Chatfield's mouth opened as he picked up his hat. He stared at this self-assured young man as if he were something quite new to him.
"Sir Cresswell Oliver!" he exclaimed. "Did you say, sir?"
"I said Sir Cresswell Oliver—quite plainly," answered Copplestone.
Chatfield's mouth grew wider.
"You don't mean to tell me that a play-actor's own brother to a titled gentleman!" he said.
"Good-night!" replied Copplestone, motioning his visitor towards the door. "I can't give you any more time, really. However, as you seem anxious, Mr. Bassett Oliver is the younger brother of Rear-Admiral Sir Cresswell Oliver, Baronet, and I should imagine that Sir Cresswell will want to know a lot about what's become of him. So you'd better—or Mr. Greyle had better—speak to him. Now once more—good-night."
When Chatfield had gone, Copplestone laughed and flung himself into an easy chair before the fire. Of course, the stupid, ignorant, self-sufficient old fool had come fishing for news—he and his master wanted to know what was going to be done in the way of making inquiry. But why?—why so much anxiety if they knew nothing whatever about Bassett Oliver's strange disappearance? Why this profession of eager willingness to welcome any inquiry that might be made? Nobody had accused Marston Greyle of having anything to do with Bassett Oliver's strange exit—if it was an exit—why, then———
