"Just to keep your eyes and your ears open," said Sir Cresswell. "Don't seem to make inquiries--in fact, don't make any inquiry--do nothing. I don't want you to do any private detective work--not I! Just stop here a bit--amuse yourself--write--read--and watch things quietly. And--don't be cross--I've an elderly man's privilege, you know--you'll send your bills to me." "Oh, that's all right, thanks!" said Copplestone, hurriedly. "I'm pretty well off as regards this world's goods." "So I guessed when I found that you lived in the expensive atmosphere of Jermyn Street," said Sir Cresswell, with a sly laugh. "But all the same, you'll let me be paymaster here, you know--that's only fair." "All right--certainly, if you wish it," agreed Copplestone. "But look here--won't you trust me? I assure you I'm to be trusted. You suspect somebody! Hadn't you better give me your confidence? I won't tell a soul--and when I say that, I mean it literally. I won't tell one single soul!" Sir Cresswell waited a moment or two, looking quietly at Copplestone. Then he clapped a hand on the young man's shoulder. "All right, my lad," he said. "Yes!--we do suspect somebody. Marston Greyle! Now you know it." "I expected that," answered Copplestone. "All right, sir. And my orders are--just what you said." "Just what I said," agreed Sir Cresswell. "Carry on at that--eyes and ears open; no fuss; everything quiet, unobtrusive, silent. Meanwhile--Petherton will be at work. And I say--if you want company, you know--I think you'll find it across the bay there at Mrs. Greyle's--eh?" "I was there last night," said Copplestone. "I liked both of them very much. You knew Mrs. Greyle once upon a time, I think; you and your brother?" "We did!" replied Sir Cresswell, with a sigh. "Um!--the fact is, both Bassett and I were in love with her at that time. She married another man instead. That's all!" He gave Copplestone a squeeze of the elbow, laughed, and went across to the solicitor, who was chatting to Stafford in one of the bow windows. Ten minutes later all three were off to Norcaster, and Copplestone was alone, ruminating over this sudden and extraordinary change in the hitherto even tenor of his life. Little more than twenty-four hours previously, all he had been concerned about was the production of his play by Bassett Oliver--here he was now, mixed up in a drama of real life, with Bassett Oliver as its main figure, and the plot as yet unrevealed. And he himself was already committed to play in it--but what part?