He was looking narrowly at the girl as he spoke, and she, too, looked narrowly at him out of a pair of grey eyes of more than ordinary intelligence and perception. And at the famous actor's name she started a little and a faint colour stole over her cheeks. "Mr. Bassett Oliver!" she exclaimed in a clear, cultured voice. "My mother and I saw Mr. Oliver at the Northborough Theatre on Friday evening. Do you mean that he--" "I mean--to put it bluntly--that Bassett Oliver is lost," answered Copplestone. "He came to this place yesterday, Sunday, morning, to look round; he lunched at the 'Admiral's Arms,' he went out, after a chat with the landlady, and he's never been seen since. He should have turned up at the 'Angel' at Norcaster last night, and at a rehearsal at the Theatre Royal there today at noon--but he didn't. His manager and I have tracked him here--and so far I can't hear of him. I've asked people all through the village--this side, anyway--nobody knows anything." He and the girl still looked attentively at each other; Copplestone, indeed, was quietly inspecting her while he talked. He judged her to be twenty-one or two; she was a little above medium height, slim, graceful, pretty, and he was quick to notice that her entire air and appearance suggested their present surroundings. Her fair hair escaped from a knitted cap such as fisher-folk wear; her slender figure was shown to advantage by a rough blue jersey; her skirt of blue serge was short and practical; she was shod in brogues which showed more acquaintance with sand and salt water than with polish. And her face was tanned with the strong northern winds, and the ungloved hands, small and shapely as they were, were brown as the beach across which she had come. "I have not seen--nor heard--of Mr. Bassett Oliver--here," she answered. "I was out and about all yesterday afternoon and evening, too--not on this side of the bay, though. Have you been to the police-station?" "The manager may have been there," replied Copplestone. "He's gone along the other shore. But--I don't think he'll get any help there. I'm afraid Mr. Oliver must have met with an accident. I wanted to ask you a question--I saw you coming from the direction of those rocks just now. Could he have got out there across those sands, yesterday afternoon?" "Between three o'clock and evening--yes," said the girl. "And--is it dangerous out there?" "Very dangerous indeed--to any one who doesn't know them." "There's something there called the Devil's Spout?" "Yes--a deep fissure up which the sea boils. Oh! it seems dreadful to think of--I hope he didn't fall in there. If he did--" "Well?" asked Copplestone bluntly, "what if he did?" "Nothing ever came out that once went in," she answered. "It's a sort of whirlpool that's sucked right away into the sea. The people hereabouts say it's bottomless." Copplestone turned his face towards the village.