knickerbocker suit, but the dusk had now so much increased that
Copplestone could only gather an impression of ordinary good-lookingness
from the face that was turned inquiringly on his companion. The girl
turned to him and spoke hurriedly.

"This is my cousin, Mr. Greyle, of Scarhaven Keep," she murmured. "He may
be able to help. Marston!" she went on, raising her voice, "can you give
any help here? This gentleman--" she paused, looking at Copplestone.

"My name is Richard Copplestone," he said.

"Mr. Copplestone is looking for Mr. Bassett Oliver, the famous actor,"
she continued, as the three met. "Mr. Oliver has mysteriously
disappeared. Mr. Copplestone has traced him here, to Scarhaven--he was
here yesterday, lunching at the inn--but he can't get any further news.
Did you see anything, or hear anything of him?"

Marston Greyle, who had been inspecting the stranger narrowly in the
fading light, shook his head.

"Bassett Oliver, the actor," he said. "Oh, yes, I saw his name on the
bills in Norcaster the other day. Came here, and has disappeared, you
say? Under what circumstances?"

Copplestone had listened carefully to the newcomer's voice; more
particularly to his accent. He had already gathered sufficient knowledge
of Scarhaven to know that this man was the Squire, the master of the old
house and grey ruin in the wood above the cliff; he also happened to
know, being something of an archaeologist and well acquainted with family
histories, that there had been Greyles of Scarhaven for many hundred