some other way. What
shall we do?"

"You're the guide, conductress, general boss!" answered Copplestone.
"Shall I suggest something that sounds very material, though? Well, then,
can't we go along these cliffs to some village where we can find a nice
old fishing inn and get a simple lunch of some sort?"

"That's certainly material and eminently practical," laughed Audrey. "We
can--that place, along there to the south--Lenwick. And so, come on--and
no more talk of Squire and agent. I've a remarkable facility in throwing
away unpleasant things."

"It's a grand faculty--and I'll try to imitate you," said Copplestone.
"So--today's our own, eh? Is that it?"

"Say until the middle of this afternoon," responded Audrey. "Don't forget
that I have a mother at home."

It was, however, well past the middle of the afternoon when these two
returned to Scarhaven, very well satisfied with themselves. They had
found plenty to talk about without falling back on Marston Greyle, or
Peter Chatfield, or the event of the morning, and Copplestone suddenly
remembered, almost with compunction, that he had been so engrossed in
his companion that he had almost forgotten the Oliver mystery. But that
was sharply recalled to him as he entered the "Admiral's Arms." Mrs.
Wooler came forward from her parlour with a mysterious smile on her
good-looking face.

"Here's a billet-doux for you, Mr. Copplestone," she said. "And I can't
tell you who left it. One of the girls found it lying on the hall table
an hour ago." With that she handed Copplestone a much thumbed, very
grimy, heavily-sealed envelope.

CHAPTER IX

HOBKIN'S HOLE

Copplestone carried the queer-looking missive into his private
sitting-room and carefully examined it, back and front, before slitting
it open. The envelope was of the cheapest kind, the big splotch of red
wax at the flap had been pressed into flatness by the summary method of
forcing a coarse-grained thumb upon it; the address was inscribed in
ill-formed characters only too evidently made with difficulty by a bad
pen, which seemed to have been dipped into watery ink at every third or
fourth letter. And it read thus:--

"THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN STAYING AT 'THE ADMIRAL'--PRIVATE"

The envelope contained nothing but a scrap of paper obviously torn from a
penny cash book. No ink had been used in transcribing the two or three
lines which were scrawled across this scrap--the vehicle this time was an
indelible pencil, w