darkness. And so as the girl came towards him, picking her way across the
pools which lay amidst the brown ribs of sand, he went forward, throwing
away all formality and reserve in his eagerness.

"Forgive me for speaking so unceremoniously," he said as they met. "I'm
looking for a friend who has disappeared--mysteriously. Can you tell me
if, any time yesterday, afternoon or evening, you saw anywhere about here
a tall, distinguished-looking man--the actor type. In fact, he is an
actor--perhaps you've heard of him? Mr. Bassett Oliver."

He was looking narrowly at the girl as he spoke, and she, too, looked
narrowly at him out of a pair of grey eyes of more than ordinary
intelligence and perception. And at the famous actor's name she started a
little and a faint colour stole over her cheeks.

"Mr. Bassett Oliver!" she exclaimed in a clear, cultured voice. "My
mother and I saw Mr. Oliver at the Northborough Theatre on Friday
evening. Do you mean that he--"

"I mean--to put it bluntly--that Bassett Oliver is lost," answered
Copplestone. "He came to this place yesterday, Sunday, morning, to look
round; he lunched at the 'Admiral's Arms,' he went out, after a chat with
the landlady, and he's never been seen since. He should have turned up at
the 'Angel' at Norcaster last night, and at a rehearsal at the Theatre
Royal there today at noon--but he didn't. His manager and I have tracked
him here--and so far I can't hear of him. I've asked people all through
the village--this side, anyway--nobody knows anything."

He and the girl still looked attentively at each other; Copplestone,
indeed, was quietly inspecting her while he talked. He judged her to be