"Very much," assented Copplestone. "Are you a member?"
"No, but I know several men who are members," said the other. "I'll fix it all right. Worth going to when they've what they call a house-dinner—Sunday night, of course."
"Thanks," said Copplestone. "I suppose membership of that's confined to the profession, eh?"
"Strictly," replied his friend. "But they ain't at all particular about their guests—you'll meet all sorts of people there, from judges to jockeys, and millionairesses to milliners."
Copplestone was still wondering what the Squire of Scarhaven could have to do with the Fragonard Club when he went to Mr. Petherton's office the next morning. He was late for the appointment which Gilling had made, and when he arrived Gilling had already reported all that had taken place the day before to the solicitor and to Sir Cresswell Oliver. And on that Copplestone produced the papers entrusted to him by Mr. Dennie and they all compared the handwritings afresh.
"There is certainly something wrong, somewhere," remarked Petherton, after a time. "However, we are in a position to begin a systematic inquiry. Here," he went on, drawing a paper from his desk, "is a cablegram which arrived first thing this morning from New York—from an agent who has been making a search for me in the shipping lists. This is what he says: 'Marston Greyle, St. Louis, Missouri, booked first-class passenger from New York to Falmouth, England, by S.S. Araconda, September 28th, 1912.' There—that's something definite. And the next thing," concluded the old lawyer, with a shrewd glance at Sir Cresswell, "is to find out if the Marston Greyle who landed at Falmouth is the same man whom we have recently seen!"
CHAPTER XVI
IN TOUCH WITH THE MISSING
Sir Cresswell Oliver took the cablegram from Petherton and read it over slowly, muttering the precise and plain wording to himself.
"Don't you think, Petherton, that we had better get a clear notion of our exact bearings?" he said as he laid it back on the solicitor's desk. "Seems to me that the time's come when we ought to know exactly where we are. As I understand it, the case is this—rightly or wrongly we suspect the present holder of the Scarhaven estates. We suspect that he is not the rightful owner—that, in short, he is no more the real Marston Greyle than you are. We think that he's an impostor—posing as Marston Greyle. Other people—Mrs. Valentine Greyle, for example—evidently think so, too. Am I right?"