"This! There is in every centre of population an official who registers births, marriages, and deaths. Now we believe the real Marston Greyle to be dead. Let us suppose, for argument's sake, that he did die here, in Bristol, whither he and Chatfield certainly set off when they left Falmouth. What would happen? Notice of his death would have to be given to the Registrar—by the nearest relative or by the person in attendance on the deceased. That person would, in this case, be Chatfield. If the death occurred suddenly, and without medical attendance, an inquest would have to be held. If a doctor had been in attendance he would give a signed certificate of the cause of death, which he would hand to the relatives or friends in attendance, who, in their turn, would have to hand it to the Registrar. Do you see the value of these points? What we must do tomorrow morning is to see the Registrar—or, as there will be more than one in a place this size—each of them in turn, in the endeavour to find out if, early in October, 1912, Peter Chatfield registered the death of Marston Greyle here. But remember—he may not have registered it under that name. He may, indeed, not have used his own name—he's deep enough for anything. That however, is our next best chance—search of the registers. Let's try it, anyway, first thing in the morning. And as we've had a stiff day, I propose we dismiss all thought of this affair for the rest of the evening and betake ourselves to some place of amusement—theatre, eh?"
Copplestone made no objection to that, and when dinner was over, they walked round to the principal theatre in time for the first act of a play which having been highly successful in London had just started on a round of the leading provincial theatres. Between the second and third acts of this production there was a long interval, and the two companions repaired to the foyer to recuperate their energies with a drink and a cigarette. While thus engaged, Copplestone encountered an old school friend with whom he exchanged a few words: Gilling, meanwhile strolled about, inspecting the pictures, photographs and old playbills on the walls of the saloon and its adjacent apartments. And suddenly, he turned back, waited until Copplestone's acquaintance had gone away, and then hurried up and smacked his co-searcher on the shoulder.
"Didn't I tell you that one's often close to a thing when one seems furthest off it!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Come here, my son, and look at what I've just found."
He drew Copplestone away to a quiet corner and pointed out an old playbill, framed and hung on the wall. Copplestone stared at it and saw nothing but the title of a well-known comedy, the names of one or two fairly celebrated actors and actresses and the usual particulars which appear on all similar announcements.
"Well?" he asked. "What of this?"
"That!" replied Gilling, flicking the tip of his finger on a line in the bill. "That my boy!"
Copplestone looked again. He started at what he read.
Margaret Sayers…….MISS ADELA CHATFIELD.
"And now look at that!" continued Gilling, with an accentuation of his triumphal note. "See! These people were here for a fortnight—from October 3rd to 17th—1912. Therefore—if Peter Chatfield brought Marston Greyle to Bristol on October 6th, Peter Chatfield's daughter would also be in the town!"
Copplestone looked over the bill again, rapidly realizing possibilities.