Last Ditch

1: Deep Cove

i

With all their easygoing behavior there was, nevertheless, something rarified about the Pharamonds. Or so, on his first encounter with them, it seemed to Ricky Alleyn.

Even before they came into their drawing room, he had begun to collect this impression of its owners. It was a large, eccentric, and attractive room with lemon-colored walls, polished floor, and exquisite, grubby Chinese rugs. The two dominant pictures, facing each other at opposite ends of the room, were of an irritable gentleman in uniform and a lavishly bosomed impatient lady, brandishing an implacable fan.

Elsewhere he saw, with surprise, several unframed sketches, drawing-pinned to the walls, one of them being of a free, if not lewd, character.

He had blinked his way around these incompatibles and had turned to the windows and the vastness of sky and sea beyond them when Jasper Pharamond came quickly in.

“Ricky Alleyn!” he stated. “How pleasant. We’re all delighted.”

He took Ricky’s hand, gaily tossed it away and waved him into a chair. “You’re like both your parents,” he observed. “Clever of you.”

Ricky, feeling inadequate, said his parents sent their best remembrances and had talked a great deal about the voyage they had taken with the Pharamonds as fellow passengers.

“They were so nice to us,” Jasper said. “You can’t think. VIPs as they were, and all.”

“They don’t feel much like VIPs.”

“Which is one of the reasons one likes them, of course. But do tell me, exactly why have you come to the island and is the lodging Julia found for you endurable?”

Feeling himself blush, Ricky said that he hoped he had come to work through the Long Vacation, that his accommodation with a family in the village was just what he had hoped for, and that he was very much obliged to Mrs. Pharamond for finding it.

“She adores doing that sort of thing,” said her husband. “But aren’t you over your academic hurdles with all sorts of firsts and glories? Aren’t you a terribly young don?”

Ricky mumbled wildly and Jasper smiled. His small hooked nose dipped and his lip twitched upwards. It was a faunish smile and agreed with his cap of tight curls.

“I know,” he said; "you’re writing a novel.”

“I’ve scarcely begun.”

“And you don’t want to talk about it. How wise you are. Here come the others, or some of them.”

Two persons came in, a young woman and a youth of about thirteen years whose likeness to Jasper established him as a Pharamond.

“Julia,” Jasper said, “and Bruno. My wife and my brother.”

Julia was beautiful. She greeted Ricky with great politeness and a ravishing smile, made inquiries about his accommodation, and then turned to her husband.

“Darling,” she said. “A surprise for you. A girl.”

“What do you mean, Julia? Where?”

“With the children in the garden. She’s going to have a baby.”

“Immediately?”

“Of course not." Julia began to laugh. Her whole face broke into laughter. She made a noise like a soda-water syphon and spluttered indistinguishable words. Her husband watched her apprehensively. The boy, Bruno, began to giggle.

“Who is this girl?” Jasper asked. And to Ricky: “You must excuse Julia. Her life is full of drama.”

Julia addressed herself warmly to Ricky. “It’s just that we do seem to get ourselves let in for rather peculiar situations. If Jasper stops interrupting I’ll explain.”

“I have stopped interrupting,” Jasper said.

“Bruno and the children and I,” Julia explained to Ricky, “drove to a place called Leathers to see about hiring horses from the stable people. Harness, they’re called.”

“Harkness,” said Jasper.

“Harkness. Mr. and Miss. Uncle and niece. So they weren’t in their office and they weren’t in their stables. We were going to look in the horse paddock when we heard someone howling. And I mean really howling. Bawling. And being roared back at. In the harness room, it transpired, with the door shut. Something about Mr. Harkness threatening to have somebody called Mungo shot because he’d kicked the sorrel mare. I think perhaps Mungo was a horse. But while we stood helpless it turned into Mr. H. calling Miss H. a Whore of Babylon. Too awkward. Well, what would you have done?”

Jasper said: “Gone away.”

“Out of tact or fear?”

“Fear.”

Julia turned enormous eyes on Ricky.

“So would I,” he said hurriedly.

“Well, so might I, too, because of the children, but before I could make up my mind there came the sound of a really hard slap and a yell, and the tack-room door burst open. Out flew Miss Harness.”

“Harkness.”

“Well, anyway out she flew and bolted past us and round the house and away. And there in the doorway stood Mr. Harkness with a strap in his hand, roaring out Old Testament anathemas.”

