o me."

He stopped at a deserted stretch of the quay, and leaning against the
wall which separated it from the sand, signed to Gilling to stop also.

"If we're going to have a quiet talk," he went on, "we'd better have it
now--no one's about, and if any one sees us from a distance they'll
only think we're, what we look to be--casual acquaintances. Now--what
is your job?"

Gilling looked about him and then perched himself on the wall.

"To watch Marston Greyle," he replied.

"They suspect him?" asked Copplestone.

"Undoubtedly!"

"Sir Cresswell Oliver said as much to me--but no more. Have they said
more to you?"

"The suspicion seemed to have originated with Petherton. Petherton, in
spite of his meek old-fashioned manners, is as sharp an old bird as
you'll find in London! He fastened at once on what Bassett Oliver said
to that fisherman, Ewbank. A keen nose for a scent, Petherton's! And he
's determined to find out who it was that Bassett Oliver met in the
United States under the name of Marston Greyle. He's already set the
machinery in motion. And in the meantime, I'm to keep my eye on this
Squire--as I shall!"

"Why watch him particularly?"

"To see that he doesn't depart for unknown regions--or, if he does, to
follow in his track. He's not to be lost sight of until this mystery is
cleared. Because--something is wrong."

Copplestone considered matters in silence for a few moments, and decided
not to reveal the story of Zachary Spurge to Gilling--yet awhile at any
rate. However, he had news which there was no harm in communicating.

"Marston Greyle," he said, presently, "or his agent, Peter Chatfield, or
both, in common agreement, are already doing something to solve the
mystery--so far as Greyle's property is concerned. They've closed the
Keep and its surrounding ruins to the people who used to be permitted to
go in, and they're conducting an exhaustive search--for Bassett Oliver,
of course."

Gilling made a grimace.

"Of course!" he said, cynically. "Just so! I expected something of that
sort. That's all part of a clever scheme."

"I don't understand you," remarked Copplestone. "How--a clever scheme?"

"Whitewash!" answered Gilling. "Sheer whitewash! You don't suppose that
either Greyle or Chatfield are fools?--I should say they're far from it,
from what little I've heard of 'em. Well--don't they know very well that
Marston Greyle is under suspicion? All right--they want to clear him. So
they clos