Alan Maitland caught a glimpse of the Fraser River at the same time that he located Senator Deveraux's house. The Senator, Alan decided, must possess one of the best views along the entire shore line.
It was sunny, clear, and crisp as he drove towards the big Tudor-style mansion. The house was shielded from questing eyes of passers-by by a tall cedar hedge and set well back from the road, with a curving driveway presided over at its entrance by twin gargoyles on double wrought-iron gates. A shining Chrysler Imperial was in the driveway and Alan Maitland parked his elderly paint-faded Chev behind it. He walked to the massive, studded front door set in a baronial portico and rang the bell. Presently a butler opened it.
'Good morning,' Alan said; 'my name is Maitland.' 'Please come in, sir.' The butler was a frail, white-haired man who moved as if his feet hurt. He preceded Alan through a short riled corridor into a large open entrance hall. At the entry to the hallway a slim, slight figure appeared.
It was Sharon Deveraux and she was as he recalled her -not beautiful but petite, elfin almost, her face longish and with deep humorous eyes. Her hair was different, Alan noticed. It was raven black and she used to wear it long; now it was done in a pixie cut and becoming, he thought.
'Hullo,' Alan said. 'I hear you could use a lawyer.'
'At the moment,' Sharon said promptly, 'we'd prefer a plumber. The.toilet in Granddaddy's bathroom won't stop running.'
There was something else he was reminded of – a dimple in her left cheek which came and went when she smiled, as she was doing now.
'This particular lawyer,' Alan said, 'does plumbing on the side. Things haven't been too brisk around the law books lately.'
Sharon laughed. 'Then I'm glad I remembered you.' The butler took his coat and Alan looked curiously around him.
The house, inside and out, bespoke wealth and substance. They had stopped in a large open entrance hall, its walls of polished linen-fold panelling, its ceiling Renaissance, above a gleaming pegged-oak floor. In a massive Tudor fireplace, ranked by fluted pilasters, a log fire burned brightly, and near the fireplace an arrangement of red arid yellow roses graced an Elizabethan refectory table. On a colourful Kerman rug a dignified Yorkshire armchair faced a Knoll sofa, and opposite, on the far side of the hall, crewel embroidery hangings framed oriel windows.
'Granddaddy got back from Ottawa last night,' Sharon said, rejoining him, 'and at breakfast was talking about wanting a young Abe Lincoln. So I said there was someone I used to know called Alan Maitland who was going to be a lawyer and had all sorts of ideals… do you still have them, by the way?'
'I guess so,' Alan said, a shade uncomfortably. He reflected that he must have sounded off to this girl more than he remembered. 'Anyway, thanks for thinking of me.' It was warm in the house and he wriggled his neck inside the starched white shirt he had put on under his one good charcoal-grey suit.
'Let's go in the drawing-room,' Sharon said. 'Granddaddy will be here soon.' He followed her across the hall. She opened a door and sunlight streamed through.
The room they came into was larger than the hallway, but brighter and less formidable, Alan thought. It was furnished in Chippendale and Sheraton, with light Persian rugs, the walls damask-covered and ornamented with gilt and crystal sconces. There were some original oils – Degas, Cezanne, and a more modern Lawren Harris. A large decorated Christmas tree occupied one corner of the room, next to a Steinway piano. Leaded casement windows, closed now, led to a flagstoned terrace.
'Granddaddy, I take it, is Senator Deveraux,' Alan said.
'Oh yes, I forgot you wouldn't know.' Sharon motioned him to a Chippendale settee and sat down opposite. 'My parents are divorced, you see. Nowadays Daddy lives in Europe – Switzerland, most of the time – then Mummy got married again and went to Argentina, so I live here.' She said it unselfconsciously and with no trace of bitterness.
'Well, well, well! So this is the young man.' A voice boomed from the doorway where Senator Deveraux stood, white hair brushed, his cutaway morning suit faultlessly pressed. There was a small red rose in his lapel and as he entered he was rubbing his hands together.
Sharon performed the introductions.
'I do apologize, Mr Maitland,' the Senator said courteously, 'for bringing you here on Christmas Day. I trust it was not inconvenient.'
'No, sir,' Alan said.
'Good. Then before our business, perhaps you'll join us in a glass of sherry.'
"Thank you.'
There were glasses and a crystal decanter on a mahogany table. As Sharon poured sherry, Alan ventured, 'You have a beautiful home. Senator.'
'I'm delighted you think so, my boy.' The old man seemed genuinely pleased. 'All my life I've taken a pleasure in surrounding myself with exquisite things.'
'Granddaddy has quite a reputation as a collector,' Sharon said. She had brought the glasses to them. 'The only trouble is, sometimes it's like living in a museum.'
'The young scoff at antiquity, or pretend to.' Senator Deveraux smiled indulgently at his granddaughter. 'But I have hopes for Sharon. She and I arranged this room together.'
'It's an impressive result,' Alan said.
'I will admit to believing that is true.' The Senator's eyes roved around him fondly. 'We have a few rather special things here. This, for instance – a splendid example from the T'ang Dynasty.' His fingers reached out, gently caressing a superb pottery horse and rider, delicately coloured. The piece stood alone on a marble-topped tabouret. 'Twenty-six hundred years ago this was designed by a master craftsman in a civilization more enlightened, perhaps, than our own today.'
'It is beautiful,' Alan said. He thought: there must be a fortune in this single room. He reflected on the contrast between these surroundings and Tom Lewis's boxlike two-bed-roomed bungalow in which he had spent the evening before.
'But now to business.' The Senator's tone had become brisk and businesslike. The three of them sat down. _ 'I apologize, my boy, as I said, for the suddenness of this call. There is, however, a matter which excites my concern and sympathy and, I think, brooks no delay.' His interest. Senator Deveraux explained, was in the ship's stowaway, Henri Duval – 'that unfortunate young man, homeless and without a country, who stands outside our gates pleading, in the name of humanity, to enter.'
'Yes,' Alan said. 'I read about it last night. I remember thinking there wasn't much could be done.'
Sharon, who had been listening carefully, asked, 'Why not?'
'Mostly,' Alan answered, 'because the Canadian Immigration Act is quite definite about who can come in and who can't.'
'But according to the newspaper,' Sharon protested, 'he won't even be given a public hearing.'
'Yes, my boy, what about that, eh?' The Senator cocked an inquiring eyebrow. 'Where is our vaunted freedom when a man – any man – cannot have his day in court?'
'Don't misunderstand me,' Alan said. 'I'm not defending the way things are. As a matter of fact, we studied the Immigration Act in law school and I think there's a lot wrong. But I'm talking about the law the way it stands. If it's a question of changing it, that's more in your line. Senator.'