This man does not possess one Single scrap of the Greyle temperament!" Mr.Dennie put away his snuff-box and drumming on the table with his fingers looked out of his eye corners at Copplestone who still stood with his back to the rest, staring out of the window.
"And what," said Mr.Dennie, softly, "what--er, does our good friend Mr.
Copplestone say ?" Copplestone turned swiftly, and gave Audrey a quick glance.
"I say," he answered in a sharp, business-like fashion, "that Gilling, who's stopping at the inn, you know, is walking up and down outside here, evidently looking out for me, and very anxious to see me, and with your permission, Mrs.Greyle, I'd like to have him in.

Now that things have got to this pitch, I'd better tell you something--I don't see any good in concealing it longer.

Gilling isn't an invalid curate at all!--he's a private detective.

Sir Cresswell Oliver and Petherton, the solicitor, sent him down here to watch Greyle--the Squire, you know--that's Gilling's job.

They suspect Greyle--have suspected him from the very first--but of what I don't know.