I tell you, Mr. Vickers, I do _not_ know that the man
what we've known as the Squire of Scarhaven for a year gone by is _not_
the rightful Squire--I do not! Fact, sir! But"--he lowered his voice, and
his sly eyes became slyer and craftier--"but I won't deny that during
this last week or two I may have had my suspicions aroused, that there
was something wrong--I don't deny that, Mr. Vickers."
Vickers heard this with amazement. Young as he was, he had had various
dealings with Peter Chatfield, and he had an idea that he knew something
of him, subtle old fellow though he was, and he believed that Chatfield
was now speaking the truth. But, in that case, what of Copplestone's
revelation about the Falmouth and Bristol affair and the dead man? He
thought rapidly, and then determined to take a strong line.
"Chatfield!" he said. "You're trying to bluff me. It won't do. Things
are known. I know 'em! I'll be candid with you--the time's come for
that. I'll tell you what I know--it'll all have to come out. You know
very well that the real Marston Greyle's dead. You were with him when he
died. What's more, you buried him at Bristol under the name of Mark
Grey. Hang it all, man, what's the use of lying about it?--you know
that's all true!"
He was watching Chatfield's big face keenly, and he was astonished to see
that his dramatic impeachment produced no more effect than a slightly
superior smile.
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