“What action did you take?” asked her husband.

“I turned into a sort of policewoman and said, ‘What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Harkness?’ and he strode away.”

“And then?”

“We left. We couldn’t go running after Mr. Harkness when he was in that sort of mood.”

“He might have hit us,” Bruno pointed out. His voice had the unpredictable intervals of adolescence.

“Could we get back to the girl in the garden with the children? A sense of impending disaster seems to tell me she is Miss Harkness.”

“But none other. We came upon her on our way home. She was standing near the edge of the cliffs with a very odd look on her face, so I stopped the car and talked to her and she’s nine weeks gone. My guess is that she won’t tell Mr. Harkness who the man is, which is why he set about her with the strap.”

“Did she tell you who the man is?”

“Not yet. One mustn’t nag, don’t you feel?” asked Julia, appealing to Ricky. “All in good time. Come and meet her. She’s not howling now.”

Before he could reply two more Pharamonds came in: an older man and a young woman, each looking very like Bruno and Jasper. They were introduced as “our cousins, Louis and Carlotta.” Ricky supposed them to be brother and sister until Louis put his arms around Carlotta from behind and kissed her neck. He then noticed that she wore a wedding ring.

“Who,” she asked Julia, “is the girl in the garden with the children? Isn’t she the riding-school girl?”

“Yes, but I can’t wade through it all again now, darling. We’re going out to meet her, and you can come too.”

“We have met her already,” Carlotta said. “On that narrow path, one could hardly shove by without uttering. We passed the time of day.”

“Perhaps it would be kinder to bring her indoors,” Julia suggested. “Bruno, darling, be an angel and ask Miss Harkness to come in.”

Bruno strolled away. Julia called after him: “And bring the children, darling, for Ricky to meet.” She gave Ricky a brilliant smile: “You have come in for a tricky luncheon haven’t you?” she said.

“I expect I can manage,” he replied, and the Pharamonds looked approvingly at him. Julia turned to Carlotta. “Would you say you were about the same size?” she asked.

“As who?”

“Darling, as Miss Harkness. Her present size, I mean, of course. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”

“What is all this?” Carlotta demanded in a rising voice. “What’s Julia up to?”

“No good, you may depend upon it,” Jasper muttered. And to his wife: “Have you asked Miss Harkness to stay? Have you dared?”

“But where else is there for her to go? She can’t return to Mr. Harkness and be beaten up. In her condition. Face it.”

“They are coming,” said Louis, who was looking out the windows. “I don’t understand any of this. Is she lunching?”

“And staying, apparently,” said Carlotta. “And Julia wants me to give her my clothes.”

“Lend, not give, and only something for the night,” Julia urged. “Tomorrow there will be other arrangements.”

Children’s voices sounded in the hall. Bruno opened the door and two little girls rushed noisily in. They were aged about five and seven and wore nothing but denim trousers with crossover straps. They flung themselves upon their mother, who greeted them in a voice fraught with emotion.

“Dar-lings!” cried Julia, tenderly embracing them.

Then came Miss Harkness.

She was a well-developed girl with a weather-beaten complexion and hands so horny that Ricky was reminded of hooves. A marked puffiness around the eyes bore evidence to her recent emotional contretemps. She wore jodhpurs and a checked shirt.

Julia introduced her all around. Miss Harkness changed her weight from foot to foot, nodded and sometimes said “Uh.” The Pharamonds all set up a conversational breeze while Jasper produced a tray of drinks. Ricky and Bruno drank beer and the family either sherry or white wine. Miss Harkness in a hoarse voice asked for Scotch and soda and downed it in three noisy gulps. Louis Pharamond began to talk to her about horses, and Ricky heard him say he had played polo badly in Brazil.

How pale they all were, Ricky thought. Really, they looked as if they had been forced, like vegetables under covers, and had come out severely bleached. Even Julia, a Pharamond only by marriage, was without color. Hers was a lovely pallor, a dramatic setting for her impertinent eyes and mouth. She was rather like an Aubrey Beardsley lady.

