MR. DENNIE
Amongst the little group of actors and actresses who had come over from
Norcaster to hear all that was to be told concerning their late manager,
sat an old gentleman who, hands folded on the head of his walking cane,
and chin settled on his hands, watched the proceedings with silent and
concentrated attention. He was a striking figure of an old
gentleman--tall, distinguished-looking, handsome, with a face full of
character, the strong lines and features of which were further
accentuated by his silvery hair. He was a smart old gentleman, too, well
and scrupulously attired and groomed, and his blue bird's-eye necktie,
worn at a rakish angle, gave him the air of something of a sporting man
rather than of a follower of Thespis. His fellow members of the Oliver
company seemed to pay him great attention, and at various points of the
proceedings whispered questions to him as to an acknowledged authority.
This old gentleman, when the inquest came to its extraordinary end and
the crowd went out murmuring and disputing, separated himself from his
companions and made his way towards Mrs. Greyle and her daughter, who
were quietly setting out homewards. To Audrey's surprise the two elders
shook hands in silence, and inspected each other with a palpable
wistfulness of look.
"And yet it's twenty-five years since we met, isn't it?" said the old
gentleman, almost as if he were talking to himself. "But I knew you at
once--I was wondering if you remembered me?"
"Why, of course," responded Mrs. Greyle. "Besides, I've had an
advantage over you. I've seen you, you know, several times--at
Norcaster. We go to the theatre now and then. Audrey--this is Mr.
Dennie--you've seen him, too."
"On the stage--on the stage!" murmured the old actor, as he shook hands
with the girl. "Um!--I wonder if any of us are ever really off it! This
affair, for instance--there's a drama for you! By the-bye--this young
Squire--he's your relation, of course?"
"My nephew-in-law, and Audrey's cousin," replied Mrs. Greyle. Mr. Dennie,
who had walked along with them towards their cottage, stopped in a quiet
stretch of the quay, and looked meditatively at Audrey.
"Then this young lady," he said, "is next heir to the Greyle estates, eh?
For I understand this present Squire isn't married. Therefore--"
"Oh, that's something that isn't worth thinking about," replied Mrs.
Greyle hastily. "Don't put such notions into the girl's head, Mr. Dennie.
Besides, the Greyle estates are not entailed, you know. The present owner
can do what he pleases with them--besides that, he's sure to marry."
"All the same," observed Mr. Dennie, imperturbably, "if this young man
had not been in existence, this child would have succeeded, eh?"
"Why, of course," agreed Mrs. Greyle a little impatiently. "But what's
the use of talking about that, my old friend! The young man is in
possession--and there you are!"
"Do you like the young man?" asked Mr. Dennie. "I take an old fellow's
privilege in asking direct questions, you know. And--though we haven't
seen each other for all these years--you can say anything to me."
"No, we don't," replied Mrs. Greyle. "And we don't know why we don't--so
there's a woman's answer for you. Kinsfolk though we are, we see little
of each other."
Mr. Dennie made no remark on this. He walked along at Audrey's side,
apparently in deep thought, and suddenly he looked across at her mother.
"What do you think about this extraordinary story of Bassett Oliver's
having met a Marston Greyle over there in America?" he asked abruptly.
"What do people here think about it?"
"We're not in a position to hear much of what other people think,"
answered Mrs. Greyle. "What I think is that if this Marston Greyle ever
did meet such a very notable and noticeable man as Bassett Oliver it's a
very, very strange thing that he's forgotten all about it!"
Mr. Dennie laughed quietly.
"Aye, aye!" he said. "But--don't you think we folk of the profession are
a little bit apt to magnify our own importance? You say 'Bless me, how
could anybody ever forget an introduction to Bassett Oliver!' But we must
remember that to some people even a famous actor is of no more importance
than--shall we say a respectable grocer? Marston Greyle may be one of
those people--it's quite possible he may have been introduced, quite
casually, to Oliver at some club, or gathering, something-or-other, over
there and have quite forgotten all about it. Quite possible, I think."
"I agree with you as to the possibility, but certainly not as to the
probability," said Mrs. Greyle, dryly. "Bassett Oliver was the sort of
man whom nobody would forget. But here we are at our cottage--you'll come
in, Mr. Dennie?"
"It will only have to be for a little time, my dear lady," said the old
actor, pulling out his watch. "Our people are going back very soon, and I
must join them at the station."
"I'll give you a glass of good old wine," said Mrs. Greyle as they went
into the cottage. "I have some that belonged to my father-in-law, the old
Squire. You must taste it--for old times' sake."
Mr. Dennie followed Audrey into the little parlour as Mrs. Greyle
disappeared to another part of the house. And the instant they were
alone, he tapped the girl's arm and gave her a curiously warning look.
"Hush, my dear!" he whispered. "Not a word--don't want your mother to
know! Listen--have you a specimen--letter--anything--of your cousin, the
Squire's handwriting? Anything so long as it's his. You have? Give it to
me--say nothing to your mother. Wait until tomorrow morning. I'll run
over to see you again--about noon. It's important--but silence!"
Audrey, scarcely understanding the old man's meaning, opened a desk and
drew out one or two letters. She selected one and handed it to Mr.
Dennie, who made haste to put it away before Mrs. Greyle returned. He
gave Audrey another warning look.
"That was what I wanted!" he said mysteriously. "I thought of it during
the inquest. Never mind why, just now--you shall know tomorrow."
