"But it is impossible," he kept repeating. "H'm! 'To let—furnished; for particulars apply to J. F. Brown, at the Casino.' Most certainly, I will—most certainly," and monologuing in the fashion that was peculiar to him, he went down the road again, mindful only of his own perplexity.
On reaching the Casino he found that he would have no difficulty in seeing the agent. Mr. Brown, the door-keeper told him, was "right in there," and as he gave this information he pointed to a cramped little office which stood to the left of the entrance.
"Is this Mr. Brown?" Tristrem began. "Mr. Brown, I am sorry to trouble you. Would you be good enough to tell me about Mrs. Raritan's cottage. I——"
"For next summer? Nine hundred, payable in advance."
"I didn't mean about the price. I meant—I was told that Mrs. Raritan had taken it until October——"
"So she did. You can sublet for the balance of the season."
"Thank you—yes—but Mrs. Raritan hasn't gone away, has she?"
"She went weeks ago. There's nothing the matter with the cottage, however. Drainage excellent."
"I have no doubt. But can you tell me where Mrs. Raritan went to?"
"I haven't the remotest idea. Lenox, perhaps. If you want to look at the cottage I'll give you the key."