“There is one of his madnesses,” she said. “The speculators in this new neighborhood have offered him I don’t know how many thousand pounds for the ground that house stands on. It was originally the manor-house of the district. Dexter purchased it many years since in one of his freaks of fancy. He has no old family associations with the place; the walls are all but tumbling about his ears; and the money offered would really be of use to him. But no! He refused the proposal of the enterprising speculators by letter in these words: ‘My house is a standing monument of the picturesque and beautiful, amid the mean, dishonest, and groveling constructions of a mean, dishonest, and groveling age. I keep my house, gentlemen, as a useful lesson to you. Look at it while you are building around me, and blush, if you can, for your work.’ Was there ever such an absurd letter written yet? Hush! I hear footsteps in the garden. Here comes his cousin. His cousin is a woman. I may as well tell you that, or you might mistake her for a man in the dark.” A rough, deep voice, which I should certainly never have supposed to be the voice of a woman, hailed us from the inner side of the paling. “Who’s there?” “Mrs. Macallan,” answered my mother-in-law. “What do you want?” “We want to see Dexter.” “You can’t see him.” “Why not?” “What did you say your name was?” “Macallan. Mrs. Macallan. Eustace Macallan’s mother. _Now_ do you understand?” The voice muttered and grunted behind the paling, and a key turned in the lock of the gate. Admitted to the garden, in the deep shadow of the shrubs, I could see nothing distinctly of the woman with the rough voice, except that she wore a man’s hat. Closing the gate behind us, without a word of welcome or explanation, she led the way to the house. Mrs. Macallan followed her easily, knowing the place; and I walked in Mrs. Macallan’s footsteps as closely as I could. “This is a nice family,” my mother-in-law whispered to me. “Dexter’s cousin is the only woman in the house--and Dexter’s cousin is an idiot.” We entered a spacious hall with a low ceiling, dimly lighted at its further end by one small oil-lamp. I could see that there were pictures on the grim, brown walls, but the subjects represented were invisible in the obscure and shadowy light. Mrs. Macallan addressed herself to the speechless cousin with the man’s hat. “Now tell me,” she said. “Why can’t we see Dexter?” The cousin took a sheet of paper off the table, and handed it to Mrs. Macallan. “The Master’s writing,” said this strange creature, in a hoarse whisper, as if the bare idea of “the Master” terrified her. “Read it. And stay or go, which you please.” She opened an invisible side door in the wall, masked by one of the pictures--disappeared through it like a ghost--and left us together alone in the hall.