The car moved forward, swung to the right. About a quarter of a mile away stood a small, modern stucco dwelling behind its hedge of privet. Beyond that there were woods again and dewy uplands glimmering with furze and brake. When they arrived they found the driveway closed by a gate. "Never mind; I'll walk to the house," said Guild. The smiling chauffeur leaned back and opened the tonneau door; Guild descended, looked at the iron gate between its ugly stucco posts, peered through it up the drive with its parallel rows of recently planted lime trees. Everything about the place was recent if not brand new--ugly with the ugliness of well-to-do bad taste. Red geraniums and yellow cannas had been planted in fearsome juxtaposition, salvia flanked a red brick terrace--a most unholy combination of colour. In the early morning the sun exposed the place without mercy. It was lonesome and amazingly depressing. Glancing up at the gate again he discovered a nickel-plated label riveted to one of the stucco posts. On it was the name of the place, "Hyacinth Villa," and its number 169. There was no lodge, no bell, but the wicket gate was not locked. So Guild entered. "Shall I drive up to the house, sir?" inquired the chauffeur. "No; wait out here." There seemed to be no sign of life about the house when at last he arrived in front of it--nobody apparently stirring at that hour. He hesitated; he still wore the same knickerbockers and cap which he had worn in Belgium. His sack, which was now in the car, contained only fresh linen; and he began to wonder what his reception might be in such a costume and at such an hour. He doubted that the unconventionality of the daughter of a Prussian aristocrat might extend far enough to accept him, his rather shabby clothes, and his explanation of the visit. It was all very well for this young girl to kick over the tradition, cut home traces in the sacred cause of art, call herself Girard, and live in an impossible villa for art's sake. Few well-born Fräuleins ever did this sort of thing, but there had been instances. And anybody in Germany will always add that they invariably went to the devil. Guild rang. After he had waited long enough he rang again. After that he resumed his ringing. Keeping his finger pressed on the electric button and laying his ear to the door. The bell was doing its duty inside the house; he could hear it. Presently he heard a fumbling of chains and locks inside, the door opened on a crack and a sleepy voice inquired: "Is it you, Anna?" Guild hesitated: "I wish to see Miss Girard. Is she at home?" "Who are you?" demanded the voice no longer sleepy. "My name is Guild. I am sorry to disturb Miss Girard at such an hour, but I cannot help it. Is Miss Girard in?" "Yes; I am Miss Girard." "Are you Miss Karen Girard?" "Yes. Why do you wish to see me?" "I can't tell you here. Are you dressed?" There was a pause, then she said: "No." "Please dress as quickly as you can. Dress for travel."