Vickers lighted his own pipe, and took some time over it.
"What are you after, Chatfield?" he asked at length. "Something, of course. You say you want to come to terms with Miss Greyle. That, of course, is because you know very well that Miss Greyle is the legal owner of Scarhaven, and that—"
Chatfield waved his pipe.
"I don't!" he answered, with what seemed genuine eagerness. "I don't know naught of the sort. I tell you, Mr. Vickers, I do not know that the man what we've known as the Squire of Scarhaven for a year gone by is not the rightful Squire—I do not! Fact, sir! But"—he lowered his voice, and his sly eyes became slyer and craftier—"but I won't deny that during this last week or two I may have had my suspicions aroused, that there was something wrong—I don't deny that, Mr. Vickers."
Vickers heard this with amazement. Young as he was, he had had various dealings with Peter Chatfield, and he had an idea that he knew something of him, subtle old fellow though he was, and he believed that Chatfield was now speaking the truth. But, in that case, what of Copplestone's revelation about the Falmouth and Bristol affair and the dead man? He thought rapidly, and then determined to take a strong line.
"Chatfield!" he said. "You're trying to bluff me. It won't do. Things are known. I know 'em! I'll be candid with you—the time's come for that. I'll tell you what I know—it'll all have to come out. You know very well that the real Marston Greyle's dead. You were with him when he died. What's more, you buried him at Bristol under the name of Mark Grey. Hang it all, man, what's the use of lying about it?—you know that's all true!"
He was watching Chatfield's big face keenly, and he was astonished to see that his dramatic impeachment produced no more effect than a slightly superior smile. Instead of being floored, Chatfield was distinctly unimpressed.
"Aye!" he said, reflectively. "Aye, I expected to hear that. That's Copplestone's work, of course—I knew he was some sort of detective as soon as I got speech with him. His work and that there Sir Cresswell Oliver's as is making a mountain out of a molehill about his brother, who, of course, broke his neck quite accidental, poor man, and of that London lawyer—Petherton. Aye—aye—but all the same, Mr. Vickers, it don't alter matters—no-how!"
"Good heavens, man, what do you mean?" exclaimed Vickers, who was becoming more and more mystified. "Do you mean to tell me—come, come, Chatfield, I'm not a fool! Why—Copplestone has found it all out—there's no need to keep it secret, now. You were with Marston Greyle when he died—you registered his death as Marston Greyle—and—"
Chatfield laughed softly and gave his companion a swift glance out of one corner of his right eye.