Copplestone drew some letters and papers from his pocket and selected one. "That's it," he said. "There you aresent off from Northborough at nine-thirty, yesterday morningSunday."
"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 'phoneold-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 sanctumhe'll keep an eye on them till you want themI suppose you'll stop at the 'Angel' with Oliver. Look here!" he went on, turning to the cab driver, "just you wait a bitI 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 himhow 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 straight here to the theatreI didn't call in at the 'Angel' at all this morning."
"Did he say anything about his own movements yesterday?" asked Stafford. "Did he tell you that he was going anywhere?"
"Not a word, Mr. Stafford," replied Hackett. "But you know his habits as well as I do."
"Just so," agreed Stafford. "Mr. Oliver," he continued, turning to Copplestone, "is a great lover of outdoor life. On Sundays, when we're travelling from one town to another, he likes to do the journey by motoralone. In a case like this, where the two towns are not very far apart, it's his practice to find out if there's any particular beauty spot or place of interest between them, and to spend his Sunday there. I daresay that's what he did yesterday. You see, all last week we were at Northborough. That, like Norcaster, is a coast townthere's fifty miles between them. If he followed out his usual plan he'd probably hire a motor-car and follow the coast-road, and if he came to any place that was of special interest, he'd stop there. Butin the usual way of thingshe'd have turned up at his rooms at the 'Angel' hotel here last night. He didn'tand he hasn't turned up here, either. So where is he?"
"Have you made inquiries of the company, Mr. Stafford?" asked Hackett. "Most of 'em wander about a bit of a Sundaythey might have seen him."
"Good idea!" agreed Stafford. He beckoned Copplestone to follow him on to the stage, where the members of the company sat or stood about in groups, each conscious that something unusual had occurred. "It's really a queer, and perhaps a serious thing," he whispered as he steered his companion through a maze of scenery. "And if Oliver doesn't turn up, we shall be in a fine mess. Of course, there's an understudy for his part, butI say!" he went on, as they stepped upon the stage, "Have any of you seen Mr. Oliver, anywhere, since Saturday night? Can anybody tell anything about himanything at all? Becauseit's useless to deny the facthe's not come here, and he's not come to town at all, so far as we know. So"
Rothwell came hurrying on to the stage from the opposite wings. He hastened across to Stafford and drew him and Copplestone a little aside.
"I've heard from Northborough," he said. "I 'phoned Waters, the manager there, to run across to the 'Golden Apple' and make inquiries. The 'Golden Apple' people say that Oliver left there at eleven o'clock yesterday morning. He was alone. He simply walked out of the hotel. And they know nothing more."
CHAPTER II
GREY ROCK AND GREY SEA
The three men stood for a while silently looking at each other. Copplestone, as a stranger, secretly wondered why the two managers seemed so concerned; to him a delay of half an hour in keeping an appointment did not appear to be quite as serious as they evidently considered it. But he had never met Bassett Oliver, and knew nothing of his ways; he only began to comprehend matters when Rothwell turned to Stafford with an air of decision.
"Look here!" he said. "You'd better go and make inquiry at Northborough. See if you can track him. Something must be wrongperhaps seriously wrong. You don't quite understand, do you, Mr. Copplestone?" he went on, giving the younger man a sharp glance. "You see, we know Mr. Oliver so wellwe've both been with him a good many years. He's a model of system, regularity, punctuality, and all the rest of it. In the ordinary course of events, wherever he spent yesterday, he'd have been sure to turn up at his rooms at the 'Angel' hotel last night, and he'd have walked in here this morning at half-past twelve. As he hasn't done either, why, then, something unusual has happened. Stafford, you'd better get a move on."
"Wait a minute," said Stafford. He turned again to the groups behind him, repeating his question.
"Has anybody anything to tell?" he asked anxiously. "We've just heard that Mr. Oliver left his hotel at Northborough yesterday morning at eleven o'clock, alone, walking. Has anybody any idea of any project, any excursion, that he had in mind?"
An elderly man who had been in conversation with the leading lady stepped forward.
"I was talking to Oliver about the coast scenery between here and Northborough the other dayFriday," he remarked. "He'd never seen itI told him I used to know it pretty well once. He said he'd try and see something of it on Sundayyesterday, you know. And, I say" here he came closer to the two managers and lowered his voice"that coast is very wild, lonely, and a good bit dangeroussharp and precipitous cliffs. Eh?"
Rothwell clapped a hand on Stafford's arm.
"You'd really better be off to Northborough," he said with decision. "You're sure to come across traces of him. Go to the 'Golden Apple'then the station. Wire or telephone mehere. Of course, this rehearsal's off. About this eveningoh, well, a lot may happen before then. But go at onceI believe you can get expresses from here to Northborough pretty often."
"I'll go with youif I may," said Copplestone suddenly. "I might be of use. There's that cab still at the door, you knowshall we run up to the station?"
"Good!" assented Stafford. "Yes, come by all means." He turned to Rothwell for a moment. "If he should turn up here, 'phone to Waters at the Northborough theatre, won't you?" he said. "We'll look in there as soon as we arrive."
He hurried out with Copplestone and together they drove up to the station, where an express was just leaving for the south. Once on their way to Northborough, Stafford turned to his companion with a grave shake of the head.