n times--an old woman opened the door--a witch
of an old woman; a witch out of a German fairy-book.

The instant I saw her, I felt that there was _something wrong_ about
this house. From under wrinkled lids the woman peered out, ratlike; and
though her lips were closed--leaving the first word to us--her eyes
said, "What the devil do you want? Whatever it is, you won't get it, so
the sooner you go the better."

We had planned that I should start the ball rolling, by mention of my
grandmother's name. But Terry was bursting with renewed interest in
life, and the woman was answering his question before I had time to
speak. "Let the place? No, sir! His lordship refuses all offers. It is
useless to make one. He does not see strangers."

"We are not strangers," I rapped out with all Grandmother's haughtiness.
"Tell Lord Scarlett that the Princess di Miramare, grand-daughter of
Mrs. Raleigh Courtenaye, wishes a few words with him."

_That_ was the way to manage her! She came of a breed over whom for
centuries Prussian Junkers had power of life and death; and though she
spoke English, it was with the precise wording of one who has learned
the language painfully. In me she recognized the legitimate tyrant, and
yielded.

We were admitted with reluctance into a magnificent hall which magically
matched our description: stone-paved, with a vaulted roof, and an
immense oriel window the height of two stories. While our gaze travelled
from the carved stone chimney-piece to ancient suits of armour, and such
Tudor and Jacobean furniture as remained unsold, a slight sound
attracted our attention to the "historic staircase," with its
"dog-gates."

A woman was coming down. She had knitting in her hand, and had dropped
one of her needles. It was that which made the slight noise we'd heard;
and Terry stepped quickly forward to pick it up.

His back was turned to me as he offered the stiletto-like instrument to
its owner, so I could not see his face. But I could imagine that
charming smile of his, as he looked up at the figure on the stairs. Just
so might Sir Walter Raleigh have looked when he'd neatly spread his
cloak for Queen Bess; and if he had happened to ask a favour then, it
would have been hard for the sovereign to resist!

The woman coming downstairs did not resemble any portrait of the Virgin
Queen. She was stout and short-necked; and with her hard, dark face, her
implacable eyes, and her knitting, was as much like Madame Def