"Well?" asked Copplestone bluntly, "what if he did?"

"Nothing ever came out that once went in," she answered. "It's a sort of
whirlpool that's sucked right away into the sea. The people hereabouts
say it's bottomless."

Copplestone turned his face towards the village.

"Oh, well," he said, with an accent of hopelessness. "I can't do any more
down here, it's growing dusk. I must go back and meet the manager."

The girl walked along at his side as he turned towards the village.

"I suppose you are one of Mr. Oliver's company?" she observed presently.
"You must all be much concerned."

"They're all greatly concerned," answered Copplestone. "But I don't
belong to the company. No--I came to Norcaster this morning to meet Mr.
Oliver--he's going--I hope I oughtn't to say was going!--to produce a
play of mine next month, and he wanted to talk about the rehearsals.
Everything, of course, was at a standstill when I reached Norcaster at
one o 'clock, so I came with Stafford, the business manager, to see
what we could do about tracking Mr. Oliver. And I'm afraid, I'm very
much afraid--"

He paused, as a gate, set in the thick hedge of a garden at this point of
the village, suddenly opened to let out a man, who at sight of the girl
stopped, hesitated, and then waited for her approach. He was a tall,
well-built man of apparently thirty years, dressed in a rough tweed