Scarhaven Keep | Page 8

all through the village--this side, anyway--nobody knows anything."
He and the girl still looked attentively at each other; Copplestone,
indeed, was quietly inspecting her while he talked. He judged her to be
twenty-one or two; she was a little above medium height, slim, graceful,
pretty, and he was quick to notice that her entire air and appearance
suggested their present surroundings. Her fair hair escaped from a
knitted cap such as fisher-folk wear; her slender figure was shown to
advantage by a rough blue jersey; her skirt of blue serge was short and
practical; she was shod in brogues which showed more acquaintance
with sand and salt water than with polish. And her face was tanned with
the strong northern winds, and the ungloved hands, small and shapely
as they were, were brown as the beach across which she had come.
"I have not seen--nor heard--of Mr. Bassett Oliver--here," she answered.
"I was out and about all yesterday afternoon and evening, too--not on
this side of the bay, though. Have you been to the police-station?"

"The manager may have been there," replied Copplestone. "He's gone
along the other shore. But--I don't think he'll get any help there. I'm
afraid Mr. Oliver must have met with an accident. I wanted to ask you a
question--I saw you coming from the direction of those rocks just now.
Could he have got out there across those sands, yesterday afternoon?"
"Between three o'clock and evening--yes," said the girl.
"And--is it dangerous out there?"
"Very dangerous indeed--to any one who doesn't know them."
"There's something there called the Devil's Spout?"
"Yes--a deep fissure up which the sea boils. Oh! it seems dreadful to
think of--I hope he didn't fall in there. If he did--"
"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
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 years. And he wondered how it was that though this Greyle's
voice was pleasant and cultured enough, its accent was decidedly
American.