"I'm sorry, sir." The answer came in the clipped British accent of the West Indies. "Your father is dead, sir, these two weeks."

"Dead!" A picture of the sixth Jonathan Robertson, austere in his white linens, flashed through Jonathan's mind. It seemed impossible that he was no longer striding on his daily rounds to the factory and mine.

"Yes sir. Perhaps we'd better go up to the house at once, sir, if you don't mind. I'll tell the men to follow with the cargo." Tom turned to the leaden-faced, overall-clad trio on the pier and shouted; "Men! Take cargo to store-house. Bill! Ye ken?"

"Yah!" grunted the man on the left.

"Fred! Ye ken? Cargo to store-house?"

"Yah!" The tone was identical.

"Dick! Ye ken?"

"Yah!"

Tom picked up Jonathan's bags and led the way up a rocky path which eventually rounded a cliff which had hidden the Robertson mansion.

It was a pleasant enough place although sadly in need of paint. A grove of palm trees half-concealed the ravages which time had made on its tall pillars. The house had an atmosphere of peace and quiet, but the effect was spoiled by an ugly factory which clung to the cliffside on the other side of the valley. Although it was Sunday, Jonathan noticed that smoke was belching from the factory chimney.

"I know it's ungodly, this working on the Sabbath, sir," said Tom as his new master stared, "but They will work all the time. Even during the funeral...." He broke off and hobbled forward to swing the door of the mansion open.

Everything was orderly inside. Lattices were drawn to keep out the equatorial sun; teakwood floors gleamed; dozens of canaries twittered in their cages near the windows.

"This way, sir."

Jonathan climbed a winding staircase which seemed smaller than he remembered it and was ushered into the master bedroom. This was a cool, high-ceilinged chamber with many long windows looking out across the 

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