nd it, for the Rue Jolie
was the funniest, tiniest little street, perched high up on what might
almost have been a mountain side.

As for No. 5, Rue Jolie, it was a queer miniature house more like a Swiss
chalet than anything else, and surrounded by a gay, untidy little garden
full of flowers, the kind of half-wild, shy, and yet hardy flowers that
come up, year after year, without being tended or watered.

"Surely a fortune-teller can't live here?" exclaimed Sylvia Bailey,
remembering the stately, awe-inspiring rooms in which "Pharaoh" received
his clients in Bond Street.

"Oh, yes, this is evidently the place!"

Anna Wolsky smiled good-humouredly; she had become extremely fond of the
young Englishwoman; she delighted in Sylvia's radiant prettiness, her
kindly good-temper, and her eager pleasure in everything.

A large iron gate gave access to the courtyard which was so much larger
than the house built round it. But the gate was locked, and a pull at the
rusty bell-wire produced no result.

They waited a while. "She must have gone out," said Sylvia, rather
disappointed.

But Madame Wolsky, without speaking, again pulled at the rusty wire, and
then one of the chalet windows was suddenly flung open from above, and a
woman--a dark, middle-aged Frenchwoman--leant out.

"_Qui est la?_" and then before either of them could answer, the woman
had drawn back: a moment later they heard her heavy progress down the
creaky stairs of her dwelling.

At last she came out into the courtyard, unlocked the iron gate, and
curtly motioned to the two ladies to follow her.

"We have come to see Madame Cagliostra," said Sylvia timidly. She took
this stout, untidily-dressed woman for the fortune-teller's servant.

"Madame Cagliostra, at your service!" The woman turned round, her face
breaking into a broad smile. She evidently liked the sound of her
peculiar name.

They followed her up a dark staircase into a curious little sitting-room.
It was scrupulously clean, but about it hung the faint odour which the
French eloquently describe as "shut in," and even on this beautiful hot
day the windows were tightly closed.

On the red walls hung various drawings of hands, of hearts, and of heads,
and over the plain mantelpiece was a really fine pastel portrait of a
man, in eighteenth century dress and powdered hair.

"My ancestor, Count Cagliostro, ladies!" exclaimed the fat little woman
proudly. "As you will soon see, if you have, as I