The boat took many such grassy corners and followed many such reedy and silent reaches of river; but before the search had become monotonous they had swung round a specially sharp angle and come into the silence of a sort of pool or lake, the sight of which instinctively arrested them.  For in the middle of this wider piece of water, fringed on every side with rushes, lay a long, low islet, along which ran a long, low house or bungalow built of bamboo or some kind of tough tropic cane.  The upstanding rods of bamboo which made the walls were pale yellow, the sloping rods that made the roof were of darker red or brown, otherwise the long house was a thing of repetition and monotony.  The early morning breeze rustled the reeds round the island and sang in the strange ribbed house as in a giant pan-pipe.

“By George!” cried Flambeau; “here is the place, after all!  Here is Reed Island, if ever there was one.  Here is Reed House, if it is anywhere.  I believe that fat man with whiskers was a fairy.”

“Perhaps,” remarked Father Brown impartially.  “If he was, he was a bad fairy.”

But even as he spoke the impetuous Flambeau had run his boat ashore in the rattling reeds, and they stood in the long, quaint islet beside the odd and silent house.

The house stood with its back, as it were, to the river and the only landing-stage; the main entrance was on the other side, and looked down the long island garden.  The visitors approached it, therefore, by a small path running round nearly three sides of the house, close under the low eaves.  Through three different windows on three different sides they looked in on the same long, well-lit room, panelled in light wood, with a large number of looking-glasses, and laid out as for an elegant lunch.  The front door, when they came round to it at last, was flanked by two turquoise-blue flower pots.  It was opened by a butler of the drearier type—­long, lean, grey and listless—­who murmured that Prince Saradine was from home at present, but was expected hourly; the house being kept ready for him and his guests.  The exhibition of the card with the scrawl of green ink awoke a flicker of life in the parchment face of the depressed retainer, and it was with a certain shaky courtesy that he suggested that the strangers should remain.  “His Highness may be here any minute,” he said, “and would be distressed to have just missed any gentleman he had invited.  We have orders always to keep a little cold lunch for him and his friends, and I am sure he would wish it to be offered.”