to see that his position was a somewhat curious and possibly invidious
one. He was to watch--and to seem not to watch. He was to listen--and
appear not to listen. The task would be difficult--and perhaps
unpleasant. For he was very certain that Marston Greyle would resent his
presence in the village, and that Chatfield would be suspicious of it.
What reason could he, an utter stranger, have for taking up his quarters
at the "Admiral's Arms?" The tourist season was over: Autumn was well set
in; with Autumn, on that coast, came weather which would send most
southerners flying homewards. Of course, these people would say that he
was left there to peep and pry--and they would all know that the Squire
was the object of suspicion. It was all very well, his telling Mrs.
Wooler that being an idle man he had taken a fancy to Scarhaven, and
would stay in her inn for a few weeks, but Mrs. Wooler, like everybody
else, would see through that. However, the promise had been given, and he
would keep it--literally. He would do nothing in the way of active
detective work--he would just wait and see what, if anything, turned up.

But upon one thing Copplestone had made up his mind determinedly before
that second evening came--he would make no pretence to Audrey Greyle and
her mother. And availing himself of their permission to call again, he
went round to the cottage, and before he had been in it five minutes told
them bluntly that he was going to stay at Scarhaven awhile, on the
chance of learning any further news of Bassett Oliver.

"Which," he added, with a grim smile, "seems about as likely as that
I should hear that I am to be Lord Chancellor when the Woolsack is
next vacant!"

"You don't know," remarked Mrs. Greyle. "A reward for information is to
be offered, isn't it?"