ith Copplestone and together they drove up to the
station, where an express was just leaving for the south. Once on their
way to Northborough, Stafford turned to his companion with a grave shake
of the head.

"I daresay you don't quite see the reason of our anxiety," he observed.
"You see, we know Oliver. He's a trick of wandering about by himself on
Sundays--when he gets the chance. Of course when there's a long journey
between two towns, he doesn't get the chance, and then he's all right.
But when, as in this case, the town of one week is fairly close to the
town of the next, he invariably spots some place of interest, an old
castle, or a ruined abbey, or some famous house, and goes looking round
it. And if he's been exploring some spot on this coast yesterday, and
it's as that chap Rutherford said, wild and dangerous, why, then--"

"You think he may have had an accident--fallen over the cliffs or
something?" suggested Copplestone.

"I don't like to think anything," replied Stafford. "But I shall be a
good deal relieved if we can get some definite news about him."

The first half-hour at Northborough yielded nothing definite. A telephone
message from Rothwell had just come to the theatre when they drove up to
it--nothing had so far been heard of the missing man at Norcaster--either
at theatre or hotel. Stafford and Copplestone hurried across to the
"Golden Apple" and interviewed its proprietor; he, keenly interested in
the affair, could tell no more than that Mr. Bassett Oliver, having sent
his luggage forward to Norcaster, had left the house on foot at eleven
o'clock the previous morning, and had been seen to walk across the
market-place in the direction of the railway station. But an old
head-waiter, who had served the famous actor's breakfast, was able to
give some information; Mr. Oliver, he said, had talked a little to him
about the coast scenery between Northborough and Norcaster, and had asked
him which stretch of it was worth seeing. It was his impression that Mr.
Oliver meant to break his journey somewhere along the coast.

"Of course, that's it," said Stafford, as he and Copplestone drove off
again. "He's gone to some place between the two towns. But where? Anyhow,
nobody's likely to forget Oliver if they've once seen him, and wherever
he went, he'd have to take a ticket. Therefore--the booking-office."

Here at last, was light. One of the clerks in the booking-office came
forward at once with news. Mr.