The novelist spoke with such intensity of feeling—­with such bitter sadness and regret in his voice—­that Aaron King could not reply.

Turning, the artist unlocked the door, and they entered the cottage.

They found the interior of the house well arranged, and not in bad repair.  “Just the thing for a bachelor’s housekeeping”—­was the painter’s verdict—­“but for a studio—­impossible,” and there was a touch of regret in his voice.

“Let’s continue our exploration,” said the novelist, hopefully.  “There’s a barn out there.”  And they went out of the house, and down the drive on the eastern side of the yard.

Here, again, they saw the roses in full possession of the place—­by man, deserted.  From foundation to roof, the building—­a small simple structure—­was almost hidden under a mass of vines.  There was one large room below; with a loft above.  The stable was in the rear.  Built, evidently, at a later date than the house, the building was in better repair.  The walls, so hidden without by the roses, were well sided; the floors were well laid.  The big, sliding, main door opened on the drive in front; between it and the corner, to the west, was a small door; and in the western end, a window.

Looking curiously from this window, Conrad Lagrange uttered an exclamation, and hurried abruptly from the building.  The artist followed.

From the end of the barn, and extending, the full width of the building, to the west line of the yard, was a rose garden—­such a garden as Aaron King had never seen.  On three sides, the little plot was enclosed by a tall hedge of Ragged Robins; above the hedge, on the south and west, was the dark-green wall of the orange grove; on the north, the pepper and eucalyptus trees in the yard, and a view of the distant mountains; and on the east, the vine-hidden end of the barn.  Against the southern wall,—­and, so, directly opposite the trellised, vine-covered arch of the entrance,—­a small, lattice bower, with a rustic table and seats within, was completely covered, as was the barn, by the magically woven tapestry of the flowers.  In the corner of the hedge farthest from the entrance they found a narrow gate.  Unlike the rest of the premises, the garden was in perfect order—­the roses trimmed and cared for; the walks neatly edged and clean; with no weed or sign of untidiness or neglect anywhere.

The two men had come upon the spot so suddenly—­so unexpectedly—­the contrast with the neglected grounds and buildings was so marked—­that they looked at each other in silence.  The little retreat—­so lovely, so hidden by its own beauty from the world, so cared for by careful hands—­seemed haunted by an invisible spirit.  Very quietly,—­almost reverently,—­they moved about; talking in low tones, as though half expecting—­they knew not what.

“Some one loves this place,” said the novelist, softly, when they stood, again, in the entrance.

And the artist answered in the same hushed voice, “I wonder what it means?”