“I hope some day you’ll make up to me for all this,” she said. “I seem to spend the whole of my time looking after you.”
“If it weren’t for that fellow Maurice!” Jacob called after her, as she disappeared.
They left him alone that day until after luncheon, and Jacob began to find the time hang heavily upon his hands. There was very little to watch except the wheeling seagulls, now and then a distant steamer, and the waves breaking upon the crag-strewn shore. Through the landward aperture, the great house all through the long, sunny morning seemed somnolent, almost deserted, but towards luncheon time a motor-car arrived from the direction of the station, containing a single passenger. About half an hour later three men came down the shingle, stepped into the boat and paddled across towards the tower,—Montague, Hartwell, and a brawny, thickset companion dressed in a rather loud black-and-white check suit and a cap of the same material. Jacob sat facing the door with his hand behind his back. Some slices of bread and a bottle of water were pushed through the grating, as before. Then Montague’s face appeared, sleek and smiling, with a new glitter of malevolence in the beady eyes.
“What about luncheon to-day, Jacob?” he demanded. “A small chicken pie and a cold sirloin of beef, eh, with lettuce and tomato salad, and half a stilton to follow. A glass or two of port with the cheese, if you fancy it.”
Jacob shook his head.
“I’ve done better than that,” he replied. “I’ve had pâté-de-foie-gras sandwiches and a pint of champagne. I wish you fellows wouldn’t disturb my after-luncheon nap. I’d much rather you looked in about tea time.”
Hartwell dragged his companion to one side and pressed his own clean-shaven, pudgy face against the bars.
“Say, Jacob Pratt,” he began, “just put that bluff away for a moment, if you can. I want a word with you.”
“There is nothing to prevent it,” Jacob assured him. “I am an earnest listener.”
“You fancy yourself some as a boxer, don’t you?” queried Hartwell.