Scarhaven Keep J. S. Fletcher (early reader chapter books TXT) š
- Author: J. S. Fletcher
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āMr. Bassett Oliver?ā he said inquiringly. āIs he here? Iā āIāve got an appointment with him for one oāclock, and Iām sorry Iām lateā āmy trainā āā
āMr. Oliver is not here yet,ā broke in Stafford. āHeās late, tooā āunaccountably late, for him. An appointment, you say?ā
He was looking the stranger over as he spoke, taking him for some stage-struck youth who had probably persuaded the good-natured actor to give him an interview. His expression changed, however, as he glanced at the card which the young man handed over; and he started a little and held out his hand with a smile.
āOh!ā āMr. Copplestone?ā he exclaimed. āHow do you do? My nameās Staffordā āIām Mr. Oliverās business manager. So he made an appointment with you, did heā āhere, today? Wants to see you about your play, of course.ā
Again he looked at the newcomer with a smiling interest, thinking secretly that he was a very youthful and ingenuous being to have written a play which Bassett Oliver, a shrewd critic, and by no means easy to please, had been eager to accept, and was about to produce. Mr. Richard Copplestone, seen in the flesh, looked very young indeed, and very unlike anything in the shape of a professional author. In fact he very much reminded Stafford of the fine and healthy young man whom one sees on the playing fields, and certainly does not associate with pen and ink. That he was not much used to the world on whose edge he just then stood Stafford gathered from a boyish trick of blushing through the tan of his cheeks.
āI got a wire from Mr. Oliver yesterdayā āSunday,ā replied Mr. Copplestone. āI ought to have had it in the morning, I suppose, but Iād gone out for the day, you knowā āgone out early. So I didnāt find it until I got back to my rooms late at night. I got the next train I could from Kingās Cross, and it was late getting in here.ā
āThen youāve practically been travelling all night?ā remarked Stafford. āWell, Mr. Oliver hasnāt turned upā āmost unusual for him. I donāt know whereā āā Just then another man came hurrying down the passage from the dressing rooms, calling the business manager by name.
āI say, Stafford!ā he exclaimed, as he emerged on the street. āThis is a queer thing!ā āIām sure thereās something wrong. Iāve just rung up the Angel hotel. Oliver hasnāt turned up there! His rooms were all ready for him as usual yesterday, but he never came. Theyāve neither seen nor heard of him. Did you see him yesterday?ā
āNo!ā replied Stafford. āI didnāt. Never seen him since last thing Saturday night at Northborough. He ordered this rehearsal for oneā āno, a quarter to one, here, today. But somebody must have seen him yesterday. Whereās his dresserā āwhereās Hackett?ā
āHackettās inside,ā said the other man. āHe hasnāt seen him either, since Saturday night. Hackett has friends living in these partsā āhe went off to see them early yesterday morning, from Northborough, and heās only just come. So he hasnāt seen Oliver, and doesnāt know anything about him; he expected, of course, to find him here.ā
Stafford turned with a wave of the hand towards Copplestone.
āSo did this gentleman,ā he said. āMr. Copplestone, this is our stage-manager, Mr. Rothwell. Rothwell, this is Mr. Richard Copplestone, author of the new play that Mr. Oliverās going to produce next month. Mr. Copplestone got a wire from him yesterday, asking him to come here today at one oāclock, Heās travelled all night to get here.ā
āWhere was the wire sent from?ā asked Rothwell, a sharp-eyed, keen-looking man, who, like Stafford, was obviously interested in the new authorās boyish appearance. āAnd when?ā
Copplestone drew some letters and papers from his pocket and selected one. āThatās it,ā he said. āThere you areā āsent off from Northborough at nine thirty, yesterday morningā āSunday.ā
āWell, then he was at Northborough at that time,ā remarked Rothwell. āLook here, Stafford, weād better telephone to Northborough, to his hotel. The Golden Apple, wasnāt it?ā
āNo good,ā replied Stafford, shaking his head. āThe Golden Apple isnāt on the phoneā āold-fashioned place. Weād better wire.ā
āToo slow,ā said Rothwell. āWeāll telephone to the theatre there, and ask them to step across and make inquiries. Come on!ā āletās do it at once.ā
He hurried inside again, and Stafford turned to Copplestone.
āBetter send your cab away and come inside until we get some news,ā he said. āLet Jerramy take your things into his sanctumā āheāll keep an eye on them till you want themā āI suppose youāll stop at the Angel with Oliver. Look here!ā he went on, turning to the cab driver, ājust you wait a bitā āI might want you; wait ten minutes, anyway. Come in, Mr. Copplestone.ā
Copplestone followed the business manager up the passage to a dressing room, in which a little elderly man was engaged in unpacking trunks and dress-baskets. He looked up expectantly at the sound of footsteps; then looked down again at the work in hand and went silently on with it.
āThis is Hackett, Mr. Oliverās dresser,ā said Stafford. āBeen with himā āhow long, Hackett?ā
āTwenty years next January, Mr. Stafford,ā answered the dresser quietly.
āEver known Mr. Oliver late like this?ā inquired Stafford.
āNever, sir! Thereās something wrong,ā replied Hackett. āIām sure of it. I feel it! You ought to go and look for him, some of you gentlemen.ā
āWhere?ā asked Stafford. āWe donāt know anything about him. Heās not come to the Angel, as he ought to have done, yesterday. I believe youāre the last person who saw him, Hackett. Arenāt you, now?ā
āI saw him at the Golden Apple at Northborough at twelve oāclock Saturday night, sir,ā answered Hackett. āI took a bag of his to his rooms there. He was all right then. He knew I was going off first thing next morning to see an uncle of mine whoās a farmer on the coast between here and Northborough, and he told me he shouldnāt want me until one oāclock today. So of course, I came
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