"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--
"But it's useless speculating," he mused. "I can't do anything--and here
I am, with nothing to do!"
He had pleaded an engagement, but he had none, of course.
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