CHAPTER XIV
BY PRIVATE TREATY
There was little need for the three deeply interested listeners to looklong at the letters--one glance was sufficient to show even a carelesseye that the hand which had written one of them had certainly not writtenthe other two. The letter which Audrey had handed to Mr. Dennie waspenned in the style commonly known as commercial--plain, commonplace,utterly lacking in the characteristics which are supposed to denoteimagination and a sense of artistry. It was the sort of caligraphy whichone comes across every day in shops and offices and banks--there wasnothing in any upstroke, downstroke or letter which lifted it from thevery ordinary. But the other two letters were evidently written by a manof literary and artistic sense, possessing imagination and a liking foreffect. It needed no expert in handwriting to declare that two totallydifferent individuals had written those letters.
"And now," observed Mr. Dennie, breaking the silence and putting intowords what each of the others was vaguely feeling, "the question is--whatdoes all this mean? To start with, Marston Greyle is a most uncommonname. Is it possible there can be two persons of that name? That, at anyrate, is the first thing that strikes me."
"It is not the first thing that strikes me," said Mrs. Greyle. She tookup the typescript which the old actor had brought in his packet, and heldits title-page significantly before him. "That is the first thing thatstrikes me!" she exclaimed. "The Marston Greyle who sent this to BassettOliver said according to your story--that he sprang from a very oldfamily in England, and that this is a dramatization of a romantic episodein its annals. Now there is no other old family in England named Greyle,and this episode is of course, the famous legend of how Prince Rupertonce sought refuge in the Keep yonder and had a love-passage with a ladyof the house. Am I right, Mr. Dennie?"
"Quite right, ma'am, quite correct," replied the old actor. "It isso--you have guessed correctly!"
"Very well, then--the Marston Greyle who wrote this, and those letters,and who met Bassett Oliver was without doubt the son of Marcus Greyle,who went to America many years ago. He was the same Marston Greyle, who,his father being dead, of course succeeded his uncle, Stephen JohnGreyle--that seems an absolute certainty. And in that case," continuedMrs. Greyle, looking earnestly from one to the other, "in that case--whois the man now at Scarhaven Keep?"
A dead silence fell on the little room. Audrey started and flushed at hermother's eager, pregnant question; Mr. Dennie sat up very erect and tooka pinch of snuff from his old-fashioned box. Copplestone pushed his chairaway from the table and began to walk about. And Mrs. Greyle continued tolook from one face to the other as if demanding a reply to her question.
"Mother!" said Audrey in a low voice. "You aren't suggesting--"
"Ahem!" interrupted Mr. Dennie. "A moment, my dear. There is nothing, Ibelieve," he continued, waxing a little oracular, "nothing like plainspeech. We are all friends--we have a common cause--justice! It may bethat justice demands our best endeavours not only as regards our deceasedfriend, Bassett Oliver, but in the interests of--this young lady. So--"
"I wish you wouldn't, Mr. Dennie!" exclaimed Audrey. "I don't like thisat all. Please don't!"
She turned, almost instinctively, to seek Copplestone's aid in repressingthe old man. But Copplestone was standing by the window, staring moodilyat the wind-swept quay beyond the garden, and Mr. Dennie waved hissnuff-box and went on.
"An old man's privilege!" he said. "In your interests, my dear. Allowme." He turned again to Mrs. Greyle. "In plain words, ma'am, you arewondering if the present holder of the estates is really what he claimsto be. Plain English, eh?"
"I am!" answered Mrs. Greyle with a distinct ring of challenge anddefiance. "And now that it comes to the truth, I have wondered that eversince he came here. There!"
"Why, mother?" asked Audrey, wonderingly.
"Because he doesn't possess a single Greyle characteristic," replied Mrs.Greyle, readily enough, "I ought to know--I married Valentine Greyle,and I knew Stephen John, and I saw plenty of both, and something of theirfather, too, and a little of Marcus before he emigrated. This man doesnot possess one single scrap of the Greyle temperament!"
Mr. Dennie put away his snuff-box and drumming on the table with hisfingers looked out of his eye corners at Copplestone who still stood withhis back to the rest, staring out of the window.
"And what," said Mr. Dennie, softly, "what--er, does our good friend Mr.Copplestone say?"
Copplestone turned swiftly, and gave Audrey a quick glance.