At luncheon, Ricky sat on her right and had Carlotta for his other neighbor. Diagonally opposite, by Jasper, and with Louis on her right, sat Miss Harkness with another whiskey and soda, and opposite her, on their father’s left, the little girls who were called Selina and Julietta. Louis was the darkest and much the most mondain of all the Pharamonds. He wore a threadlike black moustache and a silken jumper and was smoothly groomed. He continued to make one-sided conversation with Miss Harkness, bending his head towards her and laughing in a flirtatious manner into her baleful face. Ricky noticed that Carlotta, who, he gathered, was Louis’s cousin as well as his wife, glanced at him from time to time with amusement.

“Have you spotted our ‘Troy’?” Julia asked Ricky, and pointed to a picture above Jasper’s head. He had, but had been too shy to say so. It was a conversation piece — a man and a woman seated in the foreground, and behind them a row of wind-blown promenaders, dashingly indicated against a lively sky.

“Jasper and me,” Julia said, “on board the Oriana. We adore it. Do you paint?”

“Luckily, I don’t even try.”

“A policeman, perhaps?”

“Not even that, I’m afraid. An unnatural son.”

“Jasper,” said his wife, “is a mathematician and is writing a book about the binomial theorem but you mustn’t say I said so because he doesn’t care to have it known. Selina, darling, one more face like that and out you go before the pudding which is strawberries and cream.”

Selina, with the aid of her fingers, had dragged down the corners of her mouth, slitted her eyes, and leered across the table at Miss Harkness. She let her face snap back into normality, and then lounged in her chair, sinking her chin on her chest and rolling her eyes. Her sister, Julietta, was consumed with laughter.

“Aren’t children awful,” Julia asked, “when they set out to be witty? Yesterday at luncheon Julietta said, ‘My pud’s made of mud,’ and they both laughed themselves sick. Jasper and I were made quite miserable by it.”

“It won’t last,” Ricky assured her.

“It had better not.” She leaned toward him. He caught a whiff of her scent, became startlingly aware of her thick immaculate skin, and felt an extraordinary stillness come over him.

“So far, so good, wouldn’t you say?” she breathed. “I mean — at least she’s not cutting up rough.”

“She’s eating quite well,” Ricky muttered.

Julia gave him a look of radiant approval. He was uplifted. “Gosh!” he thought. “Oh, gosh, what is all this?”

It was with a sensation of having been launched upon uncharted seas that he took his leave of the Pharamonds and returned to his lodging in the village.

“That’s an upsetting lady,” thought Ricky. “A very lovely and upsetting lady.”

ii

The fishing village of Deep Cove was on the north coast of the island: a knot of cottages clustered around an unremarkable bay. There was a general store and post office, a church and a pub — the Cod-and-Bottle. A van drove over to Montjoy on the south Coast with the catch of fish when there was one. Montjoy, the only town on the island, was a tourist resort with three smart hotels. The cove was eight miles away, but not many Montjoy tourists came to see it because there were no “attractions,” and it lay off the main road. Tourists did, however, patronize Leathers, the riding school and horse-hiring establishment run by the Harknesses. This was situated a mile out of Deep Cove and lay between it and the Pharamonds’ house, which was called L’Espérance and had been in the possession of the family, Jasper had told Ricky, since the mid-eighteenth century. It stood high above the cliffs and could be seen for miles around on a clear day.

Ricky had hired a bicycle and had left it inside the drive gates. He jolted back down the lane, spun along the main road in grand style with salt air tingling up his nose, and turned into the steep descent to the cove.

Mr. and Mrs. Ferrant’s stone cottage was on the waterfront; Ricky had an upstairs front bedroom and the use of a suffocating parlor. He preferred to work in his bedroom. He sat at a table at the window, which commanded a view of the harbor, a strip of sand, a jetty, and the little fishing fleet when it was at anchor. Seagulls mewed with the devoted persistence of their species in marine radio-drama.

When he came into the passage he heard the thump of Mrs. Ferrant’s iron in the kitchen and caught the smell of hot cloth. She came out, a handsome dark woman of about thirty-five with black hair drawn into a knot, black eyes, and a full figure. In common with most of the islanders, she showed her Gallic heritage.

“You’re back then,” she said. “Do you fancy a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you very much, Mrs. Ferrant. I had an awfully late luncheon.”

“Up above at L’Espérance?”

“That’s right.”

“That would be a great spread, and grandly served?”

There was no defining her style of speech. The choice of words had the positive character almost of the West Country, but her accent carried the swallowed r’s of France. “They live well, up there,” she said.

“It was all very nice,” Ricky murmured. She passed her working-woman’s hand across her mouth. “And they would all be there. All the family?”

