There was no record of any Marston Greyle at that hotel, nor at the next half-dozen at which they called. A visit to the shipping office of the line to which the Araconda belonged revealed the fact that she reached Falmouth on October 5th at half-past ten in the evening, and that the name of Marston Greyle was on the list of first-class passengers. Gilling left the office in cheery mood.
"That simplifies matters," he said. "As the Araconda reached here late in the evening, the passengers who landed from her would be almost certain to stay the night in Falmouth. So we've only to resume our round of these hotels in order to hit something pertinent. This is plain and easy work, Copplestone—no corners in it. We'll strike oil before noon."
They struck oil at the very next hotel they called at—an old-fashioned house in close proximity to the harbour. There was a communicative landlord there who evidently possessed and was proud of a retentive memory, and he no sooner heard the reason of Gilling's call upon him than he bustled into activity, and produced the register of the previous year.
"But I remember the young gentleman you're asking about," he remarked, as he took the book from a safe and laid it open on the table in his private room. "Not a common name, is it? He came here about eleven o'clock of the night you've mentioned—there you are!—there's the entry. And there—higher up—is the name of the man who came to meet him. He came the day before—to be here when the Araconda got in."
The two visitors, bending over the book, mutually nudged each other as their eyes encountered the signatures on the open page. There, in the handwriting of the letters which Mr. Dennie had so fortunately preserved, was the name Marston Greyle. But it was not the sight of that which surprised them; they had expected to see it. What made them both thrill with the joy of an unexpected discovery was the sight of the signature inserted some lines above it, under date October 4th. Lest they should exhibit that joy before the landlord, they mutually stuck their elbows into each other and immediately affected the unconcern of indifference.
But there the signature was—Peter Chatfield. Peter Chatfield!—they both knew that they were entering on a new stage of their quest; that the fact that Chatfield had travelled to Falmouth to meet the new owner of Scarhaven meant much—possibly meant everything.
"Oh!" said Gilling, as steadily as possible. "That gentleman came to meet the other, did he? Just so. Now what sort of man was he?"
"Big, fleshy man—elderly—very solemn in manner and appearance," answered the landlord. "I remember him well. Came in about five o'clock in the afternoon of the 4th just after the London train arrived—and booked a room. He told me he expected to meet a gentleman from New York, and was very fidgety about fixing it up to go off in the tender to the Araconda when she came into the Bay. However, I found out for him that she wouldn't be in until next evening, so of course he settled down to wait. Very quiet, reserved old fellow—never said much."
"Did he go off on the tender next night?" asked Gilling.
"He did—and came back with this other gentleman and his baggage—this
Mr. Greyle," answered the landlord. "Mr. Chatfield had booked a room for
Mr. Greyle."