Scarhaven Keep by J. S. Fletcher (best value ebook reader TXT) 📕

the instant they were alone, he tapped the girl’s arm and gave her a curiously warning look.

“Hush, my dear!” he whispered. “Not a word⁠—don’t want your mother to know! Listen⁠—have you a specimen⁠—letter⁠—anything⁠—of your cousin, the Squire’s handwriting? Anything so long as it’s his. You have? Give it to me⁠—say nothing to your mother. Wait until tomorrow morning. I’ll run over to see you again⁠—about noon. It’s important⁠—but silence!”

Audrey, scarcely understanding the old man’s meaning, opened a desk and drew out one or two letters. She selected one and handed it to Mr. Dennie, who made haste to put it away before Mrs. Greyle returned. He gave Audrey another warning look.

“That was what I wanted!” he said mysteriously. “I thought of it during the inquest. Never mind why, just now⁠—you shall know tomorrow.”

He lingered a few minutes, chatting to his hostess about old times as he sipped the old Squire’s famous port; then he went off to the little station, joined Stafford and his fellow actors and actresses, and returned with them to Norcaster. And at Norcaster Mr. Dennie separated himself from the rest and repaired to his quiet lodgings⁠—rooms which he had occupied for many years in succession whenever he went that way on tour⁠—and once safely bestowed in them he pulled out a certain old-fashioned trunk, which he had owned since boyhood and lugged about wherever he went in two continents, and from it, after much methodical unpacking, he disinterred a brown paper parcel, neatly tied up with green ribbon. From this parcel he drew a thin packet of typed matter and a couple of letters⁠—the type script he laid aside, the letters he opened out on his table. Then he took from his pocket the letter which Audrey Greyle had given him and put it side by side with those taken from the parcel. And after one brief glance at all three Mr. Dennie made typescript and letters up again into a neat packet, restored them to his trunk, locked them up, and turned to the two hours’ rest which he always took before going to the theatre for his evening’s work.

He was back at Scarhaven by eleven o’clock the next morning, with his neat packet under his arm and he held it up significantly to Audrey who opened the door of the cottage to him.

“Something to show you,” he said with a quiet smile as he walked in. “To show you and your mother.” He stopped short on the threshold of the little parlour, where Copplestone was just then talking to Mrs. Greyle. “Oh!” he said, a little disappointedly, “I hoped to find you alone⁠—I’ll wait.”

Mrs. Greyle explained who Copplestone was, and Mr. Dennie immediately brightened. “Of course⁠—of course!” he explained. “I know! Glad to meet you, Mr. Copplestone⁠—you don’t know me, but I know you⁠—or your work⁠—well enough. It was I who read and recommended your play to our poor dear friend. It’s a little secret, you know,” continued Mr. Dennie, laying his packet on the table, “but I have acted for a great many years as Bassett Oliver’s literary adviser⁠—taster, you might say. You know, he had a great number of plays sent to him, of course, and he was a very busy man, and he used to hand them over to me in the first place, to take a look at, a taste of, you know, and if I liked the taste, why, then he took a mouthful himself, eh? And that brings me to the very point, my dear ladies and my dear young gentleman, that I have come specially to Scarhaven this morning to discuss. It’s a very, very serious matter indeed,” he went on as he untied his packet of papers, “and I fear that it’s only the beginning of something more serious. Come round me here at this table, all of you, if you please.”

The other three drew up chairs, each wondering what was coming, and the old actor resumed his eyeglasses and gave obvious signs of making a speech.

“Now I want you all to attend to me, very closely,” he said. “I shall have to go into a detailed explanation, and you will very soon see what I am after. As you may be aware, I have been a personal friend of Bassett Oliver for some years, and a member of his company without break for the last eight years. I accompanied Bassett Oliver on his two trips to the United States⁠—therefore, I was with him when he was last there, years ago.

“Now, while we were at Chicago that time, Bassett came to me one day with the typescript of a one-act play and told me that it had been sent to him by a correspondent signing himself Marston Greyle; who in a covering letter, said that he sprang from an old English family, and that the play dealt with a historic, romantic episode in its history. The principal part, he believed, was one which would suit Bassett⁠—therefore he begged him to consider the matter. Bassett asked me to read the play, and I took it away, with the writer’s letter, for that purpose. But we were just then very busy, and I had no opportunity of reading anything for a time. Later on, we went to St. Louis, and there, of course, Bassett, as usual, was much fêted and went out a great deal, lunching with people and so on. One day he came to me, ‘By the by, Dennie!’ he said, ‘I met that Mr. Marston Greyle today who sent me that romantic one-act thing. He wanted to know if I’d read it, and I had to confess that it was in your hands. Have you looked at it?’ I, too, had to confess⁠—I hadn’t. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘read it and let me know what you think⁠—will it suit me?’ I made time to read the little play during the following week, and I told Bassett that I didn’t think it would suit him, but I felt sure it might suit Montagu Gaines, who plays just such