A genuine north-country house, strong, rugged and homely-looking, despite its Gallic cognomen.  It was built of the rough grey stone of the district, and roofed with large blue slates.  It stood at the head of a small lawn that sloped gently up from the lake.  Immediately behind the house a precipitous hill, covered with a thick growth of underwood and young trees, swept upward to a considerable height.  A narrow, winding lane, the only carriage approach to the house, wound round the base of this hill, and joined the high road a quarter of a mile away.  The house was only two stories high, but was large enough to have accommodated a numerous and well-to-do family.  The windows were all set in a framework of plain stone, but on the lower floor some of them had been modernised, the small, square, bluish panes having given place to polished plate glass, of which two panes only were needed for each window.  But this was an innovation that had not spread far.  The lawn was bordered with a tasteful diversity of shrubs and flowers, while here and there the tender fingers of some climbing plant seemed trying to smoothe away a wrinkle in the rugged front of the old house.

Captain Ducie walked up the gravelled pathway that led from the lake to the house, the boatman with his portmanteau bringing up the rear.  Before he could touch either bell or knocker, the door was noiselessly opened, and a coloured servant, in a suit of plain black, greeted him with a respectful bow.

“Captain Ducie, sir, if I am not misinformed?”

“I am Captain Ducie.”

“Sir, you are expected.  Your rooms are ready.  Dinner will be served in half-an-hour from now.  My master will meet you when you come downstairs.”

The portmanteau having been brought in, and the boatman paid and dismissed, said the coloured servant:  “I will show you to your rooms, if you will allow me to do so.  The man appointed to wait upon you will follow with your luggage in a minute or two.”

He led the way, and Ducie followed in silence.

The tired Captain gave a sigh of relief and gratitude, and flung himself into an easy-chair as the door closed behind his conductor.  His two rooms were en suite, and while as replete with comfort as the most thorough-going Englishman need desire, had yet about them a touch of lightness and elegance that smacked of a taste that had been educated on the Continent, and was unfettered by insular prejudices.

“At Stapleton I had a loft that was hardly fit for a groom to sleep in; here I have two rooms that a cardinal might feel proud to occupy.  Vive la Russie!”

M. Platzoff was waiting at the foot of the staircase when Ducie went down.  A cordial greeting passed between the two, and the host at once led the way to the dining-room.  Platzoff in his suit of black and white cravat, with his cadaverous face, blue-black hair and chin-tuft, and the elaborate curl on the top of his forehead, looked, at the first glance, more like a ghastly undertaker’s man than the host of an English country house.