They located Mr. Pondel's villa without difficulty. Standing back some thirty yards from the street, its well-kept garden full of flowering shrubs and carefully tended beds of geraniums, it was a residence typical of the London suburb, with fretwork along the piazza roof, a stone dog guarding each side of the steps, and salmon-pink curtains at the parlor windows. The door stood open, a Japanese lamp burned in the hallway, and the murmur of voices floated out from the door leading into the parlor. McAllister once again felt the overwhelming absurdity of his position. Over his shoulder, as he stood by the hyacinths at the door, floated the same big moon in the same soft heaven. Damp and fragrant, the wind blew in from the lawn and swayed the portières in the narrow hall, behind which, doubtless, sat the lordly Pondel, friend of noblemen, adviser of royalty, entrenched in his castle, a unit in an impregnable system. The whinny of the cab-horse beyond the hedge recalled to McAllister the necessity for action. He realized that he was losing moral ground every instant.
The bell jangled harshly somewhere in the back of the house. A man's voice—Pondel's—muttered indistinctly; there was a feminine whisper in response; someone placed a glass on a table and pushed back a chair. A clock in the neighborhood struck two, and Pondel emerged through the portières—Pondel in a wadded claret-colored dressing-gown embroidered with birds of Paradise, in carpet slippers, with a meerschaum pipe, watery eyes, and slightly disarranged hair. It was rather dim in the hallway, and he did not recognize his visitor.
"What is it? What do you want?" The inquiry was abrupt and a little thick.
"Good evening, Mr. Pondel," stammered McAllister. "I hope you'll excuse me for disturbing you at this hour. It's about the clothes."
"W'o is it?" Pondel peered into his guest's flushed face. "W'y Mr. McAllister, what are you doin' way out 'ere? Excuse my appearance—a little pardonable neglishay of a Saturday evenin'. Come right in, won't you? Great honor, I'm sure. Though, if you'll believe it, I once 'ad the honor of a call from his Grace the Duke of Bashton right in this very 'all. Excuse me w'ile I announce your presence to Mrs. Pondel."
McAllister said something about having to go at once, but Pondel shuffled through the curtains, almost immediately sweeping them back with a lordly gesture of welcome.
"This way, Mr. McAllister." Our miserable friend entered the parlor. "Elizabeth, hallow me to present Mr. McAllister—one of my oldest customers."
Elizabeth—a fat vision of fifty-five, with peroxide hair, and a soft pink of unchanging hue mantling her elsewhere mottled cheeks—arose graciously from the table where she and her husband had been playing double-dummy bridge, and courtesied.
"Chawmed, I'm sure. What a beautiful evenin'! Won't you si' down?" murmured the enchantress.
McAllister took a chair, and Pondel pressed whiskey and water upon him. Oh, Mr. McAllister, needn't be afraid of it; it was the real old thing; Lord Langollen had sent him a dozen. Lizzie would take a nip with 'em—eh, Lizzie? A gen'elman didn't take that long trip every evenin', and a little refreshment would not only do him good, but, as the Yankees said, would show there was no 'ard feelin', eh? He must really take just a drop. Say when!