shared her secret with another; that she had a companion. After all, how
little, how very little, she knew of Severac Bablon. With all her
romantic and mystic qualities Zoe was at heart a shrewd American girl,
and not one to be readily beguiled by any man, however fascinating. She
was not afraid, but she admitted to herself that the expedition was
compromising, if not dangerous. If she ever had occasion to come again,
she would confide in Mary and come in her company.

"This road isn't paved, miss. I don't think I can get any further."

The cab, after jolting horribly, had come to a stand-still. Zoe got out.

"Is Laurel Cottage much farther on?"

"It stands all alone, on the left, about a hundred yards along."

"Thank you. Please wait here."

Zoe walked ahead. It was a very lonely spot. The cab had stopped before
some partially-constructed houses. Beyond that lay vacant lots, on
either side. In front, showed a clump of trees, and, at the back of them
on a slight acclivity, a big house.

The night was fine but moonless. Save for the taxi-man and herself, it
would seem that nothing moved anywhere about. She came up level with the
trees. There was a kind of very small lodge among them, closely invested
with ragged shrubs and overshadowed by heavier foliage.

Beyond, farther along the road, showed nothing but uninviting darkness,
solitude and vacancy. This then must be the place.

Zoe peered between the bars of the gate. No light was anywhere to be
seen. The house appeared to be deserted. Could the cabman have made a
mistake or have been misinformed?

Zoe carried a little case, containing, amongst a number of other things,
a tiny matchbox. She extracted and lighted a match. There was no breeze,
or she must certainly have failed to accomplish the operation.

Shading the light with her gloved hands, she bent and examined some
half-defaced white characters which adorned the top bar of the gate; by
which means she made out the words:--

LAUREL COTTAGE

There had been no mistake, then. She opened the gate, and by a narrow,
moss-grown path through the bushes, came to the door. All was still. It
was impossible to suppose the place inhabited.

No bell was to be found, but an iron knocker hung upon the low door.

Zoe knocked.

The way in which the sound echoed through the little cottage almost
frightened her. It seemed to point to emptiness. Surely Laurel Cottage
must be unfurnished.

There was no reply, no