Scarhaven Keep | Page 3

of the hand towards Copplestone.
"So did this gentleman," he said. "Mr. Copplestone, this is our
stage-manager, Mr. Rothwell. Rothwell, this is Mr. Richard
Copplestone, author of the new play that Mr. Oliver's going to produce
next month. Mr. Copplestone got a wire from him yesterday, asking
him to come here today at one o'clock, He's travelled all night to get
here."
"Where was the wire sent from?" asked Rothwell, a sharp-eyed,

keen-looking man, who, like Stafford, was obviously interested in the
new author's boyish appearance. "And when?"
Copplestone drew some letters and papers from his pocket and selected
one. "That's it," he said. "There you are--sent off from Northborough at
nine-thirty, yesterday morning--Sunday."
"Well, then he was at Northborough at that time," remarked Rothwell.
"Look here, Stafford, we'd better telephone to Northborough, to his
hotel. The 'Golden Apple,' wasn't it?"
"No good," replied Stafford, shaking his head. "The 'Golden Apple'
isn't on the 'phone--old-fashioned place. We'd better wire."
"Too slow," said Rothwell. "We'll telephone to the theatre there, and
ask them to step across and make inquiries. Come on!--let's do it at
once."
He hurried inside again, and Stafford turned to Copplestone.
"Better send your cab away and come inside until we get some news,"
he said. "Let Jerramy take your things into his sanctum--he'll keep an
eye on them till you want them--I suppose you'll stop at the 'Angel'
with Oliver. Look here!" he went on, turning to the cab driver, "just
you wait a bit--I might want you; wait ten minutes, anyway. Come in,
Mr. Copplestone."
Copplestone followed the business manager up the passage to a
dressing-room, in which a little elderly man was engaged in unpacking
trunks and dress-baskets. He looked up expectantly at the sound of
footsteps; then looked down again at the work in hand and went silently
on with it.
"This is Hackett, Mr. Oliver's dresser," said Stafford. "Been with
him--how long, Hackett?"
"Twenty years next January, Mr. Stafford," answered the dresser
quietly.

"Ever known Mr. Oliver late like this?" inquired Stafford.
"Never, sir! There's something wrong," replied Hackett. "I'm sure of it.
I feel it! You ought to go and look for him, some of you gentlemen."
"Where?" asked Stafford. "We don't know anything about him. He's not
come to the 'Angel,' as he ought to have done, yesterday. I believe
you're the last person who saw him, Hackett. Aren't you, now?"
"I saw him at the 'Golden Apple' at Northborough at twelve o'clock
Saturday night, sir," answered Hackett. "I took a bag of his to his rooms
there. He was all right then. He knew I was going off first thing next
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 groups, each conscious that something unusual had occurred. "It's
really a queer, and perhaps a serious thing," he whispered as he steered
his companion through a maze of scenery. "And if Oliver doesn't turn
up, we shall be in a fine mess. Of course, there's an understudy for his
part, but--I say!" he went on, as they stepped upon the stage, "Have any