don't want you to do any private detective work—not I! Just stop here a bit—amuse yourself—write—read—and watch things quietly. And—don't be cross—I've an elderly man's privilege, you know—you'll send your bills to me."
"Oh, that's all right, thanks!" said Copplestone, hurriedly. "I'm pretty well off as regards this world's goods."
"So I guessed when I found that you lived in the expensive atmosphere of Jermyn Street," said Sir Cresswell, with a sly laugh. "But all the same, you'll let me be paymaster here, you know—that's only fair."
"All right—certainly, if you wish it," agreed Copplestone. "But look here—won't you trust me? I assure you I'm to be trusted. You suspect somebody! Hadn't you better give me your confidence? I won't tell a soul—and when I say that, I mean it literally. I won't tell one single soul!"
Sir Cresswell waited a moment or two, looking quietly at Copplestone. Then he clapped a hand on the young man's shoulder.
"All right, my lad," he said. "Yes!—we do suspect somebody. Marston Greyle! Now you know it."
"I expected that," answered Copplestone. "All right, sir. And my orders are—just what you said."
"Just what I said," agreed Sir Cresswell. "Carry on at that—eyes and ears open; no fuss; everything quiet, unobtrusive, silent. Meanwhile—Petherton
