Though the harbor had vanished—even most of the little boats themselves—the gulls, ever hopeful, could be heard heading toward the lonely rower or wheeling just out of sight above the hotel—as if searching the marshy silt for the next wave. Lacking a boat, he wondered if it was safe to walk down to the distant beach, or if there was a track he could follow.

He straightened, and brought his mind back to the present. His suitcase was in the boot; he would have to fetch it. The tips of the fingers on one hand absently massaged his chest. Too much driving had aggravated the blow he’d received yesterday. Damn the man Walsh! But it hadn’t been his fault. Rutledge had been in the wrong place.

Looking at his watch, Rutledge realized that it was nearly twenty-five after twelve. His baggage could wait. He washed his hands in the basin and dried them on a towel embroidered with an OH—Osterley Hotel—ringed with blue forget-me-nots. The room was scrupulously clean and in good order. Mrs. Barnett was conscientious about her guests’ comfort.

Down the passage he heard another door open and then close. The carpet muffled footsteps. The other guest? He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. . . .

He waited for a count of twenty, opened then shut his own door, and followed down the passage and the stairs. The French doors to the right of the lobby stood open now, and there was a long dining room with some twenty tables covered in white cloths with green serviettes. But only two by the long windows had been set for the meal. Farther down the room, a woman with a book open in front of her was already spooning her soup. All he could see was the top of her dark head.

Rutledge took his own place, with his back to her, and looked out the windows. Here there was no verandah with white painted chairs, waiting for people to sit in them and watch the water. Those belonged to the south coast of England, where the sun shone with more warmth and regularity. Flowers, nearly withered in the October winds, stood in boxes by the door. A few were still colorful in the brief shelter of the wall.

The dining room with its ornate glass chandeliers was very pleasant. Once it must have been filled with guests, with a large staff to see to them. Now it appeared to be only Mrs. Barnett who served the meals. She came through the swinging doors from the kitchen carrying a tray with his soup on it and a basket of fresh bread.

With a smile she served him and was gone, not lingering to talk. It was excellent soup, a mutton stock with vegetables and barley. He ate with relish, feeling hungry. Hamish, at the back of his mind, was occupied with the street outside.