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 close their ruins and make a search—a private search, mind you—and at the end they announce that nothing's been found—and there you are! And—supposing they did find something—supposing they found Bassett Oliver's body—What is it?" he asked suddenly, seeing Copplestone staring hard across the sands at the opposite quay. "Something happened?"
"By Gad! I believe something has happened!" exclaimed Copplestone. "Look there—men running down the hillside from the Keep. And listen—they're shouting to those fellows on the other quay. Come on across! Will it be out of keeping with your invalid pose if you run?"
Gilling answered that question by lightly vaulting the wall and dropping to the sands beneath.
"I'm not an invalid in my legs, anyhow," he answered, as they began to splash across the pools left by the recently retreated tide. By George!—I believe
