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Updated: June 6, 2025
All the property which you have on this yacht pictures, china, silver, books, objects of art, as I am instructed, removed from the house are Miss Greyle's sole property. Once more I warn you of what you are doing, and I demand that you immediately return to Scarhaven. This very yacht belongs to Miss Greyle!" Andrius nodded, looked fixedly at the young solicitor for a moment, and then rose.
He also remembered the visitor's companion, Mr. Chatfield, who seemed unusually anxious and concerned about Mr. Greyle's health. "And as to that," continued Dr. Tretheway, "I learnt from Mr. Greyle that he had been seriously indisposed for some months before setting out for England.
He came the day before to be here when the Araconda got in." The two visitors, bending over the book, mutually nudged each other as their eyes encountered the signatures on the open page. There, in the handwriting of the letters which Mr. Dennie had so fortunately preserved, was the name Marston Greyle. But it was not the sight of that which surprised them; they had expected to see it.
Armed with that, I went home to my lodgings in Norcaster, found the letter written by the American Marston Greyle, and compared it with them. And here is the result!" The old actor selected the two American letters from his papers, laid them out on the table, and placed the letter which Audrey had given him beside them.
Chatfield brought him there. He produced proofs of identification papers which Chatfield no doubt took from the dead man. Of course, the solicitors never doubted for a moment that he was the real Marston Greyle! never dreamed of fraud: Well the next step. We must concentrate on finding this man. And Swallow has nothing to tell yet. He has never seen anything more of him.
"Now then, my man, quick I always keep my word!" "Hand the stick to Mr. Marston Greyle, Mr. Copplestone," said Audrey in her demurest manner. "I'm sure he would beat Chatfield soundly if he had heard what he said to me his cousin." "Thank you, but I'm in possession," said Copplestone, grimly. "Mr. Marston Greyle can kick him when I've thrashed him.
"Take care of 'em, my boy! ye don't know how important they may turn out to be." "And Mrs. Greyle?" asked Copplestone. "Tell whatever you think it best to tell," replied Mrs. Greyle. "My own opinion is that a lot will have to be told and to come out, yet." "We can catch a train in three-quarters of an hour, Copplestone," said Gilling. "Let's get back and settle up with Mrs. Wooler and be off."
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.
In my time there have been three generations of Greyles. The first one I knew was this Squire's grandfather, old Mr. Stephen Greyle: he died when I was a girl in my 'teens. He had three sons and no daughters.
"You say the inquest will be held tomorrow?" he asked. The doctor looked his questioner up and down with an inquiry which signified doubt as to Copplestone's right to demand information. "In the usual course," he replied stiffly. "Then his brother, Sir Cresswell Oliver, and his solicitor, Mr. Petherton, must be wired for from London," observed Copplestone, turning to Greyle.
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