I walked up the sodden path--the tin shed seemed to have been built in a swamp, so oozy was the ground--and rapped smartly at