The Plume of Feathers faces the cobbled road of entrance. It is a square building, scrupulously whitewashed. It has no great height but its position gives it an air of dominance over the cottages that surround it. On the corner of the Feathers the road of approach splits and becomes a sort of inn yard off which Ottercombe Steps lead through the village and down to the wharf. Thus the windows of the inn on two sides, watch for the arrival of strangers. By the corner entrance is a bench, occupied on warm evenings by Abel Pomeroy and his cronies. At intervals Abel walks into the middle of the road and looks up towards Coombe Tunnel as his father and grandfather did before him.

As Watchman drove down, he could see old Pomeroy standing there in his shirt sleeves. Watchman flicked his headlights and Pomeroy raised his hand. Watchman sounded his horn and a taller figure, dressed in the slacks and sweater of some superb advertisement, came through the lighted doorway. It was Watchman’s cousin, Sebastian Parish. Then the others had arrived.

He drew up and opened the door.

‘Well, Pomeroy.’

‘Well, Mr Watchman, we’m right down glad to see you again. Welcome to you.’

‘I’m glad to get here,’ said Watchman, shaking hands. ‘Hallo, Seb. When did you arrive?’

‘This morning, old boy,’ answered his cousin. ‘We stopped last night at Exeter with Norman’s sister.’

‘I was at Yeovil,’ said Watchman. ‘Where is Norman?’

‘Painting down by the jetty. The light’s gone. He’ll be in soon. He’s started a portrait of me on Coombe Rock. It’s going to be rather wonderful. I’m wearing a red sweater and the sea’s behind me. Very virile!’

‘Good Lord!’ said Watchman cheerfully.

‘We’ll get your things out for you, sir,’ said old Pomeroy. ‘Will!’

A tall fox-coloured man came through the doorway. He screwed up his eyes, peered at Watchman, and acknowledged his greeting without much show of enthusiasm.

‘Well, Will.’

‘Evening, Mr Watchman.’

‘Bear a hand, my sonny,’ said old Pomeroy.

His son opened the luggage carrier and began to haul out Watchman’s suitcases.

‘How’s the Movement, Will?’ asked Watchman. ‘Still well on the left?’

‘Yes,’ said Will shortly. ‘It’s going ahead. Will these be all?’

‘Yes, thanks. I’ll take the car round, Seb, and join you in the bar. Is there a sandwich or so anywhere about, Abel?’

‘We can do a bit better than that, sir. There’s a fine lobster Mrs Ives has put aside, special.’

‘By George, you’re a host in a million. God bless Mrs Ives.’