“Something seems to be amiss to-night,” I remember saying mentally as I switched on the light. The domestic service at Houghton was habitually like clockwork in its regularity.
A quarter to eight struck. Eight o’clock! I began to wonder if dinner had been put off. A quarter-past eight chimed out.
I went over to the fireplace and pressed the electric bell. Nobody came. I pressed it again. Finally I kept my finger pressed upon it.
This was ridiculous. Thoroughly annoyed, I went into the dining-room. It was in darkness. Then I made my way out to the servants’ quarters. James was sitting in the pantry, in his shirt sleeves, smoking a cigar. A brandy bottle stood upon the dresser, and a syphon, also a half-empty tumbler.
“Is anything the matter, James?” I asked, with difficulty concealing the irritation I felt.
“Not as I know of,” he answered in rather a rude tone. I saw at once that he had been drinking.
“At what time is dinner?”
“Dinner?”
He laughed outright.
“There ain’t no dinner. Why ain’t you gone too?”