Left alone, Jonathan lighted a lamp, and, opening the trap-door, descended the secret stairs. Engines were brought to play upon Wild's premises, and upon the adjoining houses. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. Melusine—the real Melusine—evidently did not see him immediately, for her attention was on her descent from the high vehicle. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support.
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