As Mr. Meyer's origin was German, and the country of his adoption was England, it was perhaps natural that he should have gone to Tuscany for the architecture of his marine residence. Its boldly projecting cornices, its rusticated base and quoins, the consoles of its upper windows, all betrayed its Florentine birth; but the lower windows, reaching to the ground, were such as we associate with the name of France, and were doubtless intended as a compliment to the great and gay nation living directly across the water. To the south, a terrace, bounded by a low wall set with dogs, apparently petrified by their own ugliness, separated the villa from the beach. To the west were the orchid houses. To the north, before the front of the house, lay the bowling green; beyond it a wood, through which ran the path leading to the landing-stage and the neighbouring island of Great Britain. A spiral staircase at the east end of the house led to the observatory containing the powerful equatorial telescope through which, as opportunity offered, Mr. Meyer was wont to gaze thoughtfully at the satellites of Jupiter, the canals on Mars, and other eccentricities of the heavens. There was, of course, a fountain--between the bowling green and the cypress trees. There was also a sundial bearing a sentence of cryptic import; and in the woods, at the least expected places, stood marble columns, broken and ivy-wreathed, or supporting busts of Socrates, Pallas, Homer, and other appropriate notabilities. Inside the house were treasures that had cost the ransom of a millionaire. Meyer was a bachelor, and here he spent his week-ends, absorbing ozone enough to see him through till the following Saturday, and maturing Titanic schemes for the Federation of the World and the confounding of rival financiers. Once only had he brought a guest with him--an African Pro-Consul--who had with much difficulty, though with ultimate success, joined his outward-bound ship from Meyer's electric launch. Each year a local mayor called, admired, wondered, and retired. Occasionally some venturesome tourist was captured and turned back. Other visitors were rare; and their reception depended on the mood of the lord of the island. One day last April a stranger with a camera rowed across from England. At the landing-stage he informed the man in charge that he had business with Mr. Meyer. This was telephoned to the house. "What business?" came the reply. "Particular business," said the newcomer. "What particular business?" "Pictures," was the answer. This was transmitted, and the reply taken. "You can go," said the man, hanging up the receiver. "Straight up the path, and through the woods. Turn to the left at the busk of 'Omer." Ten minutes later the visitor was shown into a room facing the sea, in which Mr. Meyer was seated by the open window, reading from a gigantic folio.