But the hanging fronds of flowers and leaf remained motionless, and
the cart drove, unchallenged, round to the principal door.
A black servant--a stranger--held the handle, and stood back
invitingly. Supported by Joseph's arm, Jack Meredith entered. The
servant threw open the drawing-room door; they passed in. The room
was empty. On the table lay two letters, one addressed to Guy
Oscard, the other to Jack Meredith. Meredith felt suddenly how weak
he was, and sat wearily down on the sofa.
"Give me that letter," he said.
Joseph looked at him keenly. There was something forlorn and cold
about the room--about the whole house--with the silent, smiling,
black servants and the shaded windows.
Joseph handed the letter as desired, and then, with quick practised
hands, he poured a small quantity of brandy into the cup of his
flask. "Drink this first, sir," he said.
Jack Meredith fumbled rather feebly at the letter. It was
distinctly an effort to him to tear the paper.
"MY DEAR MEREDITH" (he read),--"Just a line to tell you that the
Bungalow and its contents are at your service. Jocelyn and I are
off home for two months' change of air. I have been a bit seedy. I
leave this at the Bungalow, and we shall feel hurt if you do not
make the house your home whenever you happen to come down to Loango.
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