"And you left the stage—for this?" asked Copplestone. "Why, now?"
"Pays better—heaps better," replied the other calmly. "Also, it's more exciting—there's much more variety in it. Well, now you know who I am—my name, by-the-bye is Gilling, though I'm not the Reverend Gilling, as Mrs. Wooler will call me. And so—as I've made things plain—how's this matter going so far?"
Copplestone shook his head.
"My orders," he said, with a significant look, "are—to say nothing to any one."
"Except to me," responded Gilling. "Sir Cresswell Oliver's card is my passport. You can tell me anything."
"Tell me something first," replied Copplestone. "Precisely what are you here for? If I'm to talk confidentially to you, you must talk in the same fashion to 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.
