BY PRIVATE TREATY
There was little need for the three deeply interested listeners to look
long at the letters--one glance was sufficient to show even a careless
eye that the hand which had written one of them had certainly not written
the other two. The letter which Audrey had handed to Mr. Dennie was
penned in the style commonly known as commercial--plain, commonplace,
utterly lacking in the characteristics which are supposed to denote
imagination and a sense of artistry. It was the sort of caligraphy which
one comes across every day in shops and offices and banks--there was
nothing in any upstroke, downstroke or letter which lifted it from the
very ordinary. But the other two letters were evidently written by a man
of literary and artistic sense, possessing imagination and a liking for
effect. It needed no expert in handwriting to declare that two totally
different individuals had written those letters.
"And now," observed Mr. Dennie, breaking the silence and putting into
words what each of the others was vaguely feeling, "the question is--what
does all this mean? To start with, Marston Greyle is a most uncommon
name. Is it possible there can be two persons of that name? That, at any
rate, is the first thing that strikes me."
"It is not the first thing that strikes me," said Mrs. Greyle. She took
up the typescript which the old actor had brought in his packet, and held
its title-page significantly before him. "That is the first thing that
strikes me!" she exclaimed. "The Marston Greyle who sent this to Bassett
Oliver said according to your story--that he sprang from a very old
family in England, and that this is a dramatization of a romantic episode
in 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 Rupert
once sought refuge in the Keep yonder and had a love-passage with a lady
of the house. Am I right, Mr. Dennie?"
"Quite right, ma'am, quite correct," replied the old actor. "It is
so--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 John
Greyle--that seems an absolute certainty. And in that case," continued
Mrs. Greyle, looking earnestly from one to the other, "in that case--who
is the man now at Scarhaven Keep?"
A dead silence fell on the little room. Audrey started and flushed at her
mother's eager, pregnant question; Mr. Dennie sat up very erect and took
a pinch of snuff from his old-fashioned box. Copplestone pushed his chair
away from the table and began to walk about. And Mrs. Greyle continued to
look 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, I
believe," he continued, waxing a little oracular, "nothing like plain
speech. We are all friends--we have a common cause--justice! It may be
that justice demands our best endeavours not only as regards our deceased
friend, Bassett Oliver, but in the interests of--this young lady. So--"
"I wish you wouldn't, Mr. Dennie!" exclaimed Audrey. "I don't like this
at all. Please don't!"
She turned, almost instinctively, to seek Copplestone's aid in repressing
the old man. But Copplestone was standing by the window, staring moodily
at the wind-swept quay beyond the garden, and Mr. Dennie waved his
snuff-box and went on.
"An old man's privilege!" he said. "In your interests, my dear. Allow
me." He turned again to Mrs. Greyle. "In plain words, ma'am, you are
wondering if the present holder of the estates is really what he claims
to be. Plain English, eh?"
"I am!" answered Mrs. Greyle with a distinct ring of challenge and
defiance. "And now that it comes to the truth, I have wondered that ever
since 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 their
father, too, and a little of Marcus before he emigrated. This man does
not possess one single scrap of the Greyle temperament!"
Mr. Dennie put away his snuff-box and drumming on the table with his
fingers looked out of his eye corners at Copplestone who still stood with
his 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 your
permission, Mrs. Greyle, I'd like to have him in. Now that things have
got to this pitch, I'd better tell you something--I don't see any good in
concealing it longer. Gilling isn't an invalid curate at all!--he's a
private detective. Sir Cresswell Oliver and Petherton, the solicitor,
sent him down here to watch Greyle--the Squire, you know--that's
Gilling's job. They suspect Greyle--have suspected him from the very
first--but of what I don't know. Not--not of this, I think. Anyway, they
do 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 that
Mr. Dennie's told us. Because, don't you see, Sir Cresswell and
Petherton ought to know all that, immediately, and Gilling's their man."
Audrey's brows had been gathering in lines of dismay and perplexity
all the time Copplestone was talking, but her mother showed no
signs of anything but complete composure, crowned by something very
like satisfaction, and she nodded a ready acquiescence in
Copplestone's proposal.
"By all means!" she responded. "Bring Mr. Gilling in at once."
Copplestone hurried out into the garden and signalled to the
pseudo-curate, who came hurrying across from the quay. One glance at him
showed Copplestone that something had happened.
"Gad!--I thought I should never attract your attention!" said Gilling
hastily. "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 I
happened to be at the station, buying a paper, when he drove up--luggage
and man with him, so I knew he was off for some time. And I took good
care 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 to
keep him in sight?"
"All right," repeated Gilling. "I have more eyes than these, my boy! I've
a particularly smart partner in London--name of Swallow--and he and I
have a cypher code. So soon as the gentleman had left, I repaired to the
nearest post office and wired a code message to Swallow. Swallow will
meet that train when it strikes King's Cross. And it doesn't matter if
Greyle hides himself in one of the spikes on top of the Monument or
inside the lion house at the Zoo--Swallow will be there! No man ever got
away 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 here
with me--to Mrs. Greyle's. Something's happened here, too. And of such a
serious nature that I've taken the liberty of telling them who and what
you really are. You'll forgive me when you hear what it is that we've
learnt here this morning."
