Now once more--good-night." When Chatfield had gone, Copplestone laughed and flung himself into an easy chair before the fire.

Of course, the stupid, ignorant, self-sufficient old fool had come fishing for news--he and his master wanted to know what was going to be done in the way of making inquiry.
But why ?--why so much anxiety if they knew nothing whatever about Bassett Oliver's strange disappearance?
"Why this profession of eager willingness to welcome any inquiry that might be made?
Nobody had accused Marston Greyle of having anything to do with Bassett Oliver's strange exit--if it was an exit--why, then-- "But it's useless speculating," he mused.

"I can't do anything--and here I am, with nothing to do!" He had pleaded an engagement, but he had none, of course.

There was a shelf of old books in the room, but he did not care to read.

And presently, hands in pockets, he lounged out into the hall and saw Mrs.
Wooler standing at the door of the little parlour into which she had shown him and Stafford earlier in the day.
"There's nobody in here, sir," she said, invitingly; "if you'd like to smoke your pipe here--" "Thank you--I will," answered Copplestone.