Cypresses and
olives were untrimmed, and there was a straggling wilderness of orange
trees. The place had a sad yet poetic look of having been forgotten by
the world.
Vanno knew little of its history, except that an elderly French woman,
a great actress long before his time, had bought and lived in the house
for many years, letting the whole property fall into decay while her
money was given to the Casino.
It seemed impossible that Mary could be there behind those shuttered
windows, but he was determined not to go away without being sure. Rose
Winter had said half jestingly that Lady Dauntrey was a woman who might
"look on her neighbour's jewels when it was dark." And Vanno had taken a
dislike to the hostess at the Villa Bella Vista. He had been glad to
take Mary out of her hands, to put her in charge of Rose Winter. As he
stood and stared at the high, locked gates he remembered what the beggar
had said about the dark woman who threw herself back in the carriage as
if she did not wish to be seen.
"Shall I blow my horn and try to make some one come?" asked Schuyler's
chauffeur.
"No, I think not," Vanno said on reflection. "I have an idea that if
people are there, they won't come down for that. I can get over all
right if you'll back the car close to the gates."
The chauffeur's expression withdrew itself like a snail within its
shell, but suddenly he became interested enough to forget his hunger. He
had supposed that the young lady wished to pay a mere call at a time of
day inconvenient to him: but evidently there was something under the
surface of this excursion.
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