Scarhaven Keep - J. S. Fletcher (phonics reading books TXT) 📗

know. He came out again within five minutes, stuffing some letters into his pocket. He walked away across Shaftesbury Avenue into Wardour Street⁠—there he went into a tobacconist’s shop. Of course, I hung about again. But this time he didn’t come. So at last I walked in⁠—to buy something. He wasn’t there!”

“Pooh!⁠—he’d slipped out⁠—walked out⁠—when you weren’t looking!” said Gilling. “Why didn’t you keep your eye on the ball, man?⁠—you!”

“You be hanged!” retorted Swallow. “Never had an eyelash off that shop door from the time he entered until I, too, entered.”

“Then there’s a side door to that shop⁠—into some alley or passage,” said Gilling.

“Not that I could find,” answered Swallow. “Might be at the rear of the premises perhaps, but I couldn’t ascertain, of course. Remember!⁠—there’s another thing. He may have stopped on the premises. There’s that in it. However, I know the shop and the name.”

“Why didn’t you bring somebody else with you, to follow the man and the luggage?” demanded Gilling, half-petulantly.

Swallow shook his head.

“There I made a mess of it, I confess,” he admitted. “But it never struck me they’d separate. I thought, of course, they’d drive straight to some hotel, and⁠—”

“And the long and the short of it is, Greyle’s slipped you,” said Gilling. “Well⁠—there’s no more to be done tonight. The only thing of value is that Greyle called at the Fragonard. What’s a country squire⁠—only recently come to England, too!⁠—to do with the Fragonard? That is worth something. Well⁠—Copplestone, we’d better meet in the morning at Petherton’s. You be there at ten o’clock, and I’ll get Sir Cresswell Oliver to be there, too.”

Copplestone betook himself to his rooms in Jermyn Street; it seemed an age⁠—several ages⁠—since he had last seen the familiar things in them. During the few days which had elapsed since his hurried setting off to meet Bassett Oliver so many things had happened that he felt as if he had lived a week in a totally different world. He had met death, and mystery, and what appeared to be sure evidence of deceit and cunning and perhaps worse⁠—fraud and crime blacker than fraud. But he had also met Audrey Greyle. And it was only natural that he thought more about her than of the strange atmosphere of mystery which wrapped itself around Scarhaven. She, at any rate, was good to think upon, and he thought much as he looked over the letters that had accumulated, changed his clothes, and made ready to go and dine at his club. Already he was counting the hours which must elapse before he would go back to her.

Nevertheless, Copplestone’s mind was not entirely absorbed by this pleasant subject; the events of the day and of the arrival in London kept presenting themselves. And coming across a fellow club member whom he knew for a thorough man about town, he suddenly plumped him with a question.

“I say!” he said. “Do you know the Fragonard Club?”

“Of course!” replied the other man. “Don’t you?”

“Never even heard of it till this evening,” said Copplestone. “What is it?”

“Mixed lot!” answered his companion. “Theatrical and music hall folk⁠—men and women⁠—both. Lively spot⁠—sometimes. Like to have a look in when they have one of their nights?”

“Very much,” assented Copplestone. “Are you a member?”

“No, but I know several men who are members,” said the other. “I’ll fix it all right. Worth going to when they’ve what they call a house dinner⁠—Sunday night, of course.”

“Thanks,” said Copplestone. “I suppose membership of that’s confined to the profession, eh?”

“Strictly,” replied his friend. “But they ain’t at all particular about their guests⁠—you’ll meet all sorts of people there, from judges to jockeys, and millionairesses to milliners.”

Copplestone was still wondering what the Squire of Scarhaven could have to do with the Fragonard Club when he went to Mr. Petherton’s office the next morning. He was late for the appointment which Gilling had made, and when he arrived Gilling had already reported all that had taken place the day before to the solicitor and to Sir Cresswell Oliver. And on that Copplestone produced the papers entrusted to him by Mr. Dennie and they all compared the handwritings afresh.

“There is certainly something wrong, somewhere,” remarked Petherton, after a time. “However, we are in a position to begin a systematic inquiry. Here,” he went on, drawing a paper from his desk, “is a cablegram which arrived first thing this morning from New York⁠—from an agent who has been making a search for me in the shipping lists. This is what he says: ‘Marston Greyle, St. Louis, Missouri, booked first-class passenger from New York to Falmouth, England, by S.S. Araconda, September 28th, 1912.’ There⁠—that’s something definite. And the next thing,” concluded the old lawyer, with a shrewd glance at Sir Cresswell, “is to find out if the Marston Greyle who landed at Falmouth is the same man whom we have recently seen!”

XVI In Touch with the Missing

Sir Cresswell Oliver took the cablegram from Petherton and read it over slowly, muttering the precise and plain wording to himself.

“Don’t you think, Petherton, that we had better get a clear notion of our exact bearings?” he said as he laid it back on the solicitor’s desk. “Seems to me that the time’s come when we ought to know exactly where we are. As I understand it, the case is this⁠—rightly or wrongly we suspect the present holder of the Scarhaven estates. We suspect that he is not the rightful owner⁠—that, in short, he is no more the real Marston Greyle than you are. We think that he’s an impostor⁠—posing as Marston Greyle. Other people⁠—Mrs. Valentine Greyle, for example⁠—evidently think so, too. Am I right?”

“Quite!” responded Petherton. “That’s our position⁠—exactly.”

“Then⁠—in that case, what I want to get at is this,” continued Sir Cresswell. “How does this relate to my brother’s death? What’s the connection? That⁠—to me at any rate⁠—is the first thing of importance. Of course I have a theory. This, that the impostor did see my brother last Sunday afternoon. That