that he was deceiving me. Lived there all his life and
never saw the door open!

"And you have no key to that door?" I repeated.

"No. I have no key."

"Who has the key?"

"The owner of the house."

"But I own it."

"Yes, you are the master; but I mean the one who owns it all the time."

"So, the various masters do not really buy the place?"

"They buy it, but they come and go."

"But the owner keeps on selling it and owning it?"

"Yes."

"Must be a profitable business. And who owns it?"

"Donna Marchesi."

"I think I met her yesterday in Sorona."

"Yes, that is where she lives."

The storm had passed. Sorona was only two miles away, on the other side
of the mountain. The cellar, the door, the mysterious uncertainty on the
other side intrigued me. I told the man that I would be back by supper,
and I went to my bedroom to change, preparatory to making an afternoon
call.

In the room I found my hand black with oil.

And that told me a good many things, as it was the hand that had rested
against the upper hinge of the door. I washed the hand, changed my
clothes and drove my car to Sorona.

* * * * *

Fortunately, the Donna Marchesi was at home. I might have met her
before, but I now saw her ethereal beauty for the first time. At least,
it seemed ethereal at the first moment. In some ways she was the most
beautiful woman that I had ever seen: skin white as milk, hair a tawny
red, piled in great masses on her head, and eyes of a peculiar green,
with pupils that were slots instead of circles. She wore her nails long,
and they were tinted red to match the Titian of her hair. She seemed
surprized to have me call on her, and more surprized to hear of my
errand.

"You bought the villa?" she asked.

"Yes. Though, when I bought it, I did not know that you were the owner.
The agent never stated whom he was acting for."

"I know," she said with a smile. "Franco is peculiar that way. He always
pretends that he owns the place."

"No doubt he has used it more than once."

"I fear so. The place seems to be unfortunate. I sell it with a reserve
clause. The owner must live there. And no one seems to want to stay; so
the place reverts back to me."

"It seems to be an old place."

"Very old. It has been in my family for generations. I have tried to get
rid of it, but what can I do when the young men will not stay?"

She shrugged her shoulders expressively. I countered with,