Lucy came running up, and, sobbing, threw her arms round my neck. My sister kissed me affectionately, and said:
“We shall see you at Venice, Vincent dear; take care of yourself!”
And the next minute I was over the side and in the boat. I said never a word the whole time, being, I confess, deeply offended at the light way they all took my heroic resolution, and the assurance they showed in so readily believing (however flattering to my courage and address) it was all bound to be successful.
The men rowed me ashore in silence, bade me a respectful good-night, and I was soon clambering over the stones and up the rough bank. Soon I was in the comparative shelter of the woods, and there, finding the base of a fir-tree tolerably dry, I sat me down to think and wait for morning.
Faintly I heard midnight strike from Monte Carlo, and then, so absorbed in thought and conjecture I grew, I fell asleep. When I woke, it was just getting gray; so I rose, stretched my stiff self, and had a good look about me. I knew tolerably well whereabouts I was; for my sister, Miss Rybot, Masters, and I had one day been over Cap Martin to tea at the hotel, and walked back through the woods, past the Empress Eugenie’s villa, on to the Mentone road, and so home.
We had then noticed, not far from the villa, in the woods, a small sort of ancient decaying gamekeeper’s lodge, painted outside with arabesque in the Italian manner, and faint vanishing mottoes of conviviality and sport; and that I determined to make for, and see if I could there secure facilities for shaving off my mustache, at any rate. Then I proposed to retire into the woods again, and assume my character old man wig and whiskers, and so disguised make my way leisurely back into Monte Carlo, to try and find news of the luckless Teddy. Beyond that, I could devise no plan of any sort, determining to leave all to the hazard of the hour.
I wandered about a good time in the dawn, and at last struck the lodge, soon after seven, when it was growing tolerably light. It was a fine morning, fortunately, though very raw and cold. The lodge door was open, and I peeped in. Probably, in the last century, it had been a luncheon-house for the Grimaldis on their shooting or pleasure expeditions; now it was rapidly decaying, and looked like a neglected summerhouse. No one was to be seen, and so, the foot of a ladder showing to the upper room, I entered and climbed it.
It was a bedroom, and evidently only just left; the bed was tumbled, and there was the faint, fragrant odor of a pipe.
No time was to be lost, so I poured water into the basin (the owner had evidently not washed that morning) and got out my razors. I found a pair of scissors, and clipping myself as close as possible first and then screwing up my courage, for shaving in cold water is horribly painful, and lathering myself well, I set to work.
I hadn’t more than half done when I heard steps outside on the wet gravel; they came into the house, to the foot of the ladder; then they began slowly to climb. There was no help for it, I must go on and trust to luck; so on I went with my shaving, keeping an eye meantime in the glass on the door behind me, so that I might gain some impression of the owner before tackling and conciliating him.