"So did this gentleman," he said. "Mr. Copplestone, this is our stage-manager, Mr. Rothwell. Rothwell, this is Mr. Richard Copplestone, author of the new play that Mr. Oliver's going to produce next month. Mr. Copplestone got a wire from him yesterday, asking him to come here today at one o'clock, He's travelled all night to get here." "Where was the wire sent from?" asked Rothwell, a sharp-eyed, keen-looking man, who, like Stafford, was obviously interested in the new author's boyish appearance. "And when?" Copplestone drew some letters and papers from his pocket and selected one. "That's it," he said. "There you are--sent off from Northborough at nine-thirty, yesterday morning--Sunday." "Well, then he was at Northborough at that time," remarked Rothwell. "Look here, Stafford, we'd better telephone to Northborough, to his hotel. The 'Golden Apple,' wasn't it?" "No good," replied Stafford, shaking his head. "The 'Golden Apple' isn't on the 'phone--old-fashioned place. We'd better wire." "Too slow," said Rothwell. "We'll telephone to the theatre there, and ask them to step across and make inquiries. Come on!--let's do it at once." He hurried inside again, and Stafford turned to Copplestone. "Better send your cab away and come inside until we get some news," he said. "Let Jerramy take your things into his sanctum--he'll keep an eye on them till you want them--I suppose you'll stop at the 'Angel' with Oliver. Look here!" he went on, turning to the cab driver, "just you wait a bit--I might want you; wait ten minutes, anyway. Come in, Mr. Copplestone." Copplestone followed the business manager up the passage to a dressing-room, in which a little elderly man was engaged in unpacking trunks and dress-baskets. He looked up expectantly at the sound of footsteps; then looked down again at the work in hand and went silently on with it. "This is Hackett, Mr. Oliver's dresser," said Stafford. "Been with him--how long, Hackett?" "Twenty years next January, Mr. Stafford," answered the dresser quietly. "Ever known Mr. Oliver late like this?" inquired Stafford. "Never, sir! There's something wrong," replied Hackett. "I'm sure of it. I feel it! You ought to go and look for him, some of you gentlemen." "Where?" asked Stafford. "We don't know anything about him. He's not come to the 'Angel,' as he ought to have done, yesterday. I believe you're the last person who saw him, Hackett. Aren't you, now?" "I saw him at the 'Golden Apple' at Northborough at twelve o'clock Saturday night, sir," answered Hackett. "I took a bag of his to his rooms there. He was all right then. He knew I was going off first thing next morning to see an uncle of mine who's a farmer on the coast between here and Northborough, and he told me he shouldn't want me until one o'clock today. So of course, I came straight here to the theatre--I didn't call in at the 'Angel' at all this morning."