efy the laws forbidding trespass, and
score off the seemingly uncivil owner of a historical dwelling.

He little imagined, that glorious June morning, that he was entering
on a road of strange adventure. He had chosen an early hour purposely.
Not only were the lights and shadows perfect for water color, but it
was highly probable that he would be able to come and go without
attracting attention. He had no wish to annoy Fenley, or quarrel with
the man's myrmidons. Indeed, he would not have visited the estate at
all if the magazine editor had not specially stipulated for a
full-page drawing of the house.

Now, all would have been well had the barber's directions proved as
bald in spirit as they were in letter.

"After passin' 'The Waggoner's Rest,' you'll come to a pair of iron
gates on the right," he had said. "On one side there's a swing gate.
Go through, an' make straight for a clump of cedars on top of a little
hill. There mayn't be much of a path, but that's it. It's reelly a
short cut to the Easton gate on the London road."

Yet who could guess what a snare for an artist's feet lay in those few
words? How could Trenholme realize that "a pair of iron gates" would
prove to be an almost perfect example of Christopher Wren's genius as
a designer of wrought iron? Trenholme's eyes sparkled when he beheld
this prize, with its acanthus leaves and roses beaten out with
wonderful freedom and beauty of curve. A careful drawing was the
result. Another result, uncounted by him, but of singular importance
in its outcome was the delay of forty minutes thus entailed.

He crossed an undulating park, and had no difficulty in tracing an
almost disused path in certain grass-grown furrows leading past the
group of cedars. On reaching this point he obtained a fair view of the
mansion; but the sun was directly behind him, as the house faced
southeast, and he decided to encroach some few yards on private
property. A brier-laden slope fell from the other side of the trees to
a delightful-looking lake fed by a tiny cascade on the east side. An
ideal spot, he thought.

This, then, was the stage setting: Trenholme, screened by black cedars
and luxuriant brushwood, was seated about fifty feet above the level
of the lake and some forty yards from its nearest sedges. The lake
itself, largely artificial, lay at the foot of the waterfall, which
gurgled and splashed down a miniature precipice of moss-covered
bowlders. Here and there a rock, a