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Updated: June 27, 2025
"Copplestone!" said Gilling as they walked away. "That chap the real Marston Greyle is dead! That's as certain as that we're alive! And now the next thing is to find out where he died and when. And by George, that's going to be a big job!" "How are you going to set about it?" asked Copplestone. "It seems as if we were up against a blank wall, now."
Copplestone, sir, doesn't yet understand that there's a deal of conundrum in life. He'll know better some day. He'll know, too, that the poet spoke truthful when he said that things isn't what they seem." Copplestone turned angrily on Vickers. "Is this a farce?" he demanded. "Good heavens, man! you know what I told you!" "Mr. Chatfield has a version," answered Vickers. "Why not hear it?"
Copplestone stood rooted to the spot with amazement while Vickers hastily epitomized the recent conversation; his mouth opened and his speech failed him. But Audrey laughed and looked at Vickers as if Chatfield were a new sort of entertainment. "What do you say to this, Mr. Vickers?" she asked.
But Copplestone had impressed upon his driver that he must get to Scarhaven as quickly as possible, and he and his companion were both so full of their purpose that they paid no heed to the perpetual danger which they ran as the car tore round propections and down deep cuts at a speed which at other times they would have considered suicidal.
He muttered a word or two to the men who guarded it and they stood aside and allowed Copplestone and the curate to enter. Marston Greyle came forward, eyeing Gilling with a sharp glance of inspection. He turned from him to Copplestone. "Will you come in?" he asked, not impolitely and with a certain anxiety of manner. "I want you to to be present, in fact. This gentleman is a friend of yours?"
The head was crowned by a much worn fur cap; the face, very brown and seamed and wrinkled, was ornamented by a short, well-blackened clay pipe, from the bowl of which a wisp of blue smoke curled upward. And as he grew accustomed to the gloom he was aware of a pair of shrewd, twinkling eyes, and a set of very white teeth which gleamed like an animal's. "Hullo!" said Copplestone. "Come out of that!"
Yes, Copplestone is here. The Antigone? What about her? She is a sister ship of the Antinous, and was in with damage to her forefoot, which had been ripped up when she ran down that big German submarine north of the Orkneys Yes, I know; she was due to go out some time to-day. What do you say? Wires cut? Whose wires have been cut? The Antigone's? Oh, the devil!
He gave Copplestone a squeeze of the elbow, laughed, and went across to the solicitor, who was chatting to Stafford in one of the bow windows. Ten minutes later all three were off to Norcaster, and Copplestone was alone, ruminating over this sudden and extraordinary change in the hitherto even tenor of his life.
Copplestone, keeping a sharp eye on the groaning and sputtering agent, contrived at the same time to turn a corner of it on Marston Greyle. That momentary glance showed him much. The Squire was mortally afraid of his man. That was certain as certain as that they were there.
Copplestone, who had eaten nothing for several hours, accepted her hospitable attentions with gratitude, and he was enjoying himself greatly in a quaint old-world parlour, in close proximity to a bright fire, when Mrs. Wooler entered with a countenance which betokened mystery in every feature. "There's the estate agent, Mr.
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