With Ballard the elder, to whom and to those plutocratic associates,
as had been predicted, my antecedents and acquirements had proven
satisfactory, I journeyed on the twelfth of December to Greene County
in the Ballard limousine. A rigorous watch was kept upon the walls of
Horsham Manor, and in response to the ring of the chauffeur at the
solid wooden gates at the lodge, a small window opened and a red
visage appeared demanding credentials. Ballard put the inquisitor to
some pains, testing his efficiency, but finally produced his card and
revealed his identity, after which the gates flew open and we entered
the forbidden ground.

It was an idyllic spot, as I soon discovered, of fine rolling country,
well wooded and watered, the road of macadam, rising slowly from the
entrance gates, turning here and there through a succession of natural
parks, along the borders of a lake of considerable size, toward the
higher hills at the further end of the estate, among which, my
companion told me, were built the Manor house and stables. Except for
the excellent road itself, no attempt had been made to use the art of
the landscape gardener in the lower portion of the tract, which had
been left as nature had made it, venerable woodland, with a
well-tangled undergrowth, where rabbits, squirrels and deer abounded,
but as we neared the hills, which rose with considerable dignity
against the pale, wintry sky, the signs of man's handiwork became
apparent. A hedge here, a path there, bordered with privet or
rhododendron; a comfortable looking farmhouse, commodious barns and
well-fenced pastures, where we passed a few men who touched their caps
and stared after us.

"It's lucky you care nothing for women, Canby," said Mr. Ballard
crisply; "this monastic idea may not bother you."