to see that his position was a somewhat curious and possibly invidious one. He was to watch—and to seem not to watch. He was to listen—and appear not to listen. The task would be difficult—and perhaps unpleasant. For he was very certain that Marston Greyle would resent his presence in the village, and that Chatfield would be suspicious of it. What reason could he, an utter stranger, have for taking up his quarters at the "Admiral's Arms?" The tourist season was over: Autumn was well set in; with Autumn, on that coast, came weather which would send most southerners flying homewards. Of course, these people would say that he was left there to peep and pry—and they would all know that the Squire was the object of suspicion. It was all very well, his telling Mrs. Wooler that being an idle man he had taken a fancy to Scarhaven, and would stay in her inn for a few weeks, but Mrs. Wooler, like everybody else, would see through that. However, the promise had been given, and he would keep it—literally. He would do nothing in the way of active detective work—he would just wait and see what, if anything, turned up.
But upon one thing Copplestone had made up his mind determinedly before that second evening came—he would make no pretence to Audrey Greyle and her mother. And availing himself of their permission to call again, he went round to the cottage, and before he had been in it five minutes told them bluntly that he was going to stay at Scarhaven awhile, on
