The fifteenth day of September was the monarch of a glorious week.
The sky was cloudless, and the sun, a beneficent giant, beamed upon a fabulous world. The ocean stretched, a flood of dark-blue quicksilver, brilliant and tremulous. The yellow coast and gay green countryside made up a ragged counterpane vivid and vast enough to shoulder Mandeville. The breath of a slumbering breeze tempered the savoury air.
Ivan, who had lain at Bordeaux the night before, came floating into Biarritz with a thankful heart.
As his car swept up the drive of Les Iles d’Or, his servant, unshaven and travel-stained, rose from a pile of luggage beside a bed of hydrangeas.
“What’s the matter?” said his master, setting a foot upon the brake. “Can’t you get in?”
“No, sir. The villa seems to be occupied, sir.”
“What?”
“A quarter to eight we arrived, sir, just as you said. The door was open then, an’ a fellow was sweepin’ the steps. I took ’im for the caretaker. So I says, ‘Good mornin’,’ I says. ‘Jus’ give me a ’and with this stuff.’ ’E stares very ’ard, so I says it again in French. ’E didn’ seem to get it, so I mentions your name. At that ’e tells me to wait an’ goes orf indoors. I gets out Mrs. Dewlap an’ the ’ouse-maid an’ begins fetchin’ the small things out o’ the bus. . . . Then another man appears. ’Appily ’e could talk English. ‘You’ve made an error,’ ’e says. ‘You’ve come to the wrong ’ouse.’ ‘What?’ says I. ‘Ain’t this The Eel’s Door?’ ‘Perfectly,’ says ’e. ‘Well, then, wot’s wrong?’ says I. ‘This is Captain Pomeroy’s stuff. Are you the caretaker?’ ‘I’m the butler,’ ’e says, lofty. ‘Ooze Captain Pomeroy?’ ‘You’ll soon find out ’oo ’e is,’ I says, ‘if ’e sees you in them canvas shoes. An’ ’oo are you, any’ow? Ooze butler?’ . . . ’E gets very excited then, sir, an’ starts on me in French an’ wavin’ ’is arms. So I leaves ’im to it an’ starts gettin’ the stuff orf of the ’bus. When ’e sees the trunks comin’ down ’e gets more excited than ever. ‘No, no,’ ’e shouts. ‘Wrong ’ouse. You must go away,’ ’e shouts, ‘an’ take your baggage.’ Of course I takes no notice but lets ’im rave. Then a trunk comes down with a bang. ‘Quiet, quiet,’ ’e yells. ‘You’ll wake my lady.’ ‘You’ve woke ’er long ago,’ says I, ‘for the matter o’ that. An’ ooze your lady?’ . . . Well, I couldn’t get the name, sir. Mademoiselle Seashell, it sounded like. Any way, I told ’im that there was trouble to come and that if ’e wanted to weather it the sooner ’e let me inside an’ on to the telephone, the better for ’im. The idea was to speak to the agent, sir. You gave me ’is name. But ’e wouldn’ let me in. I tried the back door, but they’d got that fast, an’ the other fellow inside with a broom in ’is ’and. By the time I got back the front door was shut an’ barred. . . . By the time I’d paid the driver Mrs. Dewlap was feelin’ queer, sir. So I took ’er to the kitchen window an’ asked for a cup of tea. After a lot of talk they passed some tea through the bars, but it was that filthy she couldn’ touch it. So I sent ’er an’ Polly orf to walk to the town an’ find a restaurant. I ’aven’t seem them since an’ I s’pose they’ve lost themselves. I’ve stayed ’ere with the baggage an’ watched that door. But it’s never opened again.”
“I see,” said Pomeroy grimly. “Well, I’m much obliged. I’m glad you warned the butler and I hope he passed it on.”
With that, he got out of the car, mounted the broad steps and rang the bell.