That's Copplestone's work, of course--I knew he was some sort of detective as soon as I got speech with him.

His work and that there Sir Cresswell Oliver's as is making a mountain out of a molehill about his brother, who, of course, broke his neck quite accidental, poor man, and of that London lawyer--Petherton.

Aye--aye--but all the same, Mr.Vickers, it don't alter matters--no-how!" "Good heavens, man, what do you mean ?" exclaimed Vickers, who was becoming more and more mystified.

"Do you mean to tell me--come, come, Chatfield, I'm not a fool! Why--Copplestone has found it all out--there's no need to keep it secret, now.

You were with Marston Greyle when he died--you registered his death as Marston Greyle--and--" Chatfield laughed softly and gave his companion a swift glance out of one corner of his right eye.
"And put another name on a bit of a tombstone--six months afterwards, what ?" he said quietly.