Wrayson looked round in surprise. A man in gamekeeper's clothes had issued from the lodge, carrying a gun.
"Good evening!" Wrayson said. "Is it permitted for the public to enter the park?"
"By no means," was the surly answer. "Cannot monsieur see that the gates are locked?"
"I understood from the landlord of the Lion d'Or" Wrayson said, "that the villagers were allowed the privilege of walking in the park."
The man looked at him suspiciously.
"You are not of the village," he said.
"I am staying there," Wrayson answered.
"It makes nothing. For the present, villagers and every one are forbidden to enter. There are visitors at the château."
Wrayson turned away.
"Very well," he said. "Good night!"
The man did not answer him. Wrayson continued to climb the hill which skirted the park. He did not turn round, but he heard the gates open, and he was convinced that he was being watched, if he was not followed. He kept on, however, until he came to some more iron gates, from which stretched the grass avenue which led straight to the gardens of the château. Dimly, through the gathering dusk, he caught a view of it, which was little more than an impression; silver grey and quiet with the peace which the centuries can bring, it seemed to him, with its fantastic towers, and imperfectly visible outline, like a palace of dreams rather than a dwelling house, however magnificent, of material stone and brick. An owl flew out from the trees a few yards to the left of him, and drifted slowly over his head,
