Montague had been told that it was a “shooting-lodge.” He had a vision of some kind of a rustic shack, and wondered dimly how so many people would be stowed away. When they turned off the main road, and his brother remarked, “Here we are,” he was surprised to see a rather large building of granite, with an archway spanning the road. He was still more surprised when they whizzed through and went on.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To ‘Black Forest,’” said Oliver.
“And what was that we passed?”
“That was the gate-keeper’s lodge,” was Oliver’s reply.
CHAPTER IV.
They ran for about three miles upon a broad macadamized avenue, laid straight as an arrow’s flight through the forest; and then the sound of the sea came to them, and before them was a mighty granite pile, looming grim in the twilight, with a draw-bridge and moat, and four great castellated towers. “Black Forest” was built in imitation of a famous old fortress in Provence—only the fortress had forty small rooms, and its modern prototype had seventy large ones, and now every window was blazing with lights. A man does not let himself be caught twice in such a blunder; and having visited a “shooting-lodge” which had cost three-quarters of a million dollars and was set in a preserve of ten thousand acres, he was prepared for Adirondack “camps” which had cost half a million and Newport “cottages” which had cost a million or two.
Liveried servants took the car, and others opened the door and took their coats. The first thing they saw was a huge fireplace, a fireplace a dozen feet across, made of great boulders, and with whole sections of a pine tree blazing in it. Underfoot was polished hardwood, with skins of bear and buffalo. The firelight flickered upon shields and battle-axes and broad-swords, hung upon the oaken pillars; while between them were tapestries, picturing the Song of Roland and the battle of Roncesvalles. One followed the pillars of the great hall to the vaulted roof, whose glass was glowing blood-red in the western light. A broad stairway ascended to the second floor, which opened upon galleries about the hall.
Montague went to the fire, and stood rubbing his hands before the grateful blaze. “Scotch or Irish, sir?” inquired a lackey, hovering at his side. He had scarcely given his order when the door opened and a second motor load of the party appeared, shivering and rushing for the fire. In a couple of minutes they were all assembled—and roaring with laughter over “Baby” de Mille’s account of how her car had run over a dachshund. “Oh, do you know,” she cried, “he simply popped!”
Half a dozen attendants hovered about, and soon the tables in the hall were covered with trays containing decanters and siphons. By this means everybody in the party was soon warmed up, and then in groups they scattered to amuse themselves.