In the hall he found a stout cook armed for assault upon the front-door step.
“Good morning,” he said. “Can you tell me the breakfast-hour? I forgot to inquire last night.”
“Nine o'clock, sir,” replied the servant, rather taken aback at the thought of having this visitor dependent upon her for entertainment during the next hour and a half.
“Ah—and it is not yet eight. Never mind. I will go into the garden. I am fond of fruit before breakfast.”
He took his hat and lounged away towards the kitchen-garden which lay near the moat.
“And now,” he said to himself, looking round him in a searching way, “where is this pestilential village?”
The way was not hard to find, and as the church clock struck eight the Vicomte d'Audierne opened the little green gate of the cottage where Signor Bruno was lodging.
The old gentleman must have been watching for him; for he opened the door before the Vicomte reached it.
He turned and led the way into a little room on the right hand of the narrow passage. A little room intensely typical: china dogs, knitted antimacassars of a brilliant tendency, and horse-hair covered furniture. There was even the usual stuffy odour as if the windows, half-hidden behind muslin curtains and scarlet geraniums, were never opened from one year's end to another.
Signor Bruno closed the door before speaking. Then he turned upon his companion with something very like fury glittering in his eyes.