And, Mr. Elkin added, so many strange rumours are
going about Norcaster and the district, that he felt seriously uneasy,
and thought it his duty to see me at once. And now--what is to be done?
The house is being stripped of the best part of its valuables, and in my
opinion when that yacht sails it will be for some foreign port. What
other object can there be in taking these things away? Of course, as
nothing is entailed, and there are no heirlooms, everything is absolutely
the Squire's property, so--"
Copplestone, who had been realizing the serious significance of these
statements, saw that it was time to speak, if energetic methods were to
be taken at once.
"I'd better tell you the truth," he said interrupting Mrs. Greyle. "I
might have told you, Vickers, as we came along, but I decided to wait,
until we got here and found out how things were. Mrs. Greyle, the man you
speak of as the Squire, is no more the owner of Scarhaven than I am! He
is not Marston Greyle at all. The real Marston Greyle who came over from
America, died the day after he landed, in lodgings at Bristol to which
Peter Chatfield and his daughter had taken him, and he is buried in a
Bristol cemetery under the name of Mark Grey; Gilling and I found that
out during these last few days. It's an absolute fact. So the man who has
been posing here as the rightful owner is--an impostor!"
A dead silence followed this declaration.
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