"I know," she said, responding a little to the pressure of his hands. "I understand. You may be sure I shouldn't have wired if I hadn't felt it absolutely necessary. Somebody was wanted—and you'd made me promise, and so—Yes," she continued, drawing back as Vickers came up, "we are all right, personally, but—there's something very wrong indeed somewhere. Will you both come in and see mother?"
Mrs. Greyle, looking worn and ill, appeared just then in the hall, and called to them to come in. She preceded them into the parlour and turned to the young men as soon as Audrey closed the door.
"I'm more thankful to see you gentlemen than I've ever been in my life—for anything!" she said. "Something is happening here which needs the attention of men—we women can't do anything. Let me tell you what it is. Yesterday morning, very early the Squire's steam-yacht, the Pike, was brought into the inner harbour and moored against the quay just opposite the park gates. We, of course, could see it, and as we knew he had gone away we wondered why it was brought in there. After it had been moored, we saw that preparations of some sort were being made. Then men—estate labourers—began coming down from the house, carrying packing-cases, which were taken on board. And while this was going on, Mrs. Peller, the housekeeper, came hurrying here, in a state of great consternation. She said that a number of men, sailors and estate men, were packing up and removing all the most valuable things in the house—the finest pictures, the old silver, the famous collection of china which Stephen John Greyle made—and spent thousands upon thousands of pounds in making!—the rarest and most valuable books out of the library—all sorts of things of real and great value. Everything was being taken down to the Pike—and the estate carpenter, who was in charge of all this, said it was by the Squire's orders, and produced to Mrs. Peller his written authority. Of course, Mrs. Peller could do nothing against that, but she came hurrying to tell us, because she, like everybody else, is much exercised by these recent events. And so Audrey and I pocketed our pride, and went to see Peter Chatfield. But Peter Chatfield, like his master, had gone! He had left home the previous evening, and his house was locked up."
Copplestone and Vickers exchanged glances, and the young solicitor signed
Mrs. Greyle to proceed.
"Then," she added, "to add to that, as we came away from Chatfield's house, we met Mr. Elkin, the bank-manager from Norcaster. He had come over in a motor-car, to see me—privately. He wanted to tell me—in relation to all these things—that within the last few days, the Squire and Peter Chatfield had withdrawn from the bank the very large balances of two separate accounts. One was the Squire's own account, in his name—the other was an estate account, on which Chatfield could draw. In both cases the balances withdrawn were of very large amount. Of course, as Mr. Elkin pointed out, it was all in order, and no objection could be raised. But it was unusual, for a large balance had always existed on both these accounts. And, Mr. Elkin added, so many strange rumours are going about Norcaster and the district, that he felt seriously uneasy, and thought it his duty to see me at once. And now—what is to be done? The house is being stripped of the best part of its valuables, and in my opinion when that yacht sails it will be for some foreign port. What other object can there be in taking these things away? Of course, as nothing is entailed, and there are no heirlooms, everything is absolutely the Squire's property, so—"
Copplestone, who had been realizing the serious significance of these statements, saw that it was time to speak, if energetic methods were to be taken at once.
"I'd better tell you the truth," he said interrupting Mrs. Greyle. "I might have told you, Vickers, as we came along, but I decided to wait, until we got here and found out how things were. Mrs. Greyle, the man you speak of as the Squire, is no more the owner of Scarhaven than I am! He is not Marston Greyle at all. The real Marston Greyle who came over from America, died the day after he landed, in lodgings at Bristol to which Peter Chatfield and his daughter had taken him, and he is buried in a Bristol cemetery under the name of Mark Grey; Gilling and I found that out during these last few days. It's an absolute fact. So the man who has been posing here as the rightful owner is—an impostor!"
A dead silence followed this declaration. The mother and daughter after one long look at Copplestone turned and looked at each other. But Vickers, quick to realize the situation, started from his seat, with evident intention of doing something.
"That's—the truth?" he exclaimed, turning to Copplestone. "No possible flaw in it?"
"None," replied Copplestone. "It's sheer fact."