“He must have been a very keen photographer,” I said, glancing at the girl beside me.
“He took three or four pictures of the Vinepole,” replied the landlord (which I doubted, since probably his camera was a dummy); “and he wanted to know if there were any other old houses in the neighbourhood. I told him he ought to take Cadham Hall, and he said he had heard that the Gate House, which is about a mile from here, was one of the oldest buildings about.”
A girl appeared with a tea tray, and for a moment I almost feared that the landlord was about to retire; but he lingered, whilst the girl distributed the things about the table, and Carneta asked casually, “Would there be time for me to photograph the Gate House before dark?”
“There might be time,” was the reply, “but that’s not the difficulty. Mr. Isaacs is the difficulty.”
“Who is Mr. Isaacs?” I asked.
“He’s the Jewish gentleman who bought the Gate House recently. Lots of money he’s got and a big motor car. He’s up and down to London almost every day in the week, but he won’t let anybody take photographs of the house. I know several who’ve asked.”
“But I thought,” said Carneta, innocently, “you said the old gentleman who was here on Wednesday went to take some?”
“He went, yes, miss; but I don’t know if he succeeded.”
Carneta poured out some tea.
“Now that you speak of it,” she said, “I too have heard that the Gate House is very picturesque. What objection can Mr. Isaacs have to photographers?”