The carriage stopped before a massive stone house. Two colossal figures on the right and left of the door held lanterns adorned with intricate iron scroll-work in the fashion of the last century. The lower windows were grated with thick wrought-iron bars, and the heavy oaken door did not lack the shining brass lion's head, with the ring in its mouth. Above the door was a somewhat weather-beaten coat-of-arms, carved in stone, overshadowed by a tiny balcony provided with manifold sculptured ornaments and iron scrolls. _Heinrich_ pulled the bell. The door was opened, and when he entered a statue placed in a niche in the staircase extended its arms as if in welcome. A pleasant subdued light fell upon the stone stairs through a tall pointed window, and _Heinrich_, most agreeably impressed by this old-fashioned but massive luxury, mounted the broad stone steps. A precise, respectable servant was standing on the landing, and silently ushered him into a little antechamber. Ottmar gave him his card, and he went forward on tip-toe to announce him. For a few moments _Heinrich_ had time to admire the few but costly articles of furniture, rich carpet, and Chinese vases in the anteroom. His hopes began to sink. The quiet, pedantic spirit which breathed from these carefully preserved relics of a former century could not have trained the original, modern, enthusiastic nature of the Prison Fairy. At last a pair of richly-carved folding-doors were thrown open. The old servant, with a low bow, silently motioned to him to approach, and _Heinrich_ entered a large apartment, furnished in the ancient French style, with silken curtains, and a polished, inlaid floor. The sofas and chairs were of richly inlaid walnut, covered with faded but heavy yellow damask. An old-fashioned screen, ornamented with an embroidered coat-of-arms, stood before a huge stove adorned with Chinese designs. On the clumsy carved tables lay magnificent velvet, covered albums, faded and time-worn, as well as small new books of every description. A gilt eagle extended its wings over an immense mirror, and a pair of sphinxes supported a marble pier-table, bearing a clock. Family portraits, centuries old, stared solemnly from the walls, and fresh roses breathed their rich fragrance over this peaceful image of bygone days. Almost at the same moment Ottmar entered, the lady of the house, Fräulein Veronica von Albin, advanced through a pair of folding-doors directly opposite to him. She had a slight ethereal figure, whose movements still retained the elasticity of youth, and a pair of beautiful blue eyes sparkled in a wrinkled face, over which at least seventy years had passed. Thin white curls were carefully arranged around the kindly old forehead, and an old-fashioned but dazzlingly white morning dress rustled softly around her. She advanced, or rather floated, towards Ottmar, and held out both hands.