It was certainly strange. The circle of trees stopped short of the building at fifty yards. On all sides stretched an expanse of shorn and well-kept turf, pathless as the sea. In its midst the mansion was dropped--as Joyce aptly put it--unexpectedly. A two-storey Tudor building, with battlements, and mullioned windows, terraces and flights of shallow steps: the whole weather-worn and grey in the moonlight, over-grown with ivy, and distinctly ruinous. The dilapidated state of the house, contrasted in a rather sinister manner with the perfectly-kept lawn. Also another curious contrast, was the tower. This tacked on to the western corner, stood like a lean white ghost, watching over its earthly habitation. Its gleaming stone-work and sharp outlines showed that it had been built within the last decade. A distinct anachronism, which marred the quaint antiquity of the mediæval mansion. "He must be an astrologer," said Joyce referring to the owner, "or it may be that the tower is an inland pharos, to guide travellers across that pathless moor. A horrible place," he muttered. "Why horrible?" asked Dr. Jim as they crossed the lawn. Robin shuddered, and cast a backward glance. "I can hardly explain. But to my mind, there is something sinister in this lonely mansion, ablaze with light, yet devoid of inhabitants." "We have yet to find out if that is the case Robin. Hullo! the door is open," and in the strong moonlight they looked wonderingly at each other. The heavy door--oak, clamped with iron--was slightly ajar. Herrick bent upon consummating the adventure, pushed it slightly open. They beheld a large hall with a tesselated pavement, and stately columns. Between these last stood black oak high-backed chairs upholstered in red velvet: also statues of Greek gods and goddesses, holding aloft opaque globes, radiant with light. A vast marble staircase with wide and shallow steps, sloped upwards, and on either side of this, from the height of the landing fell scarlet velvet curtains, shutting in the hall. The whiteness of the marble, the crimson of the draperies, the brilliance of the light; these sumptuous furnishings amazed the dusty pedestrians. It was as though, on a lonely prairie, one should step suddenly into the splendours of the Vatican. "The palace of the Sleeping Beauty," whispered the awe-struck Robin. "Who can say romance is dead, when one can stumble upon such an adventure." Herrick shared Robin's perplexity: but of a more practical nature, he addressed himself less to the romance than to the reality. Seeing no one, hearing nothing, he touched an ivory button, that glimmered a white spot beside the door. Immediately a silvery succession of sounds, shrilled through the--apparently--lonely house. "Electric bells, electric light. The hermit of this establishment is up-to-date."