THE CABLEGRAM FROM NEW YORK
The two younger men received this announcement with no more than looks
of astonished inquiry, but the elder one coughed significantly, had
further recourse to his snuff-box and turned to Mrs. Greyle with a
knowing glance.
"My dear lady!" he said impressively. "Now this is a matter in which I
believe I can be of service--real service! You may have forgotten the
fact--it is all so long ago--and perhaps I never mentioned it in the old
days--but the truth is that before I went on the stage, I was in the law.
The fact is, I am a duly and fully qualified solicitor--though," he
added, with a dry chuckle, "it is a good five and twenty years since I
paid the six pounds for the necessary annual certificate. But I have not
forgotten my law--or some of it--and no doubt I can furbish up a little
more, if necessary. You say that Mr. Marston Greyle, the present owner of
Scarhaven, has offered to sell his estate to Lord Altmore? But--is not
the estate entailed?"
"No!" replied Mrs. Greyle. "It is not."
Mr. Dennie's face fell--unmistakably. He took another pinch of snuff and
shook his head.
"Then in that case," he said dryly, "all the lawyers in the world can't
help. It's his--absolutely--and he can do what he pleases with it. Five
hundred years, you say? Remarkable!--that a man should want to sell land
his forefathers have walked over for half a thousand years!
Extraordinary!"
"Did Lord Altmore say if any reason had been given him as to why Mr.
Greyle wished to sell?" asked Gilling.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Greyle, who was obviously greatly upset by the recent
news. "He did. Mr. Greyle gave as his reason that the north does not suit
him, and that he wishes to buy an estate in the south of England. He
approached Lord Altmore first because it is well-known that the Altmores
have always been anxious to extend their own borders to the coast."
"Does Lord Altmore want to buy?" asked Gilling.
"It is very evident that he would be quite willing to buy," said
Mrs. Greyle.
"What made him come to you," continued Gilling. "He must have had
some reason?"
"He had a reason," Mrs. Greyle answered, with a glance at Audrey. "He
knows the family history, of course--he is very well aware that my
daughter is at present the heir apparent. He therefore thought we ought
to know of this offer. But that is not quite all. Lord Altmore has, of
course, read the accounts of the inquest in this morning's paper. Also
his steward was present at the inquest. And from what he has read, and
from what his steward told him, Lord Altmore thinks there is something
wrong--he thinks, for instance, that Marston Greyle should explain this
mystery about the meeting with Bassett Oliver in America. At any rate,
he will go no further in any negotiations until that mystery is
properly cleared up. Shall I tell you what Lord Altmore said on that
point? He said--"
"Is it worth while, mother?" interrupted Audrey. "It was only his
opinion."
"It is worth while--amongst ourselves--" insisted Mrs. Greyle. "Why not?
Lord Altmore said--in so many words--'I have a sort of uneasy feeling,
after reading the evidence at that inquest, and hearing what my
steward's impressions were, that this man calling himself Marston Greyle
may not be Marston Greyle at all and I shall want good proof that he is
before I even consider the proposal he has made to me.' There!
So--what's to be done?"
"The law, ma'am," observed Mr. Dennie, solemnly, "the law must step in.
You must get an injunction, ma'am, to prevent Mr. Marston Greyle from
dealing with the property until his own title to it has been established.
That, at any rate, is my opinion."
"May I ask a question?" said Copplestone who had been listening
and thinking intently. "Did Lord Altmore say when this offer was
made to him?"
"Yes," replied Mrs. Greyle. "A week ago."
"A week ago!" exclaimed Copplestone. "That is, before last Sunday--before
the Bassett Oliver episode. Then--the offer to sell is quite independent
of that affair!"
"Strange--and significant!" muttered Gilling.
He rose from his chair and looked at his watch.
"Well," he went on, "I am going off to London. Will you give me leave,
Mrs. Greyle, to report all this to Sir Cresswell Oliver and Mr.
Petherton? They ought to know."
"I'm going, too," declared Copplestone, also rising. "Mrs. Greyle, I'm
sure will entrust the whole matter to us. And Mr. Dennie will trust us
with those papers."
"Oh, certainly, certainly!" asserted Mr. Dennie, pushing his packet
across the table. "Take care of 'em, my boy!--ye don't know how important
they may turn out to be."
"And--Mrs. Greyle?" asked Copplestone.
"Tell whatever you think it best to tell," replied Mrs. Greyle. "My own
opinion is that a lot will have to be told--and to come out, yet."
"We can catch a train in three-quarters of an hour, Copplestone," said
Gilling. "Let's get back and settle up with Mrs. Wooler and be off."
Copplestone contrived to draw Audrey aside.
"This isn't good-bye," he whispered, with a meaning look. "You'll
see me back here before many days are over. But listen--if anything
happens here, if you want anybody's help--in any way--you know what
I mean--promise you'll wire to me at this address. Promise!--or I
won't go."
"Very well," said Audrey, "I promise. But--why shall you come back?"
"Tell you when I come," replied Copplestone with another look.
"But--I shall come--and soon. I'm only going because I want to be of
use--to you."
An hour later he and Gilling were on their way to London, and from
opposite corners of a compartment which they had contrived to get to
themselves, they exchanged looks.
"This is a queer business, Copplestone!" said Gilling. "It strikes me
it's going to be a big one, too. And--it's coming to a point round
Squire Greyle."
"Do you think your man will have tracked him?" asked Copplestone.
"It will be the first time Swallow's ever lost sight of anybody if he
hasn't," answered Gilling. "He's a human ferret! However, I wired to him
just before we left, telling him to meet me at King's Cross, so we'll
get his report. Oh, he'll have followed him all right--I don't imagine
for a moment that Greyle is trying to evade anybody, at this juncture,
at any rate."
