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Page 70
Side by side we tramped along the dusty road. We both were silent,
occupied with our own thoughts. Respecting the nature of my
companion's I could entertain little doubt, and my own turned upon
the foolhardy nature of the undertaking upon which I was embarked.
No other word passed between us then, until upon rounding a bend
and passing a cluster of picturesque cottages, the yard of the
Vinepole came into view.
"Do they know you by sight here?" I asked abruptly.
"No, of course not; we never made strategic mistakes of that kind.
If we have tea here, no doubt we can learn all we require."
I entered the little parlour of the inn, and suggested that tea
should be served in the pretty garden which opened out of it upon
the right.
The host, who himself laid the table, viewed the camera case
critically.
"We get a lot of photographers down here," he remarked tentatively.
"No doubt," said my companion. "There is some very pretty scenery
in the neighbourhood."
The landlord rested his hands upon the table.
"There was a gentleman here on Wednesday last," he said; "an old
gentleman who had met with an accident, and was staying somewhere
hereabouts for his health. But he'd got his camera with him, and
it was wonderful the way he could use it, considering he hadn't got
the use of his right hand."
"He must have been a very keen photographer," I said, glancing at
the girl beside me.
"He took three or four pictures of the Vinepole," replied the
landlord (which I doubted, since probably his camera was a dummy);
"and he wanted to know if there were any other old houses in the
neighbourhood. I told him he ought to take Cadham Hall, and he said
he had heard that the Gate House, which is about a mile from here,
was one of the oldest buildings about."
A girl appeared with a tea tray, and for a moment I almost feared
that the landlord was about to retire; but he lingered, whilst the
girl distributed the things about the table, and Carneta asked
casually, "Would there be time for me to photograph the Gate House
before dark?"
"There might be time," was the reply, "but that's not the difficulty.
Mr. Isaacs is the difficulty."
"Who is Mr. Isaacs?" I asked.
"He's the Jewish gentleman who bought the Gate House recently. Lots
of money he's got and a big motor car. He's up and down to London
almost every day in the week, but he won't let anybody take
photographs of the house. I know several who've asked."
"But I thought," said Carneta, innocently, "you said the old
gentleman who was here on Wednesday went to take some?"
"He went, yes, miss; but I don't know if he succeeded."
Carneta poured out some tea.
"Now that you speak of it," she said, "I too have heard that the
Gate House is very picturesque. What objection can Mr. Isaacs
have to photographers?"
"Well, you see, miss, to get a picture of the house, you have to
pass right through the grounds."
"I should walk right up to the house and ask permission. Is Mr.
Isaacs at home, I wonder?"
"I couldn't say. He hasn't passed this way to-day."
"We might meet him on the way," said I. "What is he like?"
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