He went into the corridor calling “Ramón,” but had no answer and heard no sound.
“Ramón!”
He went into the kitchen. The light was burning; the table was covered with the preparations for supper; grape-fruit, a dish of limes, mint, the long glasses with the crushing spoons for julep, eggs for an omelette, the patty-pans for hot bread.
“Ramón! Tia Eusebia!”
No one answered, but in the silence the clock ticked and the cazuela in the earthern pot began to boil over.
“Aren’t they there, Hilary?”
“No.”
“And they left the cazuela on the fire? Tia Eusebia never did such a thing before. Where can they be?”
“They must have gone to the lodge.”
“They would never have left these things like this. They would never both have gone.”