Montague could understand how this was possible.  Some one, for instance, had worked hard over the ordering of the lunch—­to secure the maximum of explosive effect.  It began with ice-cream, moulded in fancy shapes and then buried in white of egg and baked brown.  Then there was a turtle soup, thick and green and greasy; and then—­horror of horrors—­a great steaming plum-pudding.  It was served in a strange phenomenon of a platter, with six long, silver legs; and the waiter set it in front of Robbie Walling and lifted the cover with a sweeping gesture—­and then removed it and served it himself.  Montague had about made up his mind that this was the end, and begun to fill up on bread-and-butter, when there appeared cold asparagus, served in individual silver holders resembling andirons.  Then—­appetite now being sufficiently whetted—­there came quail, in piping hot little casseroles—­; and then half a grape-fruit set in a block of ice and filled with wine; and then little squab ducklings, bursting fat, and an artichoke; and then a cafe parfait; and then—­as if to crown the audacity—­huge thick slices of roast beef!  Montague had given up long ago—­he could keep no track of the deluge of food which poured forth.  And between all the courses there were wines of precious brands, tumbled helter-skelter,—­sherry and port, champagne and claret and liqueur.  Montague watched poor “Baby” de Mille out of the corner of his eye, and pitied her; for it was evident that she could not resist the impulse to eat whatever was put before her, and she was visibly suffering.  He wondered whether he might not manage to divert her by conversation, but he lacked the courage to make the attempt.

The meal was over at four o’clock.  By that time most of the other parties were far on their way to New York, and the inn was deserted.  They possessed themselves of their belongings, and one by one their cars whirled away toward “Black Forest.”

Montague had been told that it was a “shooting-lodge.”  He had a vision of some kind of a rustic shack, and wondered dimly how so many people would be stowed away.  When they turned off the main road, and his brother remarked, “Here we are,” he was surprised to see a rather large building of granite, with an archway spanning the road.  He was still more surprised when they whizzed through and went on.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“To ‘Black Forest,’” said Oliver.

“And what was that we passed?”

“That was the gate-keeper’s lodge,” was Oliver’s reply.

CHAPTER IV