"I say," he answered in a sharp, business-like fashion, "that Gilling,who's stopping at the inn, you know, is walking up and down outside here,evidently looking out for me, and very anxious to see me, and with yourpermission, Mrs. Greyle, I'd like to have him in. Now that things havegot to this pitch, I'd better tell you something--I don't see any good inconcealing it longer. Gilling isn't an invalid curate at all!--he's aprivate detective. Sir Cresswell Oliver and Petherton, the solicitor,sent him down here to watch Greyle--the Squire, you know--that'sGilling's job. They suspect Greyle--have suspected him from the veryfirst--but of what I don't know. Not--not of this, I think. Anyway, theydo suspect him, and Gilling's had his eye on him ever since he came here.And I'd like to fetch Gilling in here, and I'd like him to know all thatMr. Dennie's told us. Because, don't you see, Sir Cresswell andPetherton ought to know all that, immediately, and Gilling's their man."
Audrey's brows had been gathering in lines of dismay and perplexityall the time Copplestone was talking, but her mother showed nosigns of anything but complete composure, crowned by something verylike satisfaction, and she nodded a ready acquiescence inCopplestone's proposal.
"By all means!" she responded. "Bring Mr. Gilling in at once."
Copplestone hurried out into the garden and signalled to thepseudo-curate, who came hurrying across from the quay. One glance at himshowed Copplestone that something had happened.
"Gad!--I thought I should never attract your attention!" said Gillinghastily. "Been making eyes at you for ten minutes. I say--Greyle's off!"
"Off!" exclaimed Copplestone. "How do you mean--off?"
"Left Scarhaven, anyhow--for London," replied Gilling. "An hour ago Ihappened to be at the station, buying a paper, when he drove up--luggageand man with him, so I knew he was off for some time. And I took goodcare to dodge round by the booking-office when the man took the tickets.King's Cross. So that's all right, for the time being."
"How do you mean--all right?" asked Copplestone. "I thought you were tokeep him in sight?"
"All right," repeated Gilling. "I have more eyes than these, my boy! I'vea particularly smart partner in London--name of Swallow--and he and Ihave a cypher code. So soon as the gentleman had left, I repaired to thenearest post office and wired a code message to Swallow. Swallow willmeet that train when it strikes King's Cross. And it doesn't matter ifGreyle hides himself in one of the spikes on top of the Monument orinside the lion house at the Zoo--Swallow will be there! No man ever gotaway from Swallow--once Swallow had set eyes on him."
Copplestone looked, listened, and laughed.
"Professional pride!" he said. "All right. I want you to come in herewith me--to Mrs. Greyle's. Something's happened here, too. And of such aserious nature that I've taken the liberty of telling them who and whatyou really are. You'll forgive me when you hear what it is that we'velearnt here this morning."
Gilling had looked rather doubtful at Copplestone's announcement, but heimmediately turned towards the cottage.
"Oh, well!" he said good-naturedly. "I'm sure you wouldn't have told ifyou hadn't felt there was good reason. What is this fresh news?--somethingabout--him?"
"Very much about him," answered Copplestone. "Come in."
He himself, at Mrs. Greyle's request, gave Gilling a brief account ofMr. Dennie's revelations, the old actor supplementing it with a shrewdremark or two. And then all four turned to Gilling as to an expert inthese matters.
"Queer!" observed Gilling. "Decidedly queer! There
may be someexplanation, you know: I've known stranger things than that turn out tobe perfectly straight and plain when they were gone into. But--puttingall the facts together--I don't think there's much doubt that there'ssomething considerably wrong in this case. I should like to repeat it tomy principals--I must go up to town in any event this afternoon. Betterlet me have all those documents, Mr. Dennie--I'll give you a properreceipt for them. There's something very valuable in them, anyhow."
"What?" asked Copplestone.
"The address in St. Louis from which that Marston Greyle wrote to BassettOliver." replied Gilling. "We can communicate with that address--at once.We may learn something there. But," he went on, turning to Mrs. Greyle,"I want to learn something here--and now. I want to know where and underwhat circumstances the Squire came to Scarhaven. You were here then, ofcourse, Mrs. Greyle? You can tell me?"
"He came very quietly," replied Mrs. Greyle. "Nobody in Scarhaven--unlessit was Peter Chatfield--knew of his coming. In fact, nobody in theseparts, at any rate--knew he was in England. The family solicitors inLondon may have known. But nothing was ever said or written to me, thoughmy daughter, failing this man, is the next in succession."
"I do wish you'd leave all that out, mother!" exclaimed Audrey. "Idon't like it."
"Whether you like it or not, it's the fact," said Mrs. Greyleimperturbably, "and it can't be left out. Well, as I say, no one knew theSquire had come to England, until one day Chatfield calmly walked downthe quay with him, introducing him right and left. He brought him here."
