nd Mr. Copplestone exactly what I, as my brother's representative,
wish to be done."

The two younger men waited impatiently in and about the hotel while their
elders went on their self-appointed mission. Stafford, essentially a man
of activity, speculated on their reasons for seeing the three people whom
Sir Cresswell Oliver had specifically mentioned: Copplestone was
meanwhile wondering if he could with propriety pay another visit to Mrs.
Greyle's cottage that night. It was drawing near to dusk when the two
quiet-looking, elderly gentlemen returned and summoned the younger ones
to another conference. Both looked as reserved and bland as when they had
set out, and the old seaman's voice was just as suave as ever when he
addressed them.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, "we have paid our visits, and I suppose I had
better tell you at once that we are no wiser as to actual facts than we
were when we left you earlier in the afternoon. The man Ewbank stands
emphatically by his story; Mr. Marston Greyle says that he cannot
remember any meeting with my brother in America, and that he certainly
did not call on him here on Sunday: Mrs. Valentine Greyle has not met
Bassett for a great many years. Now--there the matter stands. Of course,
it cannot rest there. Further inquiries will have to be made. Mr.
Petherton and I are going on to Norcaster this evening, and we shall have
a very substantial reward offered to any person who can give any
information about my brother. That may result in something--or in
nothing. As to my brother's business arrangements, I will go fully into
that matter with you, Mr. Stafford, at Norcaster, tomorrow. Now, Mr.
Copplestone, will you have a word or two with me in private?"

Copplestone followed the old seaman into a quiet corner of the room,
where Sir Cresswell turned on him with a smile.

"I take it," he said, "that you are a young gentleman of leisure, and
that you can abide wherever you like, eh?"

"Yes, you may take that as granted," answered Copplestone, wondering what
was coming.

"Doesn't much matter if you write your plays in Jermyn Street
or--anywhere else, eh?" questioned Sir Cresswell with a humorous smile.

"Practically, no," replied Copplestone.

Sir Cresswell tapped him on the shoulder.

"I want you to do me a favour," he said. "I shall take it as a kindness
if you will. I don't want to talk about certain ideas which Petherton and
I have about this affair, yet, anyway--not even to