"Yah!" The tone was identical.
"Dick! Ye ken?"
"Yah!"
Tom picked up Jonathan's bags and led the way up a rocky path which eventually rounded a cliff which had hidden the Robertson mansion.
It was a pleasant enough place although sadly in need of paint. A grove of palm trees half-concealed the ravages which time had made on its tall pillars. The house had an atmosphere of peace and quiet, but the effect was spoiled by an ugly factory which clung to the cliffside on the other side of the valley. Although it was Sunday, Jonathan noticed that smoke was belching from the factory chimney.
"I know it's ungodly, this working on the Sabbath, sir," said Tom as his new master stared, "but They will work all the time. Even during the funeral...." He broke off and hobbled forward to swing the door of the mansion open.
Everything was orderly inside. Lattices were drawn to keep out the equatorial sun; teakwood floors gleamed; dozens of canaries twittered in their cages near the windows.
"This way, sir."
Jonathan climbed a winding staircase which seemed smaller than he remembered it and was ushered into the master bedroom. This was a cool, high-ceilinged chamber with many long windows looking out across the valley toward the crouching factory.
"Your father wished you to stay here, sir. He said it would give you the feel of the place. On the desk there you'll find the letter he was writing to you just before he died."