They climbed to the top of a bright red ’bus and journeyed to Kensington. At the church they descended, and dipped into the little side street which leads to the Queen Anne houses of Kensington Square.
There was a copper knocker on the door of Uncle Clem’s abode, with which Wynne very bravely tattooed his arrival.
“Yes, Mr. Rendall is in,” admitted the manservant who answered the summons. “Was he expecting you?”
“Heavens! no,” said Wynne. “I’m his nephew—but let him find out for himself. We shouldn’t pocket the spoons if you invited us to come inside.”
The man smiled. “I recognize the relationship in your speech, sir.”
He opened the door of a white-panelled room, and, when they had entered, mounted the stairs to inform his master.
“Good, isn’t it?” said Wynne, his eyes roaming over the comfortable disorder and beautiful appointments. “Everything right. Hullo!” He halted abruptly before a large framed canvas on one of the walls, “The Faun and the Villagers.”
He was standing so when the door opened, and Uncle Clem, dressed in quilted smoking jacket and a pair of ultra vermilion slippers, came in. He paused a moment, then out rang his voice:
“Ha! The young fellow! Ain’t dead, then? Let’s look at you!”
Wynne met the full smack of the descending hand in his open palm.