He lingered a few minutes, chatting to his hostess about old times as he
sipped the old Squire's famous port; then he went off to the little
station, joined Stafford and his fellow actors and actresses, and
returned with them to Norcaster. And at Norcaster Mr. Dennie separated
himself from the rest and repaired to his quiet lodgings--rooms which he
had occupied for many years in succession whenever he went that way on
tour--and once safely bestowed in them he pulled out a certain
old-fashioned trunk, which he had owned since boyhood and lugged about
wherever he went in two continents, and from it, after much methodical
unpacking, he disinterred a brown paper parcel, neatly tied up with green
ribbon. From this parcel he drew a thin packet of typed matter and a
couple of letters--the type script he laid aside, the letters he opened
out on his table. Then he took from his pocket the letter which Audrey
Greyle had given him and put it side by side with those taken from the
parcel. And after one brief glance at all three Mr. Dennie made
typescript and letters up again into a neat packet, restored them to his
trunk, locked them up, and turned to the two hours' rest which he always
took before going to the theatre for his evening's work.
He was back at Scarhaven by eleven o'clock the next morning, with his
neat packet under his arm and he held it up significantly to Audrey who
opened the door of the cottage to him.
"Something to show you," he said with a quiet smile as he walked in.
"To show you and your mother." He stopped short on the threshold of the
little parlour, where Copplestone was just then talking to Mrs. Greyle.
"Oh!" he said, a little disappointedly, "I hoped to find you
alone--I'll wait."
Mrs. Greyle explained who Copplestone was, and Mr. Dennie immediately
brightened. "Of course--of course!" he explained. "I know! Glad to meet
you, Mr. Copplestone--you don't know me, but I know you--or your
work--well enough. It was I who read and recommended your play to our
poor dear friend. It's a little secret, you know," continued Mr. Dennie,
laying his packet on the table, "but I have acted for a great many years
as Bassett Oliver's literary adviser--taster, you might say. You know, he
had a great number of plays sent to him, of course, and he was a very
busy man, and he used to hand them over to me in the first place, to take
a look at, a taste of, you know, and if I liked the taste, why, then he
took a mouthful himself, eh? And that brings me to the very point, my
dear ladies and my dear young gentleman, that I have come specially to
Scarhaven this morning to discuss. It's a very, very serious matter
indeed," he went on as he untied his packet of papers, "and I fear that
it's only the beginning of something more serious. Come round me here at
this table, all of you, if you please."
The other three drew up chairs, each wondering what was coming, and
the old actor resumed his eyeglasses and gave obvious signs of
making a speech.
"Now I want you all to attend to me, very closely," he said. "I shall
have to go into a detailed explanation, and you will very soon see what
I am after. As you may be aware, I have been a personal friend of
Bassett Oliver for some years, and a member of his company without break
for the last eight years. I accompanied Bassett Oliver on his two trips
to the United States--therefore, I was with him when he was last there,
years ago.
"Now, while we were at Chicago that time, Bassett came to me one day with
the typescript of a one-act play and told me that it had been sent to him
by a correspondent signing himself Marston Greyle; who in a covering
letter, said that he sprang from an old English family, and that the play
dealt with a historic, romantic episode in its history. The principal
part, he believed, was one which would suit Bassett--therefore he begged
him to consider the matter. Bassett asked me to read the play, and I took
it away, with the writer's letter, for that purpose. But we were just
then very busy, and I had no opportunity of reading anything for a time.
Later on, we went to St. Louis, and there, of course, Bassett, as usual,
was much fêted and went out a great deal, lunching with people and so on.
One day he came to me, 'By-the-bye, Dennie!' he said, 'I met that Mr.
Marston Greyle today who sent me that romantic one-act thing. He wanted
to know if I'd read it, and I had to confess that it was in your hands.
Have you looked at it?' I, too, had to confess--I hadn't. 'Well,' said
he, 'read it and let me know what you think--will it suit me?' I made
time to read the little play during the following week, and I told
Bassett that I didn't think it would suit him, but I felt sure it might
suit Montagu Gaines, who plays just such parts. Bassett thereupon wrote
to the author and said what I, his reader, thought, and kindly offered,
as he knew Gaines intimately, to show the little work to him on his
return to England. And this Mr. Marston Greyle wrote back, thanking
Bassett warmly and accepting his kind offer. Accordingly, I brought the
play with me to England. Montagu Gaines, however, had just set off on a
two years' tour to Australia--consequently, the play and the author's two
letters have remained in my possession ever since. And--here they are!"
Mr. Dennie laid his hand dramatically on his packet, looked significantly
at his audience, and went on.
"Now, when I heard all that I did hear at that inquest yesterday," he
said, "I naturally remembered that I had in my possession two letters
which were undoubtedly written to Bassett Oliver by a young man named
Marston Greyle, whom Oliver--just as undoubtedly!--had personally met in
St. Louis. And so when the inquest was over, Mr. Copplestone, I recalled
myself to Mrs. Greyle here, whom I had known many years ago, and I walked
back to this house with her and her charming daughter, and--don't be
angry, Mrs. Greyle--while the mother's back was turned--on hospitable
thoughts intent--I got the daughter to lend me--secretly--a letter
written by the present Squire of Scarhaven. Armed with that, I went home
to my lodgings in Norcaster, found the letter written by the American
Marston Greyle, and compared it with them. And--here is the result!"
The old actor selected the two American letters from his papers, laid
them out on the table, and placed the letter which Audrey had given him
beside them.
"Now!" he said, as his three companions bent eagerly over these exhibits,
"Look at those three letters. All bear the same signature, Marston
Greyle--but the hand-writing of those two is as different from that of
this one as chalk is from cheese!"