ngle of bush and bracken, I had found
it: an ancient wall, scaled with patches of mouldy stucco, and at one
end an Ionic pillar towering out of the sea of greenery like a
lighthouse clear of the cliffs. Obviously, as Mr. Muskett had said, the
fragments that remained of one of those toy temples which were a
characteristic conceit of old Georgian grounds. But it happened to be
the first that I had seen, and I proceeded to reconnoitre the position
with some interest. Then it was that Mrs. Ricardo was discovered, seated
on one of several stumps of similar pillars, on the far side of the
wall.

Mrs. Ricardo, without her hat in the shadow of the old grey wall, but
with her glossy hair and glowing colour stamped against it with rich
effect: a charming picture in its greenwood frame, especially as she was
looking up to greet me with a radiant smile. But I was too taken aback
to be appreciative for the moment. And then I decided that the high
colouring was a thought too high, and a sudden self-consciousness
disappointing after her excellent composure in the much more trying
circumstances of our previous meeting.

"Haven't you been here before, Mr. Gillon?" Mrs. Ricardo seemed
surprised, but quite competent to play the guide. "This mossy heap's
supposed to have been the roof, and these stone stumps the columns that
held it up. There's just that one standing as it was. There should be a
'sylvan prospect' from where I'm sitting; but it must have been choked
up for years and years."

"You do know a lot about it!" I cried, recovering my admiration for the
pretty woman as she recovered her self-possession. And then she smiled
again, but not quite as I had caught her smiling.

"What Mr. Delavoye's friends don't know about Witching Hill oughtn't to
be worth knowing!" said Mrs. Ricardo. "I mean what he really knows, not
what he makes up, Mr. Gillon. I hear you don't believe in all that any
more than I do. But he does seem to have read everything that was ever
written about the place. He says this was certainly the Temple of
Bacchus in the good old days."

"I don't quite see where Bacchus comes in," said I, thinking that Uvo
and Mrs. Ricardo must be friends indeed.

"He's supposed to have been on this old wall behind us, in a fresco or
something, by Villikins or somebody. You can see where it's been gouged
out, and the stucco with it."

But I had to say what was in my mind. "Is Uvo Delavoye still harping on
about his bold bad anc