Scarhaven Keep

“Never knew him to be late before…never!” the business manager exclaimed, impatiently pulling out his watch for the twentieth time. “Not in all my ten years, experience of him…not once.” “I suppose you’ve seen him this morning, Mr. Stafford?” Jeremy inquired. “He’s in the town, of course?” “I suppose he’s in the town,” Mr. Stafford answered. “I suppose he’s at his old quarters…the Angel Hotel. But I haven’t seen him; neither had Rothwell, we’ve both been too busy to call there. I expect he came on to the ‘Angel’ from Northborough yesterday.” “I say, Stafford!” he exclaimed, as he emerged on the street. “This is a queer thing! I’m sure there’s something wrong. I’ve just rung up the Angel hotel. Oliver hasn’t turned up there! His rooms were all ready for him as usual yesterday, but he never came. They’ve neither seen nor heard of him. Did you see him yesterday?” “No!” Stafford replied. “I didn’t. Never seen him since last thing Saturday night at Northborough. He ordered this rehearsal for one…no, a quarter to one, here, today. But somebody must have seen him yesterday. Where’s his dresser…where’s Hackett?” “Hackett’s inside,” the other man said. “He hasn’t seen him either, since Saturday night. Hackett has friends living in these parts…he went off to see them early yesterday morning, from Northborough, and he’s only just come. So he hasn’t seen Oliver, and doesn’t know anything about him; he expected, of course, to find him here.” Stafford turned with a wave of the hand towards Richard. “So did this gentleman,” he said. “Mr. Copplestone, this is our stage-manager, Mr. Rothwell. Rothwell, this is Mr. Richard Copplestone, author of the new play Mr. Oliver’s going to produce next month. Mr. Copplestone got a wire from him yesterday, asking him to come here today at one o’clock, He’s traveled all night to get here.” “Where was the wire sent from?” Rothwell asked, a sharp-eyed, keen-looking man, who, like Stafford, was obviously interested in the new author’s boyish appearance. “And when?” Richard drew some letters and papers from his pocket and selected one. “That’s it,” he said. “There you are…sent off from Northborough at nine-thirty, yesterday morning…Sunday.” ‘Well, then he was at Northborough at that time,” Rothwell remarked. “Look here, Stafford, we’d better telephone to Northborough, to his hotel. The Golden Apple Hotel, wasn’t it?” “No good,” Stafford replied, shaking his head. “The Golden Apple isn’t on the phone…old-fashioned place. We’d better wire.”