will be at work. And I say—if you want company, you know—I think you'll find it across the bay there at Mrs. Greyle's—eh?"
"I was there last night," said Copplestone. "I liked both of them very much. You knew Mrs. Greyle once upon a time, I think; you and your brother?"
"We did!" replied Sir Cresswell, with a sigh. "Um!—the fact is, both Bassett and I were in love with her at that time. She married another man instead. That's all!"
He gave Copplestone a squeeze of the elbow, laughed, and went across to the solicitor, who was chatting to Stafford in one of the bow windows. Ten minutes later all three were off to Norcaster, and Copplestone was alone, ruminating over this sudden and extraordinary change in the hiterto even tenor of his life. Little more than twenty-four hours previously, all he had been concerned about was the production of his play by Bassett Oliver—here he was now, mixed up in a drama of real life, with Bassett Oliver as its main figure, and the plot as yet unrevealed. And he himself was already committed to play in it—but what part?
Now that the others had gone, Copplestone began to feel strangely alone. He had accepted Sir Cresswell Oliver's commission readily, feeling genuinely interested in the affair, and being secretly conscious that he would be glad of the opportunity of further improving his acquaintance with Audrey Greyle. But now that he considered things quietly, he began
