châlet than anything else, and surrounded by a gay, untidy little garden
full of flowers, the kind of half-wild, shy, and yet hardy flowers that
come up, year after year, without being tended or watered.

"Surely a fortune-teller can't live here?" exclaimed Sylvia Bailey,
remembering the stately, awe-inspiring rooms in which "Pharaoh" received
his clients in Bond Street.

"Oh, yes, this is evidently the place!"

Anna Wolsky smiled good-humouredly; she had become extremely fond of the
young Englishwoman; she delighted in Sylvia's radiant prettiness, her
kindly good-temper, and her eager pleasure in everything.

A large iron gate gave access to the courtyard which was so much larger
than the house built round it. But the gate was locked, and a pull at the
rusty bell-wire produced no result.

They waited a while. "She must have gone out," said Sylvia, rather
disappointed.

But Madame Wolsky, without speaking, again pulled at the rusty wire, and
then one of the châlet windows was suddenly flung open from above, and a
woman--a dark, middle-aged Frenchwoman--leant out.

"_Qui est là?_" and then before either of them could answer, the woman
had drawn back: a moment later they heard her heavy progress down the
creaky stairs of her dwelling.

At last she came out into the courtyard, unlocked the iron gate, and