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  CHAPTER V

  THE GREYLE HISTORY

  If Copplestone had followed his first natural impulse, he would havelaughed aloud at this solemnly propounded question: as it was, he foundit 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 tostare fixedly at Copplestone.

  "Now I may have, and I may not have, mister," he said at last, suddenlyrelaxing. "What I was asking of was--what might you consider?"

  "I don't consider at all--yet," answered Copplestone. "It's too soon. Letme offer you a glass of claret."

  "Many thanks to you, sir, but it's too cold for my stomach," respondedthe visitor. "A drop of gin, now, is more in my line, since you're sokind. Ah, well, in any case, sir, this here is a very unfortunate affair.I'm a deal upset by it--I am indeed!"

  Copplestone rang the bell, gave orders for Mr. Chatfield's suitableentertainment with gin and cigars, and making an end of his dinner, drewup 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 acomprehensive wave of his big fat hand.

  "Oh, in general, sir!" he said. "Things like this here are not pleasantto have in a quiet, respectable community like ours. There's very wickedpeople in this world, mister, and they will not control what's termed theunruly member. They will talk. You'll excuse me, but I doubt not that I'ma good deal more than twice your age, and I've learnt experience. Myexperience, sir, is that a wise man holds his tongue until he's calledupon to use it. Now, in my opinion, it was a very unwise thing of yonthere sea-going man, Ewbank, to say that this unfortunate play-actor toldhim that he'd met our Squire in America--very unfortunate!"

  Copplestone pricked his ears. Had the estate agent come there to tell himthat? 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," repliedChatfield coolly, "you'd know that there is known all over the place bythis 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 andyour 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 beput on them words, sir."

  "How?" asked Copplestone.

  "Put it to yourself, sir," replied Chatfield. "The unfortunate man comeshere, tells Ewbank he knew Mr. Greyle in that far-away land, says he'llcall on him, is seen going towards the big house--and is never seen nomore! Why, sir, what does human nature--which is wicked--say?"

  "What does your human nature--which I'm sure is not wicked, say?"suggested Copplestone. "Come, now!"

  "What I say, sir, is neither here nor there," answered the agent. "It'swhat 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 dealof suspicious talk about the Squire."

  "Have you seen Mr. Greyle?" asked Copplestone. He was already sure thatthe agent was there with a purpose, and he wanted to know its precisenature. "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 tome--I reside in a residence within the park. Mr. Greyle, mister, saysthat he has no recollection whatever of meeting this play-actor person inAmerica--he may have done and he mayn't. But he doesn't remember him, andit isn't likely he should--him, an English landlord and a gentlemanwouldn't be very like to remember a play-actor person that's here todayand gone tomorrow! I hope I give no offence, sir--maybe you're aplay-actor yourself."

  "I am not," answered Copplestone. He sat staring at his visitor forawhile, 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 you--and them as you no doubt represent--that Mr. Greyle will beglad to help in any possible way towards finding out something in thishere 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 spoketo him. So--I'm not here in any representative or official sense."

  Chatfield's small eyes grew smaller with suspicious curiosity.

  "Oh?" he said questioningly. "Then--what 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 moretime," he went on as Mrs. Wooler opened the door. "I'm engaged now. Ifyou or Mr. Greyle want to see Mr. Oliver's friends I believe his brother,Sir Cresswell Oliver, will be here tomorrow--he's been wired for anyhow."

  Chatfield's mouth opened as he picked up his hat. He stared at thisself-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 Oliver--quite plainly," answered Copplestone.

  Chatfield's mouth grew wider.

  "You don't mean to tell me that a play-actor's own brother to a titledgentleman!" he said.

  "Good-night!" replied Copplestone, motioning his visitor towards thedoor. "I can't give you any more time, really. However, as you seemanxious, Mr. Bassett Oliver is the younger brother of Rear-Admiral SirCresswell Oliver, Baronet, and I should imagine that Sir Cresswell willwant to know a lot about what's become of him. So you'd better--or Mr.Greyle had better--speak to him. Now once more--good-night."

  When Chatfield had gone, Copplestone laughed and flung himself into aneasy chair before the fire. Of course, the stupid, ignorant,self-sufficient old fool had come fishing for news--he and his masterwanted 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 BassettOliver's strange disappearance? "Why this profession of eager willingnessto welcome any inquiry that might be made? Nobody had accused MarstonGreyle of having anything to do with Bassett Oliver's strange exit--if itwas an exit--why, then--

  "But it's useless speculating," he mused. "I can't do anything--and hereI am, with nothing to do!"

  He had pleaded an engagement, but he had none, of course. There was ashelf of old books in the room, but he did not care to read. Andpresently, hands in pockets, he lounged out into the hall and saw Mrs.Wooler standing at the door of the little parlour into which she hadshown him and Stafford earlier in the day.

