Sir Cresswell Oliver and Petherton were in conference with Swallow at the solicitor's office when Gilling and Copplestone arrived there in the early afternoon. Gilling interrupted their conversation to tell the result of his investigations. Copplestone, watching the effect, saw that neither Sir Cresswell nor Petherton showed surprise. Petherton indeed, smiled as if he had anticipated all that Gilling had to say. "I told you that I knew the Greyle family solicitors," he observed. "I find that they have only once seen the man whom we will call the Squire. Chatfield brought him there. He produced proofs of identification--papers which Chatfield no doubt took from the dead man. Of course, the solicitors never doubted for a moment that he was the real Marston Greyle!--never dreamed of fraud: Well--the next step. We must concentrate on finding this man. And Swallow has nothing to tell--yet. He has never seen anything more of him. You'd better turn all your attention to that, Gilling--you and Swallow. As for Chatfield and his daughter, I suppose we shall have to approach the police." Copplestone presently went home to his rooms in Jermyn Street, puzzled and wondering; And there, lying on top of a pile of letters, he found a telegram--from Audrey Greyle. It had been dispatched from Scarhaven at an early hour of the previous day, and it contained but three words--_Can you come?_ CHAPTER XIX THE STEAM YACHT Copplestone had seen and learned enough of Audrey Greyle during his brief stay at Scarhaven to make him assured that she would not have sent for him save for very good and grave reasons. It had been with manifest reluctance that she had given him her promise to do so: her entire behaviour during the conference with Mr. Dennie and Gilling had convinced him that she had an inherent distaste for publicity and an instinctive repugnance to calling in the aid of strangers. He had never expected that she would send for him--he himself knew that he should go back to her, but the return would be on his own initiative. There, however, was her summons, definite as it was brief. He was wanted--and by her. And without opening one of his letters, he snatched up the whole pile, thrust it into his pocket, hurriedly made some preparation for his journey and raced off to King's Cross.