He should have turned up at
the 'Angel' at Norcaster last night, and at a rehearsal at the Theatre
Royal there today at noon--but he didn't. His manager and I have tracked
him here--and so far I can't hear of him. I've asked people all through
the village--this side, anyway--nobody knows anything."
He and the girl still looked attentively at each other; Copplestone,
indeed, was quietly inspecting her while he talked. He judged her to be
twenty-one or two; she was a little above medium height, slim, graceful,
pretty, and he was quick to notice that her entire air and appearance
suggested their present surroundings. Her fair hair escaped from a
knitted cap such as fisher-folk wear; her slender figure was shown to
advantage by a rough blue jersey; her skirt of blue serge was short and
practical; she was shod in brogues which showed more acquaintance with
sand and salt water than with polish. And her face was tanned with the
strong northern winds, and the ungloved hands, small and shapely as they
were, were brown as the beach across which she had come.
"I have not seen--nor heard--of Mr. Bassett Oliver--here," she answered.
"I was out and about all yesterday afternoon and evening, too--not on
this side of the bay, though. Have you been to the police-station?"
"The manager may have been there," replied Copplestone. "He's gone along
the other shore.
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