Ten minutes later all three were off to Norcaster, and Copplestone was
alone, ruminating over this sudden and extraordinary change in the
hiterto even tenor of his life. Little more than twenty-four hours
previously, all he had been concerned about was the production of his
play by Bassett Oliver--here he was now, mixed up in a drama of real
life, with Bassett Oliver as its main figure, and the plot as yet
unrevealed. And he himself was already committed to play in it--but
what part?
Now that the others had gone, Copplestone began to feel strangely alone.
He had accepted Sir Cresswell Oliver's commission readily, feeling
genuinely interested in the affair, and being secretly conscious that he
would be glad of the opportunity of further improving his acquaintance
with Audrey Greyle. But now that he considered things quietly, he began
to see that his position was a somewhat curious and possibly invidious
one. He was to watch--and to seem not to watch. He was to listen--and
appear not to listen. The task would be difficult--and perhaps
unpleasant. For he was very certain that Marston Greyle would resent his
presence in the village, and that Chatfield would be suspicious of it.
What reason could he, an utter stranger, have for taking up his quarters
at the "Admiral's Arms?" The tourist season was over: Autumn was well set
in; with Autumn, on that coast, came weather which would send most
southerners flying homewards.
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