The Exiles of Faloo by Barry Pain

The Rev. Cyril Mast left his guests for a few minutes on the lawn, while he went into the club to order breakfast. The hour was early, but not unusually early, and the Exiles' Club never closed. For a few hours after midnight the staff was much diminished, and only one of the white servants was on duty, but even then a member could always get anything he wanted. At least two-thirds of the members had bedrooms at the club.

But to-day the club did not wear its air of morning freshness. The soiled glasses and laden ash-trays of the night before were left still on the little tables on the verandah and in the hall. Not enough windows had been opened, and the sour smell of stale cigar-smoke poisoned the place. Even the Rev. Cyril Mast, who was by no means particular, noticed it. A reluctant native servant was sent to find Thomas, and failed; a minute later Thomas arrived of his own volition from the bedrooms, looking hurried and worried. His quick eye noticed Mast's clerical clothes.