s 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 better--or Mr.
Greyle had better--speak to him. Now once more--good-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 news--he 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 exit--if it
was an exit--why, then--

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

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

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

"Thank you--I will," answered Copplestone. "I got rid of that old
fellow," he observed confidentially when he had followed the landlady
within, and had dropped into a chair near her own. "I think he had
come--fishing."

"That's his usual occupation," said Mrs. Wooler, with a meaning smile. "I
told you he was called Peeping Peter. He's the sort of man who will have
his nose in everybody's affairs. But," she added, with a shake of the
head which seemed to mean a good deal more than the smile, "he doesn't
often come here. This is almost the only house in Scarhaven that doesn't
belong to the Greyle estate. This house, and the land round it, have
belonged to the Wooler family as long as the rest of the place has
belonged to the Greyles. And many a Greyle has wanted to buy it, and
every Wooler has refused to sell it--and always will!"

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

The landlady picked up a piece of sewing and sat down in a chair which
seemed to be purposely placed so that she could keep an eye on the
adjacent bar-parlour on one side a