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!"

He had pleaded an engagement, but he had none, of course. There was a
shelf of old books in the room, but he did not care to read. And
presently, hands in pockets, he lounged out into the hall and saw Mrs.
Wooler standing at the door of the little parlour into which she had
shown him and Stafford earlier in the day.

"There's nobody in here, sir," she said, invitingly; "if you'd like to
smoke your pipe here--"

"Thank you--I will," answered Copplestone. "I got rid of that old
fellow," he observed confidentially when he had followed the landlady
within, and had dropped into a chair near her own. "I think he had
come--fishing."

"That's his usual occupation," said Mrs. Wooler, with a meaning smile. "I
told you he was called Peeping Peter. He's the sort of man who will have
his nose in everybody's affairs. But," she added, with a shake of the
head which seemed to mean a good deal more than the smile, "he doesn't
often come here. This is almost the only house in Scarhaven that doesn't
belong to the Greyle estate. This house, and the land round it, have
belonged to the Wooler family as long as the rest of the place has
belonged to the Greyles. And many a Greyle has wanted to buy it, and
every Wooler has refused to sell it--and always will!"