  "There's nobody in here, sir," she said, invitingly; "if you'd like tosmoke your pipe here--"

  "Thank you--I will," answered Copplestone. "I got rid of that oldfellow," he observed confidentially when he had followed the landladywithin, and had dropped into a chair near her own. "I think he hadcome--fishing."

  "That's his usual occupation," said Mrs. Wooler, with a meaning smile. "Itold you he was called Peeping Peter. He's the sort of man who will havehis nose in everybody's affairs. But," she added, with a shake of thehead which seemed to mean a good deal more than the smile, "he doesn'toften come here. This is almost the only house in Scarhaven that doesn'tbelong to the Greyle estate. This house, and the land round it, havebelonged to the Wooler family as long as the rest of the place hasbelonged to the Greyles. And many a Greyle has wanted to buy it, andevery Wooler has refused to sell it--and always will!"

  "That's very interesting," said Copplestone. "Does the present Greylewant to buy?"

  The landlady picked up a piece of sewing and sat down in a chair whichseemed to be purposely placed so t
hat she could keep an eye on theadjacent 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. Yousaw him this afternoon?"

  "I met a young lady on the sands who turned out to be his cousin, and hecame up while I was talking to her," replied Copplestone. "Yes, I sawhim. 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 hadhappened. "Is he rather--touchy?" he concluded.

  "I don't know that he is," she said. "No one sees much of him. You seehe's a stranger: although he's a Greyle, he's not a Scarhaven man. Ofcourse, I know all his family history--I'm Scarhaven born and bred. In mytime there have been three generations of Greyles. The first one I knewwas this Squire's grandfather, old Mr. Stephen Greyle: he died when I wasa girl in my 'teens. He had three sons and no daughters. The three sonswere 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 bird--henever left Scarhaven for more than a day or two at a time all his life.And he never married--he was a real old bachelor, almost a woman-hater.The next one, Marcus, went out to America and settled there--he was thefather of this present Squire, Mr. Marston Greyle. Then there was thethird son, Valentine--he went to live in London. And years after he cameback here, very poor, and settled down in a little house near ScarhavenChurch with his wife and daughter--that was the daughter you met thisafternoon, Miss Audrey. I don't know why, and nobody else knows, either,but the last Squire, Stephen John, never had anything to do withValentine and his family; what's more, when Valentine died and left thewidow and daughter very poorly off, Stephen John did nothing for them.But he himself died very soon after Valentine, and then of course, asMarcus 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'dnever been in England until he came to take up the family property."

  "Is he more friendly with the mother and daughter than the last Squirewas?" asked Copplestone, who had been much interested in this chapter offamily history.

  Mrs. Wooler made several stitches in her sewing before she answered thisdirect question, and when, she spoke it was in lower tones and with aglance of caution.

  "He would be, if he could!" she said. "There are those in the village whosay that he wants to marry his cousin. But the truth is--so far as onecan see or learn it--that for some reason or other, neither Mrs.Valentine Greyle nor Miss Audrey can bear him! They took some queerdislike to the young man when he first came, and they've kept it up. Ofcourse, they're outwardly friendly, and he occasionally, I believe, goesto the cottage, but they rarely go to the big house, and it's very seldomthey're ever seen together. I have heard--one does hear things invillages--that he'd be very glad to do something handsome for them, butthey're both as proud as they're poor, and not the sort to accept aughtfrom anybody. I believe they've just enough to live on, but it can't be agreat deal, for everybody knows that Valentine Greyle made ducks anddrakes of his fortune long before he came back to Scarhaven, and oldStephen John only left them a few hundreds of pounds. However--there itis. However much the new Squire wants to marry his cousin, it's very flatshe'll not have anything to say to him. I've once or twice had anopportunity of seeing those two together, and it's my private opinionthat Miss Audrey dislikes that young man just about as heartily as shepossibly could!"

  "What does Mr. Marston Greyle find to do with himself in this place?"asked Copplestone, turning the conversation. "Can't be very lively forhim if he's a man of any activity."

  "Oh, I don't know," replied Mrs. Wooler. "I think he's a good deal likehis uncle, the last squire--he certainly never goes anywhere, except outto sea in his yacht. He shoots a bit, and fishes a bit, and so on, andspends a lot of time with Peeping Peter--he's a widower, is Chatfield, andlives alone, except when his daughter runs down to see him. And thatdaughter, bye-the-bye, Mr. Copplestone, is on the stage."

  "Dear me!" said Copplestone. "That is surprising! Her father made severalcontemptuous 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 agood five years, and I fancy she's doing well. A fine, handsome girl sheis, too--she's been down here a good deal lately, and--"

  The landlady suddenly paused, hearing a light step in the hall. Sheglanced through the window and then turned to Copplestone with anarch smile.

  "Talk of the--you know," she exclaimed. "Here's Addie Chatfield herself!"