"Ah!" said Gilling. "That's interesting. Now I wonder if you found out ifhe was well up in the family history?"
"Not then, but afterwards," answered Mrs. Greyle. "He is particularlywell up in the Greyle records--suspiciously well up."
"Why suspiciously?" asked Cobblestone.
"He knows more--in a sort of antiquarian and historian fashion--thanyou'd suppose a young man of his age would," said Mrs. Greyle. "He givesyou the impression of having read it up--studied it deeply. And--hisusual tastes don't lie in that direction."
"Ah!" observed Mr. Dennie, musingly. "Bad sign, ma'am,--bad sign! Looksas if he had been--shall we say put up to overstudying his part. That'spossible! I have known men who were so anxious to be what one callsletter-perfect, Mr. Copplestone, that though they knew their parts, theydidn't know how to play them. Fact, sir!"
While the old actor was chuckling over this reminiscence, Gilling turnedquietly to Mrs. Greyle.
"I think you suspect this man?" he said.
"Frankly--yes," replied Mrs. Greyle. "I always have done, though I havesaid so little--"
"Mother!" interrupted Audrey. "Is it really worth while saying so muchnow! After all, we know nothing, and if this is all meresupposition--however," she broke off, rising and going away from thegroup, "perhaps I had better say nothing."
Copplestone too rose and followed her into the window recess.
"I say!" he said entreatingly. "I hope you don't think me interfering? Iassure you--"
"You!" she exclaimed. "Oh, no!--of course. I think you're anxious toclear things up about Mr. Oliver. But I don't want my mother dragged intoit--for a simple reason. We've got to live here--and Chatfield is avindictive man."
"You're frightened of him?" said Copplestone incredulously. "You!"
"Not for myself," she answered, giving him a warning look and glancingapprehensively at Mrs. Greyle, who was talking eagerly to Mr. Dennie andGilling. "But my mother is not as strong as she looks and it would be ablow to her to leave this place and we are the Squire's tenants, andtherefore at Chatfield's mercy. And you know that Chatfield does as helikes! Now do you understand?"
"It maddens me to think that you should be at Chatfield's mercy!"muttered Copplestone. "But do you really mean to say that if--ifChatfield thought you--that is, your mother--were mixed up in anythingrelating to the clearing up of this affair he would--"
"Drive us out without mercy," replied Audrey. "That's dead certain."
"And that your cousin would let him?" exclaimed Copplestone."Surely not!"
"I don't think the Squire has any control over Chatfield," she answered."You have seen them together."
"If that's so," said Copplestone, "I shall begin to think there issomething queer about the Squire in the way your mother suggests. Itlooks as if Chatfield had a hold on him. And in that case--"
He suddenly broke off as a smart automobile drove up to the cottage doorand set down a tall, distinguished-looking man who after a glance at thelittle house walked quickly up the garden. Audrey's face showed surprise.
"Mother!" she said, turning to Mrs. Greyle. "There's Lord Altmore here!He must want you. Or shall I go?"
Mrs. Greyle quitted the room hastily. The others heard her welcome thevisitor, lead him up the tiny hall; they heard a door shut. Audrey lookedat Copplestone.
"You've heard of Lord Altmore, haven't you?" she said. "He's ourbiggest man in these parts--he owns all the country at the back,mountains, valleys, everything. The Greyle land shuts him off from thesea. In the old days, Greyles and Altmores used to fight over theirboundaries, and--"
Mrs. Greyle suddenly showed herself again and looked at her daughter.
"Will you come here, Audrey?" she said. "You gentlemen will excuse bothof us for a few minutes?"
Mother and daughter went away, and the two young men drew up theirchairs to the table at which Mr. Dennie sat and exchanged views with himon the curious situation. Half-an-hour went by; then steps and voiceswere heard in the hall and the garden; Mrs. Greyle and Audrey were seeingtheir visitor out to his car. In a few minutes the car sped away, andthey came back to the parlour. One glance at their faces showed Gillingthat some new development had cropped up and he nudged Copplestone.
"Here is remarkable news!" said Mrs. Greyle as she went back to herchair. "Lord Altmore called to tell me of something that he thought Iought to know. It is almost unbelievable, yet it is a fact. MarstonGreyle--if he is Marston Greyle!--has offered to sell Lord Altmore theentire Scarhaven estate, by private treaty. Imagine it!--the estate whichhas belonged to the Greyles for five hundred years!"