When he left the out-houses, he walked along the foot of the perron to the verandah. All seemed quiet there: the night was darker, the stars brighter, and the harbour lights twinkled more, but the sea-breeze was not setting in. “It is a lovely night,” he said. “All this rag business is absurd. I will not give it another thought. I will send Ramón, or one of the boys, down to the police, perhaps, for Margaret’s sake; but I will see that Coghill is paid for this. What is that white thing on the shingle there?”
The white thing lay on the ground near the steps leading to the verandah, in such a position that he must have seen it, had it been there when he left the house. “It was not there when I came down,” he said. It was a large, coarse, dirty-white linen handkerchief with a coloured border.
“This will be Ramón’s,” he said.
He went into the house, and called for Ramón, but received no answer. At his fourth call, his sister answered over the railings of the floor above: “Ramón has gone out,” she said. “He went into the garden five minutes ago, to look for you. Did he not find you?”
“No; nor did I hear him. I will call him.”
He went out and called Ramón three times, but received no answer. “It is very odd,” he said, “he does not reply.”
“Probably he has gone to the lodge; and he is a little deaf.”
Hilary came within the house to examine the handkerchief by the lamp in the hall. It was a man’s pocket handkerchief with a blue border: in one corner the initials A.B. were roughly stitched with black cotton: the stitching looked liker a laundry mark than a mark of the owner.
“Margarita,” he said, “I found this handkerchief in the gravel outside. It is marked A.B.”
“It must be Ramón’s.”