I found a big entrance with high stone pillars, but the iron gates were locked and looked as if they had not been opened in the memory of man.  Knowing the way of such places, I hunted for the side entrance and found a muddy road which led to the back of the house.  The front was evidently towards a kind of park; at the back was a nest of outbuildings and a section of moat which looked very deep and black in the winter twilight.  This was crossed by a stone bridge with a door at the end of it.

Clearly the Chateau was not being used for billets.  There was no sign of the British soldier; there was no sign of anything human.  I crept through the fog as noiselessly as if I trod on velvet, and I hadn’t even the company of my own footsteps.  I remembered the Canadian’s ghost story, and concluded I would be imagining the same sort of thing if I lived in such a place.

The door was bolted and padlocked.  I turned along the side of the moat, hoping to reach the house front, which was probably modern and boasted a civilized entrance.  There must be somebody in the place, for one chimney was smoking.  Presently the moat petered out, and gave place to a cobbled causeway, but a wall, running at right angles with the house, blocked my way.  I had half a mind to go back and hammer at the door, but I reflected that major-generals don’t pay visits to deserted chateaux at night without a reasonable errand.  I should look a fool in the eyes of some old concierge.  The daylight was almost gone, and I didn’t wish to go groping about the house with a candle.

But I wanted to see what was beyond the wall—­one of those whims that beset the soberest men.  I rolled a dissolute water-butt to the foot of it, and gingerly balanced myself on its rotten staves.  This gave me a grip on the flat brick top, and I pulled myself up.

I looked down on a little courtyard with another wall beyond it, which shut off any view of the park.  On the right was the Chateau, on the left more outbuildings; the whole place was not more than twenty yards each way.  I was just about to retire by the road I had come, for in spite of my fur coat it was uncommon chilly on that perch, when I heard a key turn in the door in the Chateau wall beneath me.

A lantern made a blur of light in the misty darkness.  I saw that the bearer was a woman, an oldish woman, round-shouldered like most French peasants.  In one hand she carried a leather bag, and she moved so silently that she must have worn rubber boots.  The light was held level with her head and illumined her face.  It was the evillest thing I have ever beheld, for a horrible scar had puckered the skin of the forehead and drawn up the eyebrows so that it looked like some diabolical Chinese mask.

Slowly she padded across the yard, carrying the bag as gingerly as if it had been an infant.  She stopped at the door of one of the outhouses and set down the lantern and her burden on the ground.  From her apron she drew something which looked like a gas-mask, and put it over her head.  She also put on a pair of long gauntlets.  Then she unlocked the door, picked up the lantern and went in.  I heard the key turn behind her.