"Bring him in," said Copplestone. He was by no means averse to having a companion, and Mrs. Wooler's graphic characterization had awakened his curiosity. "Tell him I shall be glad to see him."
Mrs. Wooler presently ushered in a figure which Copplestone's dramatic sense immediately seized on. He saw before him a tall, heavily-built man, with a large, solemn, deeply-lined face, out of which looked a pair of the smallest and slyest eyes ever seen in a human beingqueer, almost hidden eyes, set beneath thick bushy eyebrows above which rose the dome of an unusually high forehead and a bald head. As for the rest of him, Mr. Peter Chatfield had a snub nose, a wide slit of a mouth, and a flabby hand; his garments were of a Quaker kind in cut and hue; he wore old-fashioned stand-up collars and a voluminous black stock; in one hand he carried a stout oaken staff, in the other a square-crowned beaver hat; altogether, his mere outward appearance would have gained notice for him anywhere, and Copplestone rejoiced in him as a character. He rose, greeted his visitor cordially, and invited him to a seat by the fire. The estate agent settled his heavy figure comfortably, and made a careful inspection of the young stranger before he spoke. At last he leaned forward.
"Sir!" he whispered in a confidential tone. "Do you consider this here a matter of murder?"
CHAPTER V
THE GREYLE HISTORY
If Copplestone had followed his first natural impulse, he would have laughed aloud at this solemnly propounded question: as it was, he found it difficult to content himself with a smile.
"Isn't it a little early to arrive at any conclusion, of any sort, Mr. Chatfield?" he asked. "You haven't made up your own mind, surely?" Chatfield pursed up his long thin lips and shook his head, continuing to stare fixedly at Copplestone.
"Now I may have, and I may not have, mister," he said at last, suddenly relaxing. "What I was asking of waswhat might you consider?"
"I don't consider at allyet," answered Copplestone. "It's too soon. Let me offer you a glass of claret."
"Many thanks to you, sir, but it's too cold for my stomach," responded the visitor. "A drop of gin, now, is more in my line, since you're so kind. Ah, well, in any case, sir, this here is a very unfortunate affair. I'm a deal upset by itI am indeed!"
Copplestone rang the bell, gave orders for Mr. Chatfield's suitable entertainment with gin and cigars, and making an end of his dinner, drew up a chair to the fire opposite his visitor.
"You are upset, Mr. Chatfield?" he remarked. "Now, why?"
Chatfield sipped his gin and water, and flourished a cigar with a comprehensive wave of his big fat hand.
"Oh, in general, sir!" he said. "Things like this here are not pleasant to have in a quiet, respectable community like ours. There's very wicked people in this world, mister, and they will not control what's termed the unruly member. They will talk. You'll excuse me, but I doubt not that I'm a good deal more than twice your age, and I've learnt experience. My experience, sir, is that a wise man holds his tongue until he's called upon to use it. Now, in my opinion, it was a very unwise thing of yon there sea-going man, Ewbank, to say that this unfortunate play-actor told him that he'd met our Squire in Americavery unfortunate!"
Copplestone pricked his ears. Had the estate agent come there to tell him that? And if so, why?
"Oh!" he said. "You've heard that, have you? Now who told you that, Mr. Chatfield? For I don't think that's generally known."
"If you knew this here village, mister, as well as what I do," replied Chatfield coolly, "you'd know that there is known all over the place by this time. The constable told me, and of course yon there man, Ewbank, he'll have told it all round since he had that bit of talk with you and your friend. He'll have been in to every public there is in Scarhaven, repeating of it. And a very, very serious complexion, of course, could be put on them words, sir."
"How?" asked Copplestone.
"Put it to yourself, sir," replied Chatfield. "The unfortunate man comes here, tells Ewbank he knew Mr. Greyle in that far-away land, says he'll call on him, is seen going towards the big houseand is never seen no more! Why, sir, what does human naturewhich is wickedsay?"
"What does your human naturewhich I'm sure is not wicked, say?" suggested Copplestone. "Come, now!"
"What I say, sir, is neither here nor there," answered the agent. "It's what evil-disposed tongues says."
"But they haven't said anything yet," said Copplestone.
"I should say they've said a deal, sir," responded Chatfield, lugubriously. "I know Scarhaven tongues. They'll have thrown out a deal of suspicious talk about the Squire."
"Have you seen Mr. Greyle?" asked Copplestone. He was already sure that the agent was there with a purpose, and he wanted to know its precise nature. "Is he concerned about this?"
"I have seen Mr. Greyle, mister, and he is concerned about what yon man, Ewbank, related," replied Chatfield. "Mr. Greyle, sir, came straight to meI reside in a residence within the park. Mr. Greyle, mister, says that he has no recollection whatever of meeting this play-actor person in Americahe may have done and he mayn't. But he doesn't remember him, and it isn't likely he shouldhim, an English landlord and a gentleman wouldn't be very like to remember a play-actor person that's here today and gone tomorrow! I hope I give no offence, sirmaybe you're a play-actor yourself."
"I am not," answered Copplestone. He sat staring at his visitor for awhile, and when he spoke again his voice had lost its cordial tone. "Well," he said, "and what have you called on me about?"
Chatfield looked up sharply, noticing the altered tone.
"To tell youand them as you no doubt representthat Mr. Greyle will be glad to help in any possible way towards finding out something in this here affair," he answered. "He'll welcome any inquiry that's opened."
"Oh!" said Copplestone. "I see! But you're making a mistake, Mr. Chatfield. I don't represent anybody. I'm not even a relation of Mr. Bassett Oliver. In fact, I never met Mr. Oliver in my life: never spoke to him. SoI'm not here in any representative or official sense."
Chatfield's small eyes grew smaller with suspicious curiosity.
"Oh?" he said questioningly. "Thenwhat might you be here for, mister?"
Copplestone stood up and rang the bell.
"That's my business." he answered. "Sorry I can't give you any more time," he went on as Mrs. Wooler opened the door. "I'm engaged now. If you or Mr. Greyle want to see Mr. Oliver's friends I believe his brother, Sir Cresswell Oliver, will be here tomorrowhe's been wired for anyhow."
Chatfield's mouth opened as he picked up his hat. He stared at this self-assured young man as if he were something quite new to him.
"Sir Cresswell Oliver!" he exclaimed. "Did you say, sir?"
"I said Sir Cresswell Oliverquite plainly," answered Copplestone.
Chatfield's mouth grew wider.
"You don't mean to tell me that a play-actor's own brother to a titled gentleman!" he said.
"Good-night!" replied Copplestone, motioning his visitor towards the door. "I can't give you any more time, really. However, as you seem anxious, Mr. Bassett Oliver is the younger brother of Rear-Admiral Sir Cresswell Oliver, Baronet, and I should imagine that Sir Cresswell will want to know a lot about what's become of him. So you'd betteror Mr. Greyle had betterspeak to him. Now once moregood-night."
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