something of it on Sunday--yesterday, you know. And, I say--" here he
came closer to the two managers and lowered his voice--"that coast is
very wild, lonely, and a good bit dangerous--sharp and precipitous
cliffs. Eh?"

Rothwell clapped a hand on Stafford's arm.

"You'd really better be off to Northborough," he said with decision.
"You're sure to come across traces of him. Go to the 'Golden
Apple'--then the station. Wire or telephone me--here. Of course, this
rehearsal's off. About this evening--oh, well, a lot may happen before
then. But go at once--I believe you can get expresses from here to
North-borough pretty often."

"I'll go with you--if I may," said Copplestone suddenly. "I might be of
use. There's that cab still at the door, you know--shall we run up to
the station?"

"Good!" assented Stafford. "Yes, come by all means." He turned to
Rothwell for a moment. "If he should turn up here, 'phone to Waters at
the Northborough theatre, won't you?" he said. "We'll look in there as
soon as we arrive."

He hurried out with Copplestone and together they drove up to the
station, where an express was just leaving for the south. Once on their
way to Northborough, Stafford turned to his companion with a grave shake
of the head.

"I daresay you don't quite see the reason of our anxiety," he observed.
"You see, we know Oliver. He's a trick of wandering about by himself on