morning to see an uncle of mine who's a farmer on the coast between here
and Northborough, and he told me he shouldn't want me until one o'clock
today. So of course, I came straight here to the theatre--I didn't call
in at the 'Angel' at all this morning."

"Did he say anything about his own movements yesterday?" asked Stafford.
"Did he tell you that he was going anywhere?"

"Not a word, Mr. Stafford," replied Hackett. "But you know his habits as
well as I do."

"Just so," agreed Stafford. "Mr. Oliver," he continued, turning to
Copplestone, "is a great lover of outdoor life. On Sundays, when we're
travelling from one town to another, he likes to do the journey by
motor--alone. In a case like this, where the two towns are not very far
apart, it's his practice to find out if there's any particular beauty
spot or place of interest between them, and to spend his Sunday there. I
daresay that's what he did yesterday. You see, all last week we were at
Northborough. That, like Norcaster, is a coast town--there's fifty miles
between them. If he followed out his usual plan he'd probably hire a
motor-car and follow the coast-road, and if he came to any place that was
of special interest, he'd stop there. But--in the usual way of
things--he'd have turned up at his rooms at the 'Angel' hotel here last
night. He didn't--and he hasn't turned up here, either. So where is he?"

"Have you made inquiries of the company, Mr. Stafford?" asked Hackett.
"Most of 'em wander about a bit of a Sunday--they might have seen him."

"Good idea!" agreed Stafford. He beckoned Copplestone to follow him on
to the stage, where the members of the company sat or stood about in