"I am not," answered Copplestone. He sat staring at his visitor for awhile, and when he spoke again his voice had lost its cordial tone. "Well," he said, "and what have you called on me about?" Chatfield looked up sharply, noticing the altered tone. "To tell you--and them as you no doubt represent--that Mr. Greyle will be glad to help in any possible way towards finding out something in this here affair," he answered. "He'll welcome any inquiry that's opened." "Oh!" said Copplestone. "I see! But you're making a mistake, Mr. Chatfield. I don't represent anybody. I'm not even a relation of Mr. Bassett Oliver. In fact, I never met Mr. Oliver in my life: never spoke to him. So--I'm not here in any representative or official sense." Chatfield's small eyes grew smaller with suspicious curiosity. "Oh?" he said questioningly. "Then--what might you be here for, mister?" Copplestone stood up and rang the bell. "That's my business." he answered. "Sorry I can't give you any more time," he went on as Mrs. Wooler opened the door. "I'm engaged now. If you or Mr. Greyle want to see Mr. Oliver's friends I believe his brother, Sir Cresswell Oliver, will be here tomorrow--he's been wired for anyhow." Chatfield's mouth opened as he picked up his hat. He stared at this self-assured young man as if he were something quite new to him. "Sir Cresswell Oliver!" he exclaimed. "Did you say, sir?" "I said Sir Cresswell Oliver--quite plainly," answered Copplestone. Chatfield's mouth grew wider. "You don't mean to tell me that a play-actor's own brother to a titled gentleman!" he said. "Good-night!" replied Copplestone, motioning his visitor towards the door. "I can't give you any more time, really. However, as you seem anxious, Mr. Bassett Oliver is the younger brother of Rear-Admiral Sir Cresswell Oliver, Baronet, and I should imagine that Sir Cresswell will want to know a lot about what's become of him. So you'd better--or Mr. Greyle had better--speak to him. Now once more--good-night." When Chatfield had gone, Copplestone laughed and flung himself into an easy chair before the fire. Of course, the stupid, ignorant, self-sufficient old fool had come fishing for news--he and his master wanted to know what was going to be done in the way of making inquiry. But why?--why so much anxiety if they knew nothing whatever about Bassett Oliver's strange disappearance? "Why this profession of eager willingness to welcome any inquiry that might be made? Nobody had accused Marston Greyle of having anything to do with Bassett Oliver's strange exit--if it was an exit--why, then-- "But it's useless speculating," he mused. "I can't do anything--and here I am, with nothing to do!"