?"

"No good," replied Stafford, shaking his head. "The 'Golden Apple' isn't
on the 'phone--old-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 sanctum--he'll keep an eye
on them till you want them--I suppose you'll stop at the 'Angel' with
Oliver. Look here!" he went on, turning to the cab driver, "just you wait
a bit--I 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
him--how 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 theatre--I 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