The two visitors, bending over the book, mutually nudged each other as their eyes encountered the signatures on the open page. There, in the handwriting of the letters which Mr. Dennie had so fortunately preserved, was the name Marston Greyle. But it was not the sight of that which surprised them; they had expected to see it. What made them both thrill with the joy of an unexpected discovery was the sight of the signature inserted some lines above it, under date October 4th. Lest they should exhibit that joy before the landlord, they mutually stuck their elbows into each other and immediately affected the unconcern of indifference. But there the signature was--_Peter Chatfield_. Peter Chatfield!--they both knew that they were entering on a new stage of their quest; that the fact that Chatfield had travelled to Falmouth to meet the new owner of Scarhaven meant much--possibly meant everything. "Oh!" said Gilling, as steadily as possible. "That gentleman came to meet the other, did he? Just so. Now what sort of man was he?" "Big, fleshy man--elderly--very solemn in manner and appearance," answered the landlord. "I remember him well. Came in about five o'clock in the afternoon of the 4th just after the London train arrived--and booked a room. He told me he expected to meet a gentleman from New York, and was very fidgety about fixing it up to go off in the tender to the _Araconda_ when she came into the Bay. However, I found out for him that she wouldn't be in until next evening, so of course he settled down to wait. Very quiet, reserved old fellow--never said much." "Did he go off on the tender next night?" asked Gilling. "He did--and came back with this other gentleman and his baggage--this Mr. Greyle," answered the landlord. "Mr. Chatfield had booked a room for Mr. Greyle." "And what sort of man was Mr. Greyle?" inquired Gilling. "That's really the important thing. You've an exceptionally good memory--I can see that. Tell us all you can recollect about him." "I can recollect plenty," replied the landlord, shaking his head. "As for his looks--a tallish, slightly-built young fellow, between, I should say, twenty-five and twenty-eight. Stooped a good bit. Very dark hair and eyes--eyes a good deal sunken in his face. Very pale--good-looking--good features. But ill--my sakes! he was ill!" "Ill!" exclaimed Gilling, with a glance at Copplestone. "Really ill!"