"Hullo, Wilkes! Just up?" Peter twitted him.
The landlord smiled good humouredly. "Now, sir, now! You will have your joke. Two half-cans was it? Come on, Spindle, look alive! There you are, sir!" He seized the tankards from his henchman, and planked them down in front of his guests.
"Very quiet this morning, aren't you?" Charles said.
"Well, we're only just open, sir. They'll start coming in presently. I see you've been fishing. Bad weather for it today."
"Rotten. No luck at all." Charles took a draught of beer. "How's business with you?"
"So-so, sir, so-so. We get a fair sprinkling of car people in to lunch, but there's not many as stays the night."
"I see Mr. Strange is still here."
"Yes, sir, he's here. And there's Miss Crowslay and Miss Williams, down for their usual fortnight, and Mr. Ffolliot. Artists, sir, great place for artists and such-like, this is."
"Still got your commercial?"
"In a manner of speaking I suppose I have, but he's one of them as is here today and gone tomorrow, if you know what I mean. Well, it's the nature of his business, I daresay, but I'd rather have someone more regular, so to speak. That Mr. Fripp, well, you never know where you are with himm because some days he has to go off and spend the night away, and others he's back to supper when you wasn't expecting him. However, as my missus was saying only this morning, it's all in the way of business, and I'm sure times are that bad I'm glad to get anyone staying in the house."
Peter put down his tankard. "I say, Wilkes, what's the meaning of that monstrous electric plant you've got outside? You can't need a thing that size, surely?"
The landlord coughed, and looked rather sheepish. "I'm sorry you've seen that, Mr. Fortescue, sir."
"Yes, but why? Spindle pushed me out before I'd time to do more than glance at the thing. He seemed in a great way about it."
Spindle looked deprecatingly at the landlord, and withdrew to the other end of the bar.
"Spindle's a fool, sir," said Mr. Wilkes, not mincing matters. "Though mind you, you wouldn't hardly believe the number of people there are that ain't to be trusted anywhere near a delicate bit of machinery. I do have to be strict, and that's a fact. Of course, I know you're different, sir, and that's why I'm sorry you saw it." He went through the form of wiping down the bar, which seemed to be a habit with him. "You see, sir, in a manner of speaking I was a bit had over that plant."
"I should think you were," Peter said. "You could supply the whole village with it."
"Well, I don't know about that, sir," Mr. Wilkes said cautiously. "It ain't such a powerful machine as what it looks. Still, I don't deny it's bigger nor what I want. Not but what we use a lot of power here. Because, mind you, I had the whole place wired for heating as well, there not being any gas laid on, and then there's the refrigerators, and vacuum cleaners and what not."
"Rot!" Peter said, "you don't need a plant that size for the amount of electricity you use in heating."
Mr. Wilkes once more wiped down the bar. "True enough, sir, I don't. But when I took over this house I don't mind telling you I hadn't ever had anything to do with electric plants, me having always lived in a town. I didn't know no more about it than what half the young gentlemen do, who try and meddle with it. And I did have a notion to run a laundry off it, just by way of a sidebusiness, as you might call it. So what with one thing and another I let myself be talked into putting up a plant that cost me a mint of money, and ain't, between ourselves, as cheap to run as what the smooth-tongued fellow that sold it me said it would be. Excuse me, sir, half a moment!" He hurried away to attend to a farmer who had come in, and Charles and Peter went to sit down at a table in the window.
The taproom began to fill up, and soon there were quite a number of people in it. They were mostly villagers, and there was no sign of Strange, or his odd associate. But a few minutes before one o'clock a man came in who was obviously no farm-hand. He attracted Peter's attention at once, but this was not surprising, since his appearance and conduct were alike out of the ordinary. Artist was stamped unmistakably upon him. His black hair was worn exceedingly long; he had a carelessly tied, very flowing piece of silk round his neck; his fingers were stained with paint; he had a broadbrimmed hat crammed on to his head; and was the owner of a pointed beard.
"Good Lord, I thought that type went out with the 'Nineties!" murmured Peter.
The artist walked rather unsteadily up to the bar, and leaning sideways across it, said with a distinct foreign accent: "Whisky. Double."
Wilkes had watched his approach frowningly, and he now hesitated, and said something in a low voice. The artist smote his open hand down on the bar, and said loudly: 'My friend, you give me what I say. You think I am drunk, hein? Well, I am not drunk. You see? You give me…'
"All right, Mr. Dooval," Wilkes said hastily. "No offence I hope."
"You give me what I say," insisted M. Duval. "I paint a great picture. So great a picture the world will say, why do we not hear of this Louis Duval?" He took the glass Wilkes handed him, and drained it at one gulp. "Another. And when I have painted this picture, then I tell you I have finished with everything but my art." He stretched out a hand that shook slightly towards his glass. His eye wandered round the room: his voice sank to the grumbling tone of the partially intoxicated. "I will be at no man's call. No, no: that is over when I have paint my picture. You hear?"
Mr. Wilkes seemed to be trying to quieten him by asking some questions about the picture he was painting.
"It is not for such as you," M. Duval said. "What have the English to do with art? Bah, you do not know what feelings I have in me, here…' He struck his chest. "To think I must be with you, and those others - canaille!"
"Gentleman seems a little peevish," remarked Charles, sotto voce.
His voice, though not his words, seemed to reach Mr. Duval's ears, for he turned, and stared hazily across the room. A smile that closely resembled a leer curled his mouth, and picking up his glass he made his way between the tables to the window, and stood leaning his hand on the back of a chair, and looking down at Charles. "So! The gentleman who dares to live in the haunted house, not?" He shook with laughter, and raising his glass unsteadily, said: "Voyons! a toast! Le Moine!"
Charles was watching him under frowning brows. He went on chuckling to himself, and his eyes travelled from Charles' face to Peter's. "You do not drink? You do not love him, our Monk?" He pulled the chair he held out from the table, and collapsed into it. "Eh bien! You do not speak then? You do not wish to talk of Le Moine? Perhaps you have seen him, no?" He paused; he was sprawling half-way across the table, and the foolish look in his eyes was replaced by a keener more searching gleam. "But you have not seen his face," he said with a strange air of quite sudden seriousness. "There is no one has ever seen his face, not even I, Louis Duval!"
"Quite so," said Charles. "I haven't. Do you want to?"
A look of cunning crept into the artist's face. He smiled again, a slow, evil smile that showed his discoloured teeth. "I do not tell you that. Oh, no! I do not tell you that, my friend. But this I tell you: you will never see his face, but you will go away from that house which is his, that house where he goes, glissant, up and down the stairs, though you do not see, where he watches you, though you do not know. Yes, you will go. You will go." He fell to chuckling again.
"Why should we go?" Peter asked calmly. "We're not afraid of ghosts, you know!"
The artist swayed with his insane giggling. "But Le Moine is not like other ghosts, my friend. Ah non, he is not - like - other ghosts!"
The landlord had crossed the room, and now threw an apologetic glance at Peter. But he spoke to the artist. "You'd like your usual table, moossoo, wouldn't you? You'll take your lunch in the coffee-room, I daresay, and there's as nice a leg of lamb waiting as ever I saw."