Instead of being floored, Chatfield was distinctly
unimpressed.
"Aye!" he said, reflectively. "Aye, I expected to hear that. That's
Copplestone's work, of course--I knew he was some sort of detective as
soon as I got speech with him. His work and that there Sir Cresswell
Oliver's as is making a mountain out of a molehill about his brother,
who, of course, broke his neck quite accidental, poor man, and of that
London lawyer--Petherton. Aye--aye--but all the same, Mr. Vickers, it
don't alter matters--no-how!"
"Good heavens, man, what do you mean?" exclaimed Vickers, who was
becoming more and more mystified. "Do you mean to tell me--come, come,
Chatfield, I'm not a fool! Why--Copplestone has found it all out--there's
no need to keep it secret, now. You were with Marston Greyle when he
died--you registered his death as Marston Greyle--and--"
Chatfield laughed softly and gave his companion a swift glance out of one
corner of his right eye.
"And put another name on a bit of a tombstone--six months afterwards,
what?" he said quietly. "Mr. Vickers, when you're as old as I am,
you'll know that this here world is as full o' puzzles as yon sea's
full o'fish!"
Vickers could only stare at his companion in speechless silence after
that. He felt that there was some mystery about which Chatfield
evidently knew a great deal while he knew nothing.
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