northern quay. And once they were well out of earshot of the "Admiral's Arms," and the two or three men who lounged near the wall in front of it, the curate turned to his companion with a sly look.
"Of course you're Mr. Copplestone?" he remarked. "You can't be anybody else—besides, I heard the landlady call you so."
"Yes," replied Copplestone, distinctly puzzled by the other's manner. "What then?"
The curate laughed quietly, and putting his fingers inside his heavy overcoat, produced a card which he handed over.
"My credentials!" he said.
Copplestone glanced at the card and read "Sir Cresswell Oliver." He turned wonderingly to his companion, who laughed again.
"Sir Cresswell told me to give you that as soon as I conveniently could," he said. "The fact is, I'm not a clergyman at all—not I! I'm a private detective, sent down here by him and Petherton. See?"
Copplestone stared for a moment at the wide-brimmed hat, the round collar, the eminently clerical countenance. Then he burst into laughter. "I congratulate you on your make-up, anyway!" he exclaimed. "Capital!"
"Oh, I've been on the stage in my time," responded the private detective. "I'm a good hand at fitting myself to various parts; besides I've played the conventional curate a score of times. Yes, I don't think anybody would see through me, and I'm very particular to avoid the clergy."
