Renouard bent his head to his rapid talk of domestic arrangements
he meant to make for the visitors; another bed in the master's room
for the ladies and a cot for the gentleman to be hung in the room
opposite where--where Mr. Walter--here he gave a scared look all
round--Mr. Walter--had died.

"Very good," assented Renouard in an even undertone. "And remember
what you have to say of him."

"Yes, master. Only"--he wriggled slightly and put one bare foot on
the other for a moment in apologetic embarrassment--"only I--I--
don't like to say it."

Renouard looked at him without anger, without any sort of
expression. "Frightened of the dead? Eh? Well--all right. I
will say it myself--I suppose once for all. . . Immediately he
raised his voice very much.

"Send the boys down to bring up the luggage."

"Yes, master."

Renouard turned to his distinguished guests who, like a personally
conducted party of tourists, had stopped and were looking about
them.

"I am sorry," he began with an impassive face. "My man has just
told me that Mr. Walter . . ." he managed to smile, but didn't
correct himself . . . "has gone in a trading schooner on a short
tour of the islands, to the westward."