The Plume of Feathers faces the cobbled road of entrance. It is a square building, scrupulously whitewashed. It has no great height but its position gives it an air of dominance over the cottages that surround it. On the corner of the Feathers, the road of approach splits and becomes a sort of inn-yard off which Ottercombe Steps lead through the village and down to the wharf. Thus the windows of the inn, on two sides, watch for the arrival of strangers. By the corner entrance is a bench occupied on warm evenings by Abel Pomeroy and his cronies. At intervals Abel walks into the middle of the road and looks up towards Coombe Tunnel as his father and grandfather did before him.

As Watchman drove down, he could see old Pomeroy standing there in his shirt sleeves. Watchman flicked his headlights and Pomeroy raised his hand. Watchman sounded his horn and a taller figure, dressed in the slacks and sweater of some superb advertisement, came through the lighted doorway.

It was Watchman’s cousin, Sebastian Parish. Then the others had arrived.

He drew up and opened the door.

“Well, Pomeroy.”

“Well, Mr. Watchman, we’m right-down glad to see you again. Welcome to you.”

“I’m glad to get here,” said Watchman, shaking hands. “Hullo, Seb. When did you arrive?”

“This morning, old boy. We stopped last night at Exeter with Norman’s sister.”

“I was at Yeovil,” said Watchman. “Where is Norman?”

“Painting down by the jetty. The light’s gone. He’ll be in soon. He’s started a portrait of me on Coombe Rock. It’s going to be rather wonderful. I’m wearing a red sweater and the sea’s behind me. Very virile!”