I knew of course, from what
they told me that Mr. Greyle had come off the _Araconda_ the night
before, and that he was passing on. No--I only gathered that they were
going to the neighbourhood of Norcaster from the fact that Mr. Greyle
asked if a journey to that place would be too much for him--he said
with a laugh, that over there in the United States a journey of five
hundred miles would be considered a mere jaunt! He was very plucky,
poor fellow, but--"
Dr. Tretheway ended with a significant shake of the head, and his two
visitors left him and went out into the autumn sunlight.
"Copplestone!" said Gilling as they walked away. "That chap--the real
Marston Greyle--is dead! That's as certain as that we're alive! And now
the next thing is to find out where he died and when. And by George,
that's going to be a big job!"
"How are you going to set about it?" asked Copplestone. "It seems as if
we were up against a blank wall, now."
"Not at all, my son!" retorted Gilling, cheerfully. "One step at a
time--that's the sure thing to go on, in my calling. We've found out a
lot here, and quickly, too. And--we know where our next step lies.
Bristol! Like looking for needles in a bundle of hay? Not a bit of it.
If those two broke their journey at Bristol, they'd have to stop at an
hotel. Well, now we'll adjourn to Bristol--bearing in mind that we're on
the track of Peter Chatfield!"
CHAPTER XVII
THE OLD PLAYBILL
Gilling's cheerful optimism was the sort of desirable quality that is a
good thing to have, but all the optimism in the world is valueless in
face of impregnable difficulty.
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