
"Not at all! I'm a humble person whose play Mr. Oliver was about to produce next month, in consequence of which I came down to see him, and to find this state of affairs. Andhaving nothing else to doI'm now here to help to find himalive or dead."
"Oh!" said Addie. "Soyou're a writer?"
"I understand that you are an actress?" responded Copplestone. "I wonder if I've ever seen you anywhere?"
Addie bowed her head and gave him a sharp glance.
"Evidently not!" she retorted. "Or you wouldn't wonder! As if anybody could forget me, once they'd seen me! I believe you're pulling my leg, though. Do you live in town?"
"I live," replied Copplestone slowly and with affected solemnity, "in chambers in Jermyn Street."
"And do you mean to tell me that you didn't see me last year in The Clever Lady Hartletop?" she exclaimed.
Copplestone put the tips of his fingers together and his head on one side and regarded her critically.
"What part did you play?" he asked innocently.
"Part? Why, the part, of course!" she retorted. "Goodness! Why, I created it! And played it to crowded houses for nearly two hundred nights, too!"
"Ah!" said Copplestone. "But I'll make a confession to you. I rarely visit the theatre. I never saw Lady Hartletop. I haven't been in a theatre of any sort for two years. So you must forgive me. I congratulate you on your success."
Addie received this tribute with a mollified smile, which changed to a glance of surprised curiosity.
"You never go to the theatre?and yet you write plays!" she exclaimed. "That's queer, isn't it? But I believe writing people are queerthey look it, anyhow. All the same, you don't look like a writerwhat does he look like, Mrs. Wooler? Oh, I knowa sort of nice little officer boy, just washed and tidied up!"
The landlady, who had evidently enjoyed this passage at arms, laughed as she gave Copplestone a significant glance.
"And when did you come down home, Addie?" she asked quietly. "I didn't know you were here again."
"Came down Saturday night," said Addie. "I'm on my way to Edinburghbusiness there on Wednesday. So I broke the journey herejust to pay my respects to my worshipful parent."
"I think I heard you say that you knew Mr. Bassett Oliver?" asked Copplestone. "You've met him?"
"Met him in this country and in America," replied Addie, calmly. "He was on tour over there when I wasthree years ago. We were in two or three towns together at the same timedifferent houses, of course. I never saw much of him in London, though."
"You didn't see anything of him yesterday, here?" suggested Copplestone.
Addie stared and glanced at the landlady.
"Here?" she exclaimed. "Goodness, no! When I'm here of a Sunday, I lie in bed all day, or most of it. Otherwise, I'd have to walk with my parent to the family pew. Nomy Sundays are days of rest! You really think this disappearance is serious?"
"Oliver's managerswho know him best, of coursethink it most serious," replied Copplestone. "They say that nothing but an accident of a really serious nature would have kept him from his engagements."
"Then that settles it!" said Addie. "He's fallen down the Devil's Spout. Plain as plain can be, that! He's made his way there, been a bit too daring, and slipped over the edge. And whoever falls in there never comes out again!isn't that it, Mrs. Wooler?"
"That's what they say," answered the landlady.
"But I don't remember any accident at the Devil's Spout in my time."
"Well, there's been one now, anywaythat's flat," remarked Addie. "Poor old BassettI'm sorry for him! Well, I'm off. Good-night, Mr. Copplestoneand perhaps you'll so far overcome your repugnance to the theatre as to come and see me in one some day?"
"Supposing I escort you homeward insteadnow?" suggested Copplestone. "That will at least show that I am ready to become your devoted"
"Admirer, I suppose," said Addie. "I'm afraid he's not quite as innocent as he looks, Mrs. Wooler. Wellyou can escort me as far as the gates of the park, thenI daren't take you further, because it's so dark in there that you'd surely lose your way, and then there'd be a second disappearance and all sorts of complications."
She went out of the inn, laughing and chattering, but once outside she suddenly became serious, and she involuntarily laid her hand on Copplestone's arm as they turned down the hillside towards the quay.
"I say!" she said in a low voice. "I wasn't going to ask questions in there, butwhat's going to be done about this Oliver affair? Of course you're stopping here to do something. What?"
Copplestone hesitated before answering this direct question. He had not seen anything which would lead him to suppose that Miss Adela Chatfield was a disingenuous and designing young woman, but she was certainly Peeping Peter's daughter, and the old man, having failed to get anything out of Copplestone himself, might possibly have sent her to see what she could accomplish. He replied noncommittally.
"I'm not in a position to do anything," he said. "I'm not a relativenot even a personal friend. I daresay you know that Bassett Oliver wasone's already talking of him in the past tense!the brother of Rear-Admiral Sir Cresswell Oliver, the famous seaman?"
"I knew he was a man of what they call family, but I didn't know that," she answered. "What of it?"