"And it's fact, too, that the daughter knows," observed Copplestone in a low voice.
"Fact, too, that Addie Chatfield was in it," agreed Gilling. "Well—but what happened next? However, before we go on to that, there are three things to do in the morning. We must see this Dr. Valdey, and the undertaker—and Marston Greyle's grave."
"And then?" asked Copplestone.
"Stiff, big question," sighed Gilling. "Go back to town and report, I think—and find out if Swallow has discovered anything. And egad! there's a lot to discover! For you see we're already certain that at the stage at which we've arrived a conspiracy began—conspiracy between Chatfield, his daughter, and the man who's been passing himself off as Marston Greyle. Now, who is the man? Where did they get hold of him? Is he some relation of theirs? All that's got to be found out. Of course, their object is very clear, Marston Greyle, the real Simon Pure, was dead on their hands. His legal successor was his cousin, Miss Audrey. Chatfield knew that when Miss Audrey came into power his own reign as steward of Scarhaven would be brief. And so—but the thing is so plain that one needn't waste breath on it. And I tell you what's plain too, Copplestone—Miss Audrey Greyle is the lady of Scarhaven! Good luck to her! You'll no doubt be glad to communicate the glad tidings!"
Copplestone made no answer. He was utterly confounded by the recent revelations and was wondering what the mother and daughter in the little cottage so far away in the grey north would say when all these things were told them.
"Let's make dead certain of everything," he said after a long pause.
"Don't let's leave any loophole."
"Oh, we'll leave nothing—here at any rate," replied Gilling, confidently. "But you'll find in the morning that we already know almost everything."
In this he was right. The doctor's story was a plain one. The young man was very ill indeed when brought to him, and though he did not anticipate so early or sudden an end, he was not surprised when death came, and had of course, no difficulty about giving the necessary certificate. Just as plain was the undertaker's account of his connection with the affair—a very ordinary transaction in his eyes. And having heard both stories, there was nothing to do but to visit one of the adjacent cemeteries and find a certain grave the number of which they had ascertained from the undertaker's books. It was easily found—and Copplestone and Gilling found themselves standing at a new tombstone, whereon the monumental mason had carved four lines:—