“Welcome home, Your Lordship!” he said cheerfully.
The two men left the car, entered the gate, walked up to the house. The door was opened by a maid, who curtsied; Durant saw at a glance that she was French, and nodded to her. Giles brought up their bags.
How Makoff had managed this at so short notice was a marvel to Durant. The house seemed unpretentious but comfortable, and was excellently furnished; the living-room windows gave glimpses of a well-kept garden behind, with walks and fountain.
“You’ve a room ready for Mr. Larson?” said Durant to the maid. “Good.”
She led them upstairs to two adjoining bedrooms; Giles put Larson’s grips in one, those of Durant in the other. Then he disappeared. The maid spoke to Durant: “We’ve kept luncheon waiting, sir.”
“Right,” said Durant heartily. “We’ll have a wash and be right down. Make yourself at home here, Larson—no ceremony. Come down when you’re ready.”
“Thanks.”
Larson’s door closed. Durant turned to the maid, who had waited, and spoke in French:
“Will M. Makoff be here?”
“Tomorrow, m’sieur,” she responded. “But he will not be seen.”