Philip suddenly recognised the man. ‘Why,’ he cried, stepping forward, ‘surely you’re Sir William Porterhouse? I thought so. I’m Waverton, of Treffield and Waverton, architects. You once called to see us about something.’
‘So I did.’ Sir William extended a hand. ‘I remember you now. This your place?’
Philip explained the situation and everybody was introduced. The girl was presented to them as Miss Gladys Du Cane. She had now taken off her hat and coat and stood revealed as a very pretty girl in her early twenties. She was slightly below medium height (an inch or two shorter than Margaret) and squarely though finely built. Her hair was thick and dark and crisp, and she had full hazel eyes, and a wide-lipped scarlet mouth setting off a rather pale face. Margaret decided at once that the girl belonged to a type that she detested. It was curious to see her here, so far from Shaftesbury Avenue and the lights and the dance bands and the theatres and the film agencies that were her obvious background. It was just as if an electric sign had found its way into the room. But these two people, insufferable though they might be in other circumstances, were not unwelcome. They made everything seem less fantastic and mysterious and unbearable.
‘No telephone here, I suppose?’ Sir William had turned to Mr. Femm.
‘No telephone or any other sign and mark of civilisation,’ Mr. Femm told him. ‘You are now completely cut off from the world, sir, but apparently this house will not suffer from the floods and the landslides.’
‘The road must have gone completely at each side now, said Philip. He remembered how he had resented the magnate’s super-man airs in town, and found a certain malicious pleasure now in the sight of his helplessness. It would do him good. ‘It was impassable when we came here, three-quarters of an hour ago. I can’t imagine how you got here at all.’
‘We must have been just behind you.’ Sir William found a chair and drew up to the table. ‘Think I saw your lights once. I pressed on, no good going back, and found myself in a devil of a situation. Car was nearly under water, stopped, started again, stopped again, then ran into a landslide or something of that sort. The bonnet was hit by a flying rock, the wheels were stuck, and in a minute the car was half buried. Took us all our time to get out.’
‘How did you find this place?’ Philip asked him.
‘Left, the car there. It’s there now if it hasn’t been washed into the valley—damn shame, too—it’s a little Hispano I had made specially, to drive myself—only car I ever cared about. Always the same though, care about a thing and it’s done in before you can say “knife.” Well, we crawled out and didn’t know where we were. Pitch black and raining like fury and water spouting all over the place. Had to leave everything, bags and all. No use going back, I said, we hadn’t passed a light or signs of a house for miles. We went on, sloshing in mud, up to the knees in water, climbing over rocks. We’d an electric torch, but that wasn’t much good. Then we saw a light and made for it as best we could. And here we are, and here we’ll have to stay, at least till morning and perhaps longer. It’s getting worse out there. You’d think it was the end of the world after being out in it for ten minutes; I don’t mind telling you I thought I was nearly through. Can I use this glass?’ He produced a flask from his pocket, emptied it into the glass, and promptly swallowed the inch of whisky in one gulp.
‘Hello!’ his late companion called across. ‘You’ve not finished it, have you?’