Mr. Satterthwaite was sitting on the veranda of the Raven's Nest, watching his host, Sir Charles Cartright, climb the path leading to the sea.
The Raven's Nest was a modern, upscale bungalow. Its walls were not covered halfway up with tree trunks, no beams protruded from its facade, and generally, it did not display all those architectural excesses to which common types show such fondness. It was a simple, white, solid building that deceived as to its true size, being much larger than it appeared. Its name owed to its location, as it was built high up, overlooking the harbor of Looe. Indeed, beyond one edge of the veranda, which was protected by a sturdy railing, there was a cliff that ended at the sea. From the road, the Raven's Nest was almost one and a half kilometers from the town. The road stretched inland and then formed loops above the sea. On foot, one could reach it in seven minutes by following the steep fishermen's path, which Sir Charles Cartright was climbing at that moment.
Sir Charles was a well-built middle-aged man with sun-tanned skin. He wore old gray flannel trousers and a white sweater. He had a slightly wavering step and held his palms half-closed as he walked. Nine out of ten would say: "Retired naval officer... a typical type." The tenth, with a sharper eye, would hesitate to decide categorically, as something indefinable would trouble him, something that did not quite fit. So, perhaps an unwelcome image would arise in his mind: the deck of a ship—but not a real ship—a ship framed by hanging curtains made of some thick, rich material, and a man, Charles Cartright, standing on that deck, bathed in a light that was not sunlight, while his palms remained half-closed, his step relaxed, and a voice, the confident, pleasant voice of an English sailor and gentleman, particularly amplified in its intensity.