Scarhaven Keep J. S. Fletcher (early reader chapter books TXT) 📖

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.

“Would Chatfield know that?” he asked reflectively.

“It’s only likely that he would,” replied Gilling. “Even if father and daughter don’t quite hit things off in their tastes, it’s only reasonable to suppose that Peter would usually know his daughter’s whereabouts. And if he brought Greyle here, ill, and they had to stop, it’s only likely that Peter would turn to his daughter for help. Anyway, Copplestone, here are two undoubted facts: Chatfield and Greyle booked from Falmouth for Bristol on October 6th, 1912, and may therefore be supposed to have come here. That’s one fact. The other is⁠—Addie Chatfield was certainly in Bristol on that date and for eleven days after it.”

“Well⁠—what next?” asked Copplestone.

“I’ve been thinking that over while you stared at the bill,” answered Gilling. “I think the best thing will be to find out where Addie Chatfield put herself up during her stay. I daresay you know that in most of these towns there are lodgings which are almost exclusively devoted to the theatrical profession. Actors and actresses go to them year after year; their owners lay themselves out for their patrons⁠—what’s more, your theatrical landlady always remembers names and faces, and has her favourites. Now, in my stage experience, I never struck Bristol, so I don’t know much about it, but I know where we can get information⁠—the stage doorkeeper. He’ll tell us where the recognized lodgings are⁠—and then we must begin a round of inquiry. When? Just now, my boy!⁠—and a good time, too, as you’ll see.”

“Why?” asked Copplestone.

“Best hour of the evening,” replied Gilling with glib assurance. “Landladies enjoying an hour of ease before beginning to cook supper for their lodgers, now busy on the stage. Always ready to talk, theatrical landladies, when they’ve nothing to do. Trust me for knowing the ropes!⁠—come round to the stage door and let’s ask the keeper a question or two.”

But before they had quitted the foyer an interruption came in the shape of a shrewd-looking gentleman in evening dress, who wore his opera hat at a rakish angle and seemed to be very much at home as he strolled about, hands in pockets, looking around him at all and sundry. He suddenly caught sight of Gilling, smiled surprisedly and expansively, and came forward with outstretched hand.

“Bless our hearts, is it really yourself, dear boy!” exclaimed this apparition. “Really, now? And what brings you here⁠—God bless my soul and eyes⁠—why I haven’t seen you this⁠—how long is it, dear boy!”

“Three years,” answered Gilling, promptly clasping the outstretched hand. “But what are you doing here⁠—boss, eh?”

“Lessee’s manager, dear boy⁠—nice job, too,” whispered the other. “Been here two years⁠—good berth.” He deftly steered Gilling towards the refreshment bar, and glanced out of his eye corner at Copplestone. “Friend of yours?” he suggested hospitably. “Introduce us, dear boy⁠—my name is the same as before, you know!”

“Mr. Copplestone, Mr. Montmorency,” said Gilling. “Mr. Montmorency, Mr. Copplestone.”

“Servant, sir,” said Mr. Montmorency. “Pleased to meet any friend of my friend! And what will you take, dear boys, and how are things with you, Gilling, old man⁠—now who on earth would have thought of seeing you here?”

Copplestone held his peace while Gilling and Mr. Montmorency held interesting converse. He was sure that his companion would turn this unexpected meeting to account, and he therefore felt no surprise when Gilling, after giving him a private nudge, plumped the manager with a direct question.

“Did you see Addie Chatfield when she was here about a year ago?” he asked. “You remember⁠—she was here in Mrs. Swayne’s Necklace⁠—here a fortnight.”

“I remember very well, dear boy,” responded Mr. Montmorency, with a judicial sip at the contents of his tumbler. “I saw the lady several times. More by token, I accidentally witnessed a curious little scene between Miss Addie and a gentleman whom Nature appeared to have specially manufactured for the part of heavy parent⁠—you know the type. One morning when that company was here, I happened to be standing in the vestibule, talking to the box-office man, when a large, solemn-faced individual, Quakerish in attire, and evidently not accustomed to the theatre walked in and peered about him at our rich carpets and expensive fittings⁠—pretty much as if he was appraising their value. At the same time, I observed that he was in what one calls a state⁠—a little, perhaps a good deal, upset about something. Wherefore I addressed myself to him in my politest manner and inquired if I could serve him. Thereupon he asked if he could see Miss Adela Chatfield on very important business. Now, I wasn’t going to let him see Miss Addie, for I took him to be a man who might have a writ about him, or something nasty of that sort. But