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The driving road terminated at the Old Town. Mr. Heard, descending from
his carriage, followed a pathway which had been described to him by
Denis and soon found himself at the entrance of the Villa Mon Repos. It
was an inconspicuous little place, surrounded by three or four chestnut
trees and a rose garden. A steep incline at the back of the property
ended, abruptly, in air. He concluded that the precipice must be on the
other side of that slope and that, if so, it was rather too near the
house for his taste. Mr. Heard thoroughly understood the feelings of
the French poetess. He, too, was not fond of precipices. It was as much
as he could do to look down from a church tower without growing dizzy.
On the house-steps, beside an empty cradle, sat a shrivelled hag--a
gaunt, forbidding anatomy, with hooked nose and brown skin. Tousled
grey hair, like that of a Skye terrier, hung over her forehead, half
concealing a pair of coal-black eyes. She rose up, barred the entrance
with one claw-like hand, and scrutinized him distrustfully.


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