like to remember a play-actor person that's here today and gone tomorrow! I hope I give no offence, sir—maybe you're a play-actor yourself."
"I am not," answered Copplestone. He sat staring at his visitor for awhile, and when he spoke again his voice had lost its cordial tone. "Well," he said, "and what have you called on me about?"
Chatfield looked up sharply, noticing the altered tone.
"To tell you—and them as you no doubt represent—that Mr. Greyle will be glad to help in any possible way towards finding out something in this here affair," he answered. "He'll welcome any inquiry that's opened."
"Oh!" said Copplestone. "I see! But you're making a mistake, Mr. Chatfield. I don't represent anybody. I'm not even a relation of Mr. Bassett Oliver. In fact, I never met Mr. Oliver in my life: never spoke to him. So—I'm not here in any representative or official sense."
Chatfield's small eyes grew smaller with suspicious curiosity.
"Oh?" he said questioningly. "Then—what might you be here for, mister?"
Copplestone stood up and rang the bell.
"That's my business." he answered. "Sorry I can't give you any more time," he went on as Mrs. Wooler opened the door. "I'm engaged now. If you or Mr. Greyle want to see Mr. Oliver's friends I believe his brother, Sir Cresswell Oliver, will be here tomorrow—he's been wired for anyhow."
