The car slowed down and stopped in front of a big white house with green shutters, standing well back from the road. A great wooden gate barred their way. In response to their ring, an oldish man came hurrying from the house.
“Everything all right?” asked Bruton.
“Yes, sir. Mister Cyril’s digging in the garden.”
And at the back of the house they found Gascoyne, a fair handsome fellow with blue eyes and freckles; he wore no coat, and his open white shirt revealed a magnificent chest.
Shaking hands with Dick Cassels, he invited them indoors.
“Coffee and things are waiting for you,” he said.
“Good!” exclaimed Cassels; “for I’m dreadfully hungry. On the boat we’ve been breakfasting at 10.30. Such a rummy breakfast! Wine and rolls and hors d'œuvres and cheese.”
They stepped into the house and entered a large cool room with whitewashed walls; the pine-wood floor was bare except for an occasional Persian rug whose smooth colours held and gratified the eye.
“Do help yourselves,” said Gascoyne. “No, don’t. Sit in these easy chairs and I’ll wait on you.”
His fresh face was a little haggard and his eyes glittered. He busied himself with cups, plates, and food, and when his friends had begun eating, he eagerly and tremblingly seized a decanter of whisky, filled a champagne-glass to the brim, and drank it off neat in two gulps.