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Updated: May 8, 2025
The two younger men waited impatiently in and about the hotel while their elders went on their self-appointed mission. Stafford, essentially a man of activity, speculated on their reasons for seeing the three people whom Sir Cresswell Oliver had specifically mentioned: Copplestone was meanwhile wondering if he could with propriety pay another visit to Mrs. Greyle's cottage that night.
But Sir Cresswell Oliver and Mr. Petherton knew that there was no time to be lost, and as soon as Audrey had been restored to and carried off by her mother to Mrs. Greyle's room, they summoned Vickers and Copplestone to a private parlour and demanded their latest news. Sir Cresswell listened eagerly, and in silence, until Copplestone described the return of the Pike; at that he broke his silence.
And it doesn't matter if Greyle hides himself in one of the spikes on top of the Monument or inside the lion house at the Zoo Swallow will be there! No man ever got away from Swallow once Swallow had set eyes on him." Copplestone looked, listened, and laughed. "Professional pride!" he said. "All right. I want you to come in here with me to Mrs. Greyle's. Something's happened here, too.
There's Miss Greyle's cabin, anyhow, right opposite ours and I can keep an eye and an ear open even when I'm asleep!" But in spite of these assurances, Copplestone slept little.
But Greyle's own solicitor was on his legs, insisting on his right to put a first question. In spite of Petherton, he put it. "You heard the evidence of the last witness? Spurge. Is there a word of truth in it?" Marston Greyle who certainly looked very unwell moistened his lips. "Not one word!" he answered. "It's a lie!"
"Marston Greyle," he said, presently, "or his agent, Peter Chatfield, or both, in common agreement, are already doing something to solve the mystery so far as Greyle's property is concerned. They've closed the Keep and its surrounding ruins to the people who used to be permitted to go in, and they're conducting an exhaustive search for Bassett Oliver, of course." Gilling made a grimace.
He thought rapidly, and then determined to take a strong line. "Chatfield!" he said. "You're trying to bluff me. It won't do. Things are known. I know 'em! I'll be candid with you the time's come for that. I'll tell you what I know it'll all have to come out. You know very well that the real Marston Greyle's dead. You were with him when he died.
"And the first consequence is that I now formally demand an adjournment of this inquest, sine die." "On what grounds, sir?" demanded the Coroner. "To permit me to bring evidence from America," replied Petherton, with a side glance at Marston Greyle. "Evidence already being prepared." The Coroner hesitated, looked at Greyle's solicitor, and then turned sharply to the jury.
Copplestone hurried out into the garden and signalled to the pseudo-curate, who came hurrying across from the quay. One glance at him showed Copplestone that something had happened. "Gad! I thought I should never attract your attention!" said Gilling hastily. "Been making eyes at you for ten minutes. I say Greyle's off!" "Off!" exclaimed Copplestone. "How do you mean off?"
Before Chatfield or the labourers saw what he was at, he sprang on the agent's big form, grasped him by the neck with one hand, twisted his oak staff away from him with the other, flung him headlong on the turf, and raised the staff threateningly. "Now!" he said, "beg Miss Greyle's pardon, instantly, or I'll split your wicked old head for you. Quick, man I mean it!"
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