“Well, I think so, but I’m not really sure what the whole family consists of.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Jasper and the children. Young Bruno, when he’s not at his schooling.”

“That’s right,” he agreed. “He was there.”

“Would that be all the company?”

“No,” Ricky said, feeling cornered, “there were Mr. and Mrs. Louis Pharamond, too.”

“Ah,” she said after a pause. “Them.”

Ricky started to move away but she said: “That would be all, then?”

He found her insistence unpleasant.

“Oh no,” he said, over his shoulder, “there was another visitor,” and he began to walk down the passage.

“Who might that have been, then?” she persisted.

“A Miss Harkness,” he said shortly.

“What was she doing there?” demanded Mrs. Ferrant.

“She was lunching,” Ricky said very coldly and ran upstairs two steps at a time. He heard her slam the kitchen door.

He tried to settle down to work but was unable to do so. The afternoon was a bad time in any case, and he’d had two glasses of beer. Julia Pharamond’s magnolia face stooped out of his thoughts and came close to him, talking about a pregnant young woman who might as well have been a horse. Louis Pharamond was making a pass at her and the little half-naked Selina pulled faces at all of them. And there, suddenly, like some bucolic fury, was Mrs. Ferrant: “You’re back, then” she mouthed. She’s going to scream, he thought, and before she could do it, woke up.

He rose, shook himself, and looked out of the window. The afternoon sun made sequined patterns on the harbor and enriched the colors of boats and the garments of such people as were abroad in the village. Among them, in a group near the jetty, he recognized his landlord, Mr. Ferrant.

Mr. Ferrant was the local plumber and general handyman. He possessed a good-looking car and a little sailing boat with an auxiliary engine in which, Ricky gathered, he was wont to putter around the harbor and occasionally venture quite far out to sea, fishing. Altogether the Ferrants seemed to be very comfortably off. He was a big fellow with a lusty, rather sly look about him but handsome enough with his high color and clustering curls. Ricky thought that he was probably younger than his wife and wondered if she had to keep an eye on him.

He was telling some story to the other men in the group. They listened with half smiles, looking at each other out of the corners of their eyes. When he reached his point they broke into laughter and stamped about, doubled in two, with their hands in their trouser pockets. The group broke up. Mr. Ferrant turned toward the house, saw Ricky in the window and gave him the slight, sideways jerk of the head which served as a greeting in the cove. Ricky lifted his hand in return. He watched his landlord approach the house, heard the front door bang and boots going down the passage.

Ricky thought he would now give himself the pleasure of writing a bread-and-butter letter to Julia Pharamond. He made several shots at it but they all looked either affected or labored. In the end he wrote:

He decided to go out and post it. He had arrived only last evening in the village and had yet to explore it properly.

There wasn’t a great deal to explore. The main street ran along the front and steep little cobbled lanes led off it through ranks of cottages of which the one on the corner, next door to the Ferrants’, turned out to be the local police station. The one shop there was, Mercer’s Drapery and General Suppliers, combined the functions of post office, grocery, hardware, clothing, stationery, and toy shops. Outside hung ranks of duffel coats, pea jackets, oilskins and sweaters, all strung above secretive windows beyond which one could make out further offerings set out in a dark interior. Ricky was filled with an urge to buy. He turned in at the door and sustained a sharp jab below the ribs.

He swung round to find himself face to face with a wild luxuriance of hair, dark spectacles, a floral shirt, beads and fringes.

“Yow!” said Ricky and clapped a hand to his waist. “What’s that for?”

A voice behind the hair said something indistinguishable. A gesture was made, indicating a box slung from the shoulder, a box of a kind very familiar to Ricky.

“I was turning round, wasn’t I,” the voice mumbled.

“OK,” said Ricky. “No bones broken. I hope.”

“Hurr,” said the voice, laughing dismally.

Its owner lurched past Ricky and slouched off down the street, the paint box swinging from his shoulder.

“Very careless, that was,” said Mr. Mercer, the solitary shopman, emerging from the shadows. “I don’t care for that type of behavior. Can I interest you in anything?”

Ricky, though still in pain, could be interested in a dark blue polo-necked sweater that carried a label “Hand-knitted locally. Very special offer.”

“That looks a good kind of sweater,” he said.

“Beautiful piece of work, sir. Mrs. Ferrant is in a class by herself.”

