"
Stafford spoke--with unnecessary abruptness, in Copplestone's opinion.
"I don't think it very likely that any one would forget Bassett Oliver,"
he said. "He isn't--or wasn't--the sort of man anybody could forget, once
they'd met him. Anyhow--did he come to your house yesterday afternoon as
this man suggests?"
Marston Greyle drew himself up. He looked Stafford up and down. Then he
made a slight gesture to the girl, whose face had already assumed a
troubled expression.
"If I had seen Mr. Bassett Oliver yesterday, sir, we should not be
discussing his possible whereabouts now," said Greyle, icily. "Are you
coming, Audrey?"
The girl hesitated, glanced at Copplestone, and then walked away with her
cousin. Stafford sniffed contemptuously.
"Ass!" he muttered. "Couldn't he see that what I meant was that Oliver
must either have been mistaken, or have referred to some other Greyle
whom he met? Hang his pride! Well, now," he went on, turning to the
fisherman, "you're dead certain about what you've told us?"
"As certain as mortal man can be of aught there is!" answered the
informant. "Sure certain, mister."
"Make a note of it, constable," said Stafford. "Mr. Oliver was last seen
going up the path to the Keep, having said he meant to call on Mr.
Marston Greyle. I'll call on you again tomorrow morning. Copplestone!" he
went on, drawing his companion away, "I'm off to Norcaster--I shall see
the police there and get detectives.
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