The suburbs are far more attractive than the town; for, beyond the radius of the streets and the hateful, incessant noise of the electric trams, there are many charming residences set among richly wooded grounds and brilliant parterres of flowers, where the most fastidious lover of loveliness might find satisfaction for the eyes and rest for the mind, especially on the road towards Mont Salève and Mornex. Here one sees dazzling mists streaming off the slopes of the mountains,--exquisite tints firing the sky at sunrise and sunset, and mirrored in the infinite blue of the lake,--and even in the heats of summer, a delicious breeze blows over the fresh green fields with the cold scent of the Alpine snow in its breath. And here on a fresh beautiful autumn morning Diana May found herself walking swiftly along with light and eager steps, her whole being alive with interested anticipation. Never had she felt so well; health bounded in her pulse and sparkled in her eyes, and the happy sense of perfect freedom gave to every movement of her thin, supple figure, that elasticity and grace which are supposed to be the special dower of extreme youth, though, as a matter of fact, youth is often ungainly in action and cumbersome in build. She had stayed two days and nights at a quiet little hotel in Geneva on arrival, in order to rest well and thoroughly, after her journey from England before presenting herself at the Château Fragonard, the residence of the mysterious Dr. Dimitrius; and she had made a few casual yet careful inquiries as to the Château and its owner. Nobody seemed to know more than that “Monsieur le Docteur Dimitrius” was a rich man, and that his Château had been built for him by a celebrated French architect who had spared neither labour nor cost. He was understood to be a scientist, very deeply absorbed in difficult matters of research,--he was unmarried and lived alone with his mother. Just now he had so much to do that he was advertising in all the papers for “an intellectual elderly lady” to assist him. Diana was indebted for this last “personal note” to a chatty bookseller in the Rue du Mont Blanc. She smiled as she listened, turning over some of the cheap fiction on his counter. “He is not suited yet?” she inquired. “Ah, no, Madame! It is not likely he will be suited! For what lady will admit herself to be sufficiently elderly? Ah, no? It is not possible!” Later on, she learned that the Château Fragonard was situated some distance out of Geneva, and well off the high road. “Madame wishes to see the grounds?” inquired the cheery driver of a little carriage plying for hire. “It would be necessary to ask permission. But they are very fine!--Ah, wonderful!--as fine as those of Rothschild! And if one were not admitted, it is easy to take a boat, and view them from the lake! The lawns slope to the water’s edge.” “Exquisite!” murmured Diana to herself. “It will be worth while trying to remain in such a paradise!”