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"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.
Swallow, of course, couldn't wait every minute was precious. He followed the Squire to King's Cross, and heard him book for Northborough." "Northborough!" exclaimed Copplestone, in surprise. "Not Norcaster? Ah, well, Northborough's a port, too, isn't it?" "Northborough is as near to Scarhaven as Norcaster is, you know," said Gilling. "To Northborough he booked, anyhow.
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.
Oliver, he said, had talked a little to him about the coast scenery between Northborough and Norcaster, and had asked him which stretch of it was worth seeing. It was his impression that Mr. Oliver meant to break his journey somewhere along the coast. "Of course, that's it," said Stafford, as he and Copplestone drove off again. "He's gone to some place between the two towns. But where?
Holland, a well-educated man, with a fine appreciation of poetry, happened to see Clare's prospectus, with the sonnet to the 'Setting Sun, at a farm-house near Northborough, and being struck with the verses, as well as with the account which the farmer, who knew Clare, gave of the author, he at once went in search of the poet.
"I suppose he's at his old quarters the 'Angel. But I haven't seen him; neither had Rothwell we've both been too busy to call there. I expect he came on to the 'Angel' from Northborough yesterday." Jerramy opened the half-door, and going out to the end of the passage, looked up and down the street. "There's a taxi-cab coming round the corner now," he announced presently.
Hackett has friends living in these parts he went off to see them early yesterday morning, from Northborough, and he's only just come. So he hasn't seen Oliver, and doesn't know anything about him; he expected, of course, to find him here." Stafford turned with a wave of the hand towards Copplestone. "So did this gentleman," he said. "Mr. Copplestone, this is our stage-manager, Mr. Rothwell.
Not till after the old fellow had gone did Hugh wonder how he had unearthed him here in the Northborough Hotel. He had meant to ask him he had asked him actually, and the General had not explained. But it did not matter, after all. Some coincidence, some easily understandable explanation, of course, would account for it.
This wonderfully graphic narrative extraordinary compound of facts and dreams, illuminated by the lurid flame of a marvellous imagination Clare accompanied by a letter to his visionary spouse. The letter, addressed, 'To Mary Clare, Glinton, and dated 'Northborough, July 27, 1841, ran as follows:
"You mean Mr. Oliver, the actor?" she said. "Good!" exclaimed Stafford, with a hearty sigh of relief. "I do! You know him, then?" "I've often seen him, both at Northborough and at Norcaster," replied Mrs. Wooler. "But I never saw him here before yesterday.
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