amusement. It was indeed a funny little place, this brick-built bungalow,
so fantastically and, to his British eyes, so ridiculously decorated with
blue china lozenges, on which were painted giant lilies of the valley.

But he had not long to look, for as the car drew up before the white gate
Madame Wachner's short, broad figure came hurrying down the path.

She opened the gate, and with boisterous heartiness welcomed Chester and
Sylvia into the neglected garden.

Chester looked round him with an involuntary surprise. The Wachners' home
was entirely unlike what he had expected to find it. He had thought to
see one of those trim, neat little villas surrounded by gay, exquisitely
tended little gardens which are the pride of the Parisian suburban
dweller.

Madame Wachner caught his glance, and the thought crossed her mind
uncomfortably that she had perhaps made a mistake, a serious mistake, in
asking this priggish-looking Englishman to come to the Châlet des
Muguets. He evidently did not like the look of the place.

"You wonder to see our garden so untidy," she exclaimed, regretfully.
"Well, it is the owner's fault, not ours! You would not believe such a
thing of a Frenchman, but 'e actually made us promise that we would do
nothing--no, nothing at all, to 'is garden. 'E spoke of sending a man
once a week to see after it, but no, 'e never did so."

"I have often wondered," broke in Sylvia frankly, "why you allowed your
garden to get into such a state, but now, of course, I understand. What a
very odd person your landlord must be, Madame Wachner! It might be such a