to me in German, the man had spoken in low, half-whispered tones. In
ordinary conversation, especially if he were on his guard, he would speak
quite differently. But could he eradicate his distinct touch of foreign
accent? No; I thought decidedly that was beyond him.

I was so immersed in my thoughts that I had become quite oblivious to
everything outside them. Beyond the fact that I had struck a hard
macadamed road and was striding down it, I realised nothing else, till of
a sudden I looked up and noticed a large house close before me, and at
that I stopped dead and awoke from my reverie.

That it was Mr. Rendall's mansion I never doubted. I saw now that it was
not a really big house, but it was large compared with the small farm
houses, and its utterly bare situation and the way in which it was set on
a slight rise in the ground made it seem obviously the "big hoose" I was
looking for. But somehow or other at the sight of it my spirits were
instantly damped. Indeed I never saw a chillier, less inviting looking
habitation, or one that seemed to repel confidence in it more subtly.

The road ran straight at it and then curved round the low wall that
bounded the domains. And these domains consisted of absolutely nothing
more than a rough grass paddock with a short straight drive leading from
an open and dilapidated iron gate in the wall just where the curve began.
There was no ivy, or any sort of creeper on the walls, but, instead, a
sort of grey-green damp hue, broken only by a very few staring windows.
I passed through that dilapidated gate with no temptation at all to sing.

The drive was covered with an infamous species of large pebble, so
uncomfortable to walk on that I chose the grass at the side and I only
stepped on to this apology for gravel when I was quite close to the