Greyle had come off the _Araconda_ the night
before, and that he was passing on. No--I only gathered that they were
going to the neighbourhood of Norcaster from the fact that Mr. Greyle
asked if a journey to that place would be too much for him--he said
with a laugh, that over there in the United States a journey of five
hundred miles would be considered a mere jaunt! He was very plucky,
poor fellow, but--"

Dr. Tretheway ended with a significant shake of the head, and his two
visitors left him and went out into the autumn sunlight.

"Copplestone!" said Gilling as they walked away. "That chap--the real
Marston Greyle--is dead! That's as certain as that we're alive! And now
the next thing is to find out where he died and when. And by George,
that's going to be a big job!"

"How are you going to set about it?" asked Copplestone. "It seems as if
we were up against a blank wall, now."

"Not at all, my son!" retorted Gilling, cheerfully. "One step at a
time--that's the sure thing to go on, in my calling. We've found out a
lot here, and quickly, too. And--we know where our next step lies.
Bristol! Like looking for needles in a bundle of hay? Not a bit of it.
If those two broke their journey at Bristol, they'd have to stop at an
hotel. Well, now we'll adjourn to Bristol--bearing in mind that we're on
the track of Peter Chatfield!"

CHAPTER XVII

THE OLD PLAYBILL

Gilling's cheerful optimism was the sort of desirable quality that is a
good thing to have, but all the optimism in the world is valueless in
face of impregnable difficulty. And the difficulty of tracing Chatfield
and his sick companion in a city the size of Bristol did indeed seem
impregnable when Gilling and Copplestone had been attacking it for
twenty-four hours. They had spent a whole day in endeavouring to get
news; they had gone in and out of hotels until they were sick of the
sight of one; they had made exhaustive inquiries at the railway station
and of the cabmen who congregated there; nobody remembered anything at
all about a big, heavy-faced man and a man in his company who seemed to
be very ill. And on the second night Copplestone intimated plainly that
in his opinion they were wasting their time.

"How do we even know that they ever came to Bristol?" he asked, as he and
Gilling refreshed themselves with a much needed dinner. "The Falmouth
landlord saw Chatfield take tickets for Bristol! That's nothing to go on!
Put it to yourself in this