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would carry us to Centeville.
    It was late afternoon when we arrived. We had been travelling since the early morning of the previous day and in spite of the interest of the journey I was immensely relieved to have come to the end of it.
    As we left the train a man in livery approached us. I detected a look of disbelief in his eyes and I guessed that this was surprise at seeing a man and woman when he had been expecting a man only.
    My father was the first to speak. His French was quite good and mine was adequate, so we had few qualms about language difficulties.
    “I am Kendal Collison,” he said.
    “Might you be looking for me? We were told that we would be met at the station.”
    The man bowed. Yes, he said, he had come to meet Monsieur Collison on behalf of Monsieur de Manner, Steward of the Chateau de Centeville.
    “Then I am your man,” said my father.
    “And this is my daughter, without whom I do not travel nowadays.”
    I received the same courteous bow, which I acknowledged by inclining my head, and the man then proceeded to lead us towards a carriage. It was magnificent-dark blue in colour
     
    and emblazoned on it was a coat of arms, presumably that of our illustrious patron, We were helped in and told that our baggage would be brought to the chateau. I was relieved because it was certainly not worthy to grace such a vehicle. I looked at my father and almost giggled. It was sheer nervousness, of course. The ceremonial nature of our reception had had this effect, reminding me that we were about to face the consequences of our very rash act.
    The horses were whipped up and we bowled along through the most enchanting countryside. It was wooded and hilly and suddenly we saw the castle perched above the town-a Norman, grey stone and impregnable fortress with its massive cylindrical columns, its long narrow slits of windows, its rounded arches and machicolated towers.
    It looked forbidding-a fortress indeed rather than a dwelling place, and I felt a shiver of apprehension run through me.
    We were climbing the gradual slope and as we grew nearer to the castle, the more menacing it seemed to be. We should have explained, I told myself. We have come here under false pretences. What will they do if they discover? Well, they can only send us back.
    I looked at my father. I could not tell from his expression whether he felt the brooding power of the place as I did.
    We passed over a moat and under a portcullis and were in a courtyard.
    The carriage stopped and our splendid driver jumped down from his seat and opened the door for us to alight.
    I felt suddenly small standing beside those immense walls of stone. I turned to look up at the Keep, with the tower on it which must give a view of miles surrounding the castle.
    “This way,” said our driver.
    We were facing a studded door. He rapped on it sharply and it was opened immediately by a man in livery similar to that worn by the driver.
    “Monsieur and Mademoiselle Collison,” said the driver as though announcing us at some function. He then bowed to us and prepared to leave, having delivered us into the hands of our next guide.
    The servant bowed in the same ceremonious fashion and signed for us to follow him.
    We were taken into a large hall with an arched roof supported by thick round stone columns. There were several windows but they were so narrow that they did not let in a great deal of light; stone benches were cut out of the wall;
    there was a long, beautifully carved table in the centre of the hall -a concession to a later period, for I presumed the hall itself was pure Norman, and another concession was that there was glass in the windows.
    “Excuse me for one moment,” said the servant.
    “I will acquaint Monsieur de Marnier of your arrival.”
    My father and I looked at each other in suppressed awe when we were alone.
    “So far, so good,” he whispered.
    I agreed, with the proviso that we had not yet come very far.
    In a very short time we were making