Sir Cresswell tapped him on the shoulder.
"I want you to do me a favour," he said. "I shall take it as a kindness if you will. I don't want to talk about certain ideas which Petherton and I have about this affair, yet, anyway—not even to you—but we have formed some ideas this afternoon. Now, do you think you could manage to stay where you are for a week or two?"
"Here?" exclaimed Copplestone.
"This seems very comfortable," said Sir Cresswell, looking round. "The landlady is a nice, motherly person; she gave me a very well-cooked lunch; this is a quiet room in which to do your writing, eh?"
"Of course I can stay here," answered Copplestone, who was a good deal bewildered. "But—mayn't I know why—and in what capacity?"
"Just to keep your eyes and your ears open," said Sir Cresswell. "Don't seem to make inquiries—in fact, don't make any inquiry—do nothing. I don't want you to do any private detective work—not I! Just stop here a bit—amuse yourself—write—read—and watch things quietly. And—don't be cross—I've an elderly man's privilege, you know—you'll send your bills to me."
"Oh, that's all right, thanks!" said Copplestone, hurriedly. "I'm pretty well off as regards this world's goods."
"So I guessed when I found that you lived in the expensive atmosphere of Jermyn Street," said Sir Cresswell, with a sly laugh. "But all the same, you'll let me be paymaster here, you know—that's only fair."
"All right—certainly, if you wish it," agreed Copplestone. "But look here—won't you trust me? I assure you I'm to be trusted. You suspect somebody! Hadn't you better give me your confidence? I won't tell a soul—and when I say that, I mean it literally. I won't tell one single soul!"
Sir Cresswell waited a moment or two, looking quietly at Copplestone.
Then he clapped a hand on the young man's shoulder.