“What do you make of all this?”
“I think we should have left word with someone where we were going.”
“We didn’t know where we were going, but I did what I could. If we’re not back by the time the femme de chambre cleans my room in the morning, she’ll find a letter addressed to the manager on my bureau. In it there’s the number of that old man’s car and a note of explanation for the Captain.”
“That was wise, Mr. Carey. I have noticed something-” She broke off. “He’s coming back.”
Her hearing was very acute. Several seconds went by before George was able to hear the soft rustle of approaching footsteps.
Arthur appeared out of the darkness. “O.K., chums,” he said. “Here we go. We’ll have a bit of light on the scene in half a tick.”
They followed him down the path. It was getting less steep now. Then, as it levelled off, Arthur switched on a flashlight and George saw the sentry leaning against a tree with his rifle under his arm. He was a thin, middle-aged man in khaki drill trousers and a ragged singlet. He watched them intently as they went by.
They were clear of the pine trees now and there was a house in front of them.
“Used to be a village down the hill there,” said Arthur. “Wiped out by some of the boys. All flat except our place, and we had to patch that up a good bit. Left to rot, it was. Belonged to some poor bastard of a deviationist who got his throat cut.” He had become the week-end host again, proud and fond of his house and wanting his guests to share his enthusiasm.
It was a two-story building with stuccoed walls and broad overhanging eaves. The shutters over the windows were all closed.