Gilling had looked rather doubtful at Copplestone's announcement, but he
immediately turned towards the cottage.
"Oh, well!" he said good-naturedly. "I'm sure you wouldn't have told if
you hadn't felt there was good reason. What is this fresh news?--something
about--him?"
"Very much about him," answered Copplestone. "Come in."
He himself, at Mrs. Greyle's request, gave Gilling a brief account of
Mr. Dennie's revelations, the old actor supplementing it with a shrewd
remark or two. And then all four turned to Gilling as to an expert in
these matters.
"Queer!" observed Gilling. "Decidedly queer! There may be some
explanation, you know: I've known stranger things than that turn out to
be perfectly straight and plain when they were gone into. But--putting
all the facts together--I don't think there's much doubt that there's
something considerably wrong in this case. I should like to repeat it to
my principals--I must go up to town in any event this afternoon. Better
let me have all those documents, Mr. Dennie--I'll give you a proper
receipt 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 Bassett
Oliver." 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 under
what circumstances the Squire came to Scarhaven. You were here then, of
course, Mrs. Greyle? You can tell me?"
"He came very quietly," replied Mrs. Greyle. "Nobody in Scarhaven--unless
it was Peter Chatfield--knew of his coming. In fact, nobody in these
parts, at any rate--knew he was in England. The family solicitors in
London may have known. But nothing was ever said or written to me, though
my daughter, failing this man, is the next in succession."
"I do wish you'd leave all that out, mother!" exclaimed Audrey. "I
don't like it."
"Whether you like it or not, it's the fact," said Mrs. Greyle
imperturbably, "and it can't be left out. Well, as I say, no one knew the
Squire had come to England, until one day Chatfield calmly walked down
the 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 if
he was well up in the family history?"
"Not then, but afterwards," answered Mrs. Greyle. "He is particularly
well up in the Greyle records--suspiciously well up."
"Why suspiciously?" asked Cobblestone.
"He knows more--in a sort of antiquarian and historian fashion--than
you'd suppose a young man of his age would," said Mrs. Greyle. "He gives
you the impression of having read it up--studied it deeply. And--his
usual tastes don't lie in that direction."
"Ah!" observed Mr. Dennie, musingly. "Bad sign, ma'am,--bad sign! Looks
as if he had been--shall we say put up to overstudying his part. That's
possible! I have known men who were so anxious to be what one calls
letter-perfect, Mr. Copplestone, that though they knew their parts, they
didn't know how to play them. Fact, sir!"
While the old actor was chuckling over this reminiscence, Gilling turned
quietly to Mrs. Greyle.
"I think you suspect this man?" he said.
"Frankly--yes," replied Mrs. Greyle. "I always have done, though I have
said so little--"
"Mother!" interrupted Audrey. "Is it really worth while saying so much
now! After all, we know nothing, and if this is all mere
supposition--however," she broke off, rising and going away from the
group, "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? I
assure you--"
"You!" she exclaimed. "Oh, no!--of course. I think you're anxious to
clear things up about Mr. Oliver. But I don't want my mother dragged into
it--for a simple reason. We've got to live here--and Chatfield is a
vindictive man."
"You're frightened of him?" said Copplestone incredulously. "You!"
"Not for myself," she answered, giving him a warning look and glancing
apprehensively at Mrs. Greyle, who was talking eagerly to Mr. Dennie and
Gilling. "But my mother is not as strong as she looks and it would be a
blow to her to leave this place and we are the Squire's tenants, and
therefore at Chatfield's mercy. And you know that Chatfield does as he
likes! 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--if
Chatfield thought you--that is, your mother--were mixed up in anything
relating 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 is
something queer about the Squire in the way your mother suggests. It
looks 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 door
and set down a tall, distinguished-looking man who after a glance at the
little 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 the
visitor, lead him up the tiny hall; they heard a door shut. Audrey looked
at Copplestone.
"You've heard of Lord Altmore, haven't you?" she said. "He's our
biggest man in these parts--he owns all the country at the back,
mountains, valleys, everything. The Greyle land shuts him off from the
sea. In the old days, Greyles and Altmores used to fight over their
boundaries, and--"
Mrs. Greyle suddenly showed herself again and looked at her daughter.
"Will you come here, Audrey?" she said. "You gentlemen will excuse both
of us for a few minutes?"
Mother and daughter went away, and the two young men drew up their
chairs to the table at which Mr. Dennie sat and exchanged views with him
on the curious situation. Half-an-hour went by; then steps and voices
were heard in the hall and the garden; Mrs. Greyle and Audrey were seeing
their visitor out to his car. In a few minutes the car sped away, and
they came back to the parlour. One glance at their faces showed Gilling
that some new development had cropped up and he nudged Copplestone.
"Here is remarkable news!" said Mrs. Greyle as she went back to her
chair. "Lord Altmore called to tell me of something that he thought I
ought to know. It is almost unbelievable, yet it is a fact. Marston
Greyle--if he is Marston Greyle!--has offered to sell Lord Altmore the
entire Scarhaven estate, by private treaty. Imagine it!--the estate which
has belonged to the Greyles for five hundred years!"