But when--four hours later--the train drew into King's Cross--and
Gilling's partner, a young and sharp-looking man, presented himself, it
was with a long and downcast face and a lugubrious shake of the head.
"Done!--for the first time in my life!" he growled in answer to
Gilling's eager inquiry. "Lost him! Never failed before--as you know.
Well, it had to come, I suppose--can't go on without an occasional
defeat. But--I'm a bit licked as to the whole thing--unless your man is
dodging somebody. Is he?"
"Tell your tale," commanded Gilling, motioning Copplestone to follow him
and Swallow aside.
"I was up here in good time this afternoon to meet his train," reported
Swallow. "I spotted him and his man at once; no difficulty, as your
description of both was so full. They were together while the luggage
was got out; then he, Greyle, gave some instructions to the man and left
him. He himself got into a taxi-cab; I got into another close behind and
gave its driver certain orders. Greyle drove straight to the Fragonard
Club--you know."
"Ah!" exclaimed Gilling. "Did he, now? That's worth knowing."
"What's the Fragonard Club?" asked Copplestone. "Never heard of it."
"Club of folk connected with the stage and the music-halls," answered
Gilling, testily. "In a side street, off Shaftesbury Avenue--tell you
more of it, later. Go on, Swallow."
"He paid off his driver there, and went in," continued Swallow. "I paid
mine and hung about--there's only one entrance and exit to that spot, as
you know. He came out again within five minutes, stuffing some letters
into his pocket. He walked away across Shaftesbury Avenue into Wardour
Street--there he went into a tobacconist's shop. Of course, I hung about
again. But this time he didn't come. So at last I walked in--to buy
something. He wasn't there!"
"Pooh!--he'd slipped out--walked out--when you weren't looking!" said
Gilling. "Why didn't you keep your eye on the ball, man?--you!"
"You be hanged!" retorted Swallow. "Never had an eyelash off that shop
door from the time he entered until I, too, entered."
"Then there's a side-door to that shop--into some alley or passage,"
said Gilling.
"Not that I could find," answered Swallow. "Might be at the rear of the
premises perhaps, but I couldn't ascertain, of course. Remember!--there's
another thing. He may have stopped on the premises. There's that in it.
However, I know the shop and the name."
"Why didn't you bring somebody else with you, to follow the man and the
luggage?" demanded Gilling, half-petulantly.
Swallow shook his head.
"There I made a mess of it, I confess," he admitted. "But it never struck
me they'd separate. I thought, of course, they'd drive straight to some
hotel, and--"
"And the long and the short of it is, Greyle's slipped you," said
Gilling. "Well--there's no more to be done tonight. The only thing of
value is that Greyle called at the Fragonard. What's a country
squire--only recently come to England, too!--to do with the Fragonard?
That is worth something. Well--Copplestone, we'd better meet in the
morning at Petherton's. You be there at ten o'clock, and I'll get Sir
Cresswell Oliver to be there, too."
Copplestone betook himself to his rooms in Jermyn Street; it seemed an
age--several ages--since he had last seen the familiar things in them.
During the few days which had elapsed since his hurried setting-off to
meet Bassett Oliver so many things had happened that he felt as if he
had lived a week in a totally different world. He had met death, and
mystery, and what appeared to be sure evidence of deceit and cunning and
perhaps worse--fraud and crime blacker than fraud. But he had also met
Audrey Greyle. And it was only natural that he thought more about her
than of the strange atmosphere of mystery which wrapped itself around
Scarhaven. She, at any rate, was good to think upon, and he thought much
as he looked over the letters that had accumulated, changed his clothes,
and made ready to go and dine at his club, Already he was counting the
hours which must elapse before he would go back to her.
Nevertheless, Copplestone's mind was not entirely absorbed by this
pleasant subject; the events of the day and of the arrival in London
kept presenting themselves. And coming across a fellow club-member
whom he knew for a thorough man about town, he suddenly plumped him
with a question.
"I say!" he said. "Do you know the Fragonard Club?"
"Of course!" replied the other man. "Don't you?"
"Never even heard of it till this evening," said Copplestone.
"What is it?"
"Mixed lot!" answered his companion. "Theatrical and music-hall folk--men
and women--both. Lively spot--sometimes. Like to have a look in when they
have one of their nights?"
"Very much," assented Copplestone. "Are you a member?"
"No, but I know several men who are members," said the other. "I'll fix
it all right. Worth going to when they've what they call a
house-dinner--Sunday night, of course."
"Thanks," said Copplestone. "I suppose membership of that's confined to
the profession, eh?"
"Strictly," replied his friend. "But they ain't at all particular about
their guests--you'll meet all sorts of people there, from judges to
jockeys, and millionairesses to milliners."
Copplestone was still wondering what the Squire of Scarhaven could have
to do with the Fragonard Club when he went to Mr. Petherton's office the
next morning. He was late for the appointment which Gilling had made, and
when he arrived Gilling had already reported all that had taken place the
day before to the solicitor and to Sir Cresswell Oliver. And on that
Copplestone produced the papers entrusted to him by Mr. Dennie and they
all compared the handwritings afresh.
"There is certainly something wrong, somewhere," remarked Petherton,
after a time. "However, we are in a position to begin a systematic
inquiry. Here," he went on, drawing a paper from his desk, "is a
cablegram which arrived first thing this morning from New York--from an
agent who has been making a search for me in the shipping lists. This is
what he says: 'Marston Greyle, St. Louis, Missouri, booked first-class
passenger from New York to Falmouth, England, by S.S. _Araconda_,
September 28th, 1912.' There--that's something definite. And the next
thing," concluded the old lawyer, with a shrewd glance at Sir Cresswell,
"is to find out if the Marston Greyle who landed at Falmouth is the same
man whom we have recently seen!"