Scarhaven Keep | Page 4

a little aside.
"I've heard from Northborough," he Said. "I 'phoned Waters, the manager there, to run across to the 'Golden Apple' and make inquiries. The 'Golden Apple' people say that Oliver left there at eleven o'clock yesterday morning. He was alone. He simply walked out of the hotel. And they know nothing more."
CHAPTER II
GREY ROCK AND GREY SEA
The three men stood for a while silently looking at each other. Copplestone, as a stranger, secretly wondered why the two managers seemed so concerned; to him a delay of half an hour in keeping an appointment did not appear to be quite as serious as they evidently considered it. But he had never met Bassett Oliver, and knew nothing of his ways; he only began to comprehend matters when Rothwell turned to Stafford with an air of decision.
"Look here!" he said. "You'd better go and make inquiry at Northborough. See if you can track him. Something must be wrong--perhaps seriously wrong. You don't quite understand, do you, Mr. Copplestone?" he went on, giving the younger man a sharp glance. "You see, we know Mr. Oliver so well--we've both been with him a good many years. He's a model of system, regularity, punctuality, and all the rest of it. In the ordinary course of events, wherever he spent yesterday, he'd have been sure to turn up at his rooms at the 'Angel' hotel last night, and he'd have walked in here this morning at half-past twelve. As he hasn't done either, why, then, something unusual has happened. Stafford, you'd better get a move on."
"Wait a minute," said Stafford. He turned again to the groups behind him, repeating his question.
"Has anybody anything to tell?" he asked anxiously. "We've just heard that Mr. Oliver left his hotel at Northborough yesterday morning at eleven o'clock, alone, walking. Has anybody any idea of any project, any excursion, that he had in mind?"
An elderly man who had been in conversation with the leading lady stepped forward.
"I was talking to Oliver about the coast scenery between here and Northborough the other day--Friday," he remarked. "He'd never seen it--I told him I used to know it pretty well once. He said he'd try and see 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 Sundays--when he gets the chance. Of course when there's a long journey between two towns, he doesn't get the chance, and then he's all right. But when, as in this case, the town of one week is fairly close to the town of the next, he invariably spots some place of interest, an old castle, or a ruined abbey, or some famous house, and goes looking round it. And if he's been exploring some spot on this coast yesterday, and it's as that chap Rutherford said, wild and dangerous, why, then--"
"You think he may have had an accident--fallen over the cliffs or something?" suggested Copplestone.
"I don't like to think anything," replied Stafford. "But I shall be a good deal relieved if we can get some definite news about him."
The first half-hour at Northborough yielded nothing definite. A telephone message from Rothwell had just come to the theatre when they drove up to it--nothing had so far been heard of the missing man at Norcaster--either at theatre or hotel. Stafford and Copplestone hurried across to the "Golden Apple" and interviewed its proprietor; he, keenly interested in the affair, could tell no more than that Mr. Bassett Oliver, having sent his luggage forward