“Mrs. Ferrant?”

“Quite so, sir. You are accommodated there, I believe. The pullover,” Mr. Mercer continued, “would be your size, I’m sure. Would you care to try?”

Ricky did try and not only bought the sweater but also a short blue coat of a nautical cut that went very well with it. He decided to wear his purchases.

He walked along the main street, which stopped abruptly at a flight of steps leading down to the strand. At the foot of these steps, with an easel set up before him, a palette on his arm, and his paint box open at his feet, stood the man he had encountered in the shop.

He had his back toward Ricky and was laying swaths of color across a large canvas. These did not appear to bear any relation to the prospect before him. As Ricky watched, the painter began to superimpose, in heavy black outline, a female nude with minuscule legs, a vast rump, and no head. Having done this he fell back a step or two, paused, and then made a dart at his canvas and slashed down a giant fowl taking a peck at the nude. Leda, Ricky decided, and, therefore, the swan.

He was vividly reminded of the sketches pinned to the drawing-room wall at L’Espérance. He wondered what his mother, whose work was very far from being academic, would have had to say about this picture. He thought that it lacked integrity.

The painter seemed to decide that it was completed. He scraped his palette and returned it and his brushes to the box. He then fished out a packet of cigarettes and a matchbox, turned his back to the sea breeze, and saw Ricky.

For a second or two he seemed to glower menacingly but the growth of facial hair was so luxuriant that it hid all expression. Dark glasses gave him the look of some dubious character on the Côte d’Azur.

Ricky said: “Hullo, again. I hope you don’t mind my looking on for a moment.”

There was movement in the whiskers and a dull sound. The painter had opened his matchbox and found it empty.

“Got a light?” Ricky thought must have been said.

He descended the steps and offered his lighter. The painter used it and returned to packing up his gear.

“Do you find,” Ricky asked, fishing for something to say that wouldn’t be utterly despised, “do you find this place stimulating? For painting, I mean.”

“At least,” the voice said, “it isn’t bloody picturesque. I get power from it. It works for me.”

“Could I have seen some of your things up at L’Espérance — the Pharamonds’ house?”

He seemed to take another long stare at Ricky and then said: “I sold a few things to some woman the other day. Street show in Montjoy. A white sort of woman with black hair. Talked a lot of balls, of course. They always do. But she wasn’t bad, figuratively speaking. Worth the odd grope.”

Ricky suddenly felt inclined to kick him.

“Oh, well,” he said. “I’ll be moving on.”

“You staying here?”

“Yes.”

“For long?”

“I don’t know,” he said, turning away.

The painter seemed to be one of those people whose friendliness increases in inverse ratio to the warmth of its reception.

“What’s your hurry?” he asked.

“I’ve got some work to do,” Ricky said.

“Work?”

“That’s right. Good evening to you.”

“You write, don’t you?”

“Try to,” he said over his shoulder.

The young man raised his voice. “That’s what Gil Ferrant makes out, anyway. He reckons you write.”

Ricky walked on without further comment.

On the way back he reflected that it was highly possible every person in the village knew by this time that he lodged with the Ferrants — and tried to write.

So he returned to the cottage and tried.

He had his group of characters. He knew how to involve them, one with the other, but so far he didn’t know where to put them: they hovered, they floated. He found himself moved to introduce among them a woman with a white magnolia face, black hair and eyes, and a spluttering laugh.

Mrs. Ferrant gave him his evening meal on a tray in the parlor. He asked her about the painter and she replied in an offhand, slighting manner that he was called Sydney Jones and had a “terrible old place up to back of Fishermen’s Steps.”

“He lives here, then?” said Ricky.

“He’s a foreigner,” she said, dismissing him, “but he’s been in the Cove a while.”

“Do you like his paintings?”

“My Louis can do better.” Her Louis was a threatening child of about ten.

As she walked out with his tray she said: “That’s a queer old sweater you’re wearing.”

“I think it’s a jolly good one,” he called after her. He heard her give a little grunt and thought she added something in French.

Visited by a sense of well-being, he lit his pipe and strolled down to the Cod-and-Bottle.

iii

Nobody had ever tried to tart up the Cod-and-Bottle. It was unadulterated pub. In the bar the only decor was a series of faded photographs of local worthies and a map of the island. A heavily pocked dartboard hung on the wall and there was a shove-ha’penny at the far end of the bar. In an enormous fireplace, a pile of driftwood blazed a good-smelling welcome.

The bar was full of men, tobacco smoke, and the fumes of beer. A conglomerate of male voices, with their overtones of local dialect, engulfed Ricky as he walked in. Ferrant was there, his back propped against the bar, one elbow resting on it, his body curved in a classic pose that was sexually explicit and, Ricky felt, deliberately contrived. When he saw Ricky he raised his pint-pot and gave him that sidelong wag of his head. He had a coterie of friends about him.

The barman, who, as Ricky was to learn, was called Bob Maistre, was the landlord of the Cod-and-Bottle. He served Ricky’s pint of bitter with a flourish.

There was an empty chair in the corner and Ricky made his way to it. From here he was able to maintain the sensation of being an onlooker.

A group of dart players finished their game and moved over to the bar, revealing to Ricky’s unenthusiastic gaze Sydney Jones, the painter, slumped at a table in a far corner of the room with his drink before him. Ricky looked away quickly, hoping that he had not been spotted.

A group of fresh arrivals came between them: fishermen, by their conversation. Ferrant detached himself from the bar and lounged over to them. There followed a jumble of talk, most of it incomprehensible. Ricky was to learn that the remnants of a patois that had grown out of a Norman dialect, itself long vanished, could still be heard among the older islanders.

Ferrant left the group and strolled over to Ricky.

“Evening, Mr. Alleyn,” he said. “Getting to know us?”

“Hoping to, Mr. Ferrant,” Ricky said.

“Quiet enough for you?”

“That’s what I like.”

“Fancy that now, what you like, eh?”

His manner was half bantering, half indifferent. He stayed a minute or so longer, took one or two showy pulls at his beer, said, “Enjoy yourself, then,” turned and came face to face with Mr. Sydney Jones.

“Look what’s come up in my catch,” he said. He fetched Mr. Jones a shattering clap on the back and returned to his friends.

Mr. Jones evidently eschewed all conventional civilities. He sat down at the table, extended his legs, and seemed to gaze at nothing in particular. A shout of laughter greeted Ferrant’s return to the bar and drowned any observation that, by a movement of his head, Mr. Jones would seem to have offered.

“Sorry,” Ricky said. “I can’t hear you.”

He slouched across the table and the voice came through, still faintly antipodean and uneasy in its choice of outdated slang.

“Care to come up to my pad?” it invited.

There was nothing, at the moment, that Ricky fancied less.

“That’s very kind of you,” he said. “One of these days I’d like to see some of your work, if I may.”

The voice said, with what seemed to be an imitation of Ricky’s accent, “Not ‘one of these days.’ Now.”

“Oh,” Ricky said, temporizing, “now? Well—”

“You won’t catch anything,” Mr. Jones sneered loudly. “If that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“Oh God!” Ricky thought. “Now he’s insulted. What a bloody bore.”

He said: “My dear man, I don’t for a moment suppose anything of the sort.”

Jones emptied his pint-pot and got to his feet.

“Fair enough,” he said. “We’ll push off, then.”

And without another glance at Ricky he walked out of the bar.

It was dark outside and chilly with a sea nip in the air and misty halos round the few street lamps along the front. The high tide slapped against the seawall.

They walked in silence as far as the place where Ricky had seen Mr. Jones painting in the afternoon. Here they turned left into deep shadow and began to climb what seemed to be an interminable flight of wet, broken-down steps, between cottages that grew farther apart and finally petered out altogether.

Ricky’s right foot slid under him; he lurched forward and snatched at wet grass on a muddy bank.

“Too rough for you?” sneered — or seemed to sneer — Mr. Jones.

“Not a bit of it,” Ricky jauntily replied.

“Watch it. I’ll go first.”

They were on some kind of very wet and very rough path. Ricky could only just see his host, outlined against the dim glow of what seemed to be dirty windows.

He was startled by a prodigious snort followed by squelching footsteps close at hand.

“What the hell’s that?” Ricky exclaimed.

“It’s a horse,” Mr. Jones tossed off.

The invisible horse blew down its nostrils.

They arrived at the windows and at a door. Mr. Jones gave the door a kick and it ground noisily open. It had a dirty parody of a portiere on the inside.

Without an invitation or, indeed, any kind of comment, he went in, leaving Ricky to follow.

He did so, and was astonished to find himself face to face with Miss Harkness.