"Sir Cresswell Oliver's card is my
passport. You can tell me anything."
"Tell me something first," replied Copplestone. "Precisely what are you
here for? If I'm to talk confidentially to you, you must talk in the same
fashion to me."
He stopped at a deserted stretch of the quay, and leaning against the
wall which separated it from the sand, signed to Gilling to stop also.
"If we're going to have a quiet talk," he went on, "we'd better have it
now--no one's about, and if any one sees us from a distance they'll
only think we're, what we look to be--casual acquaintances. Now--what
is your job?"
Gilling looked about him and then perched himself on the wall.
"To watch Marston Greyle," he replied.
"They suspect him?" asked Copplestone.
"Undoubtedly!"
"Sir Cresswell Oliver said as much to me--but no more. Have they said
more to you?"
"The suspicion seemed to have originated with Petherton. Petherton, in
spite of his meek old-fashioned manners, is as sharp an old bird as
you'll find in London! He fastened at once on what Bassett Oliver said
to that fisherman, Ewbank. A keen nose for a scent, Petherton's! And he
's determined to find out who it was that Bassett Oliver met in the
United States under the name of Marston Greyle. He's already set the
machinery in motion. And in the meantime, I'm to keep my eye on this
Squire--as I shall!"
"Why watch him particularly?"
"To see that he doesn't depart for unknown regions--or, if he does, to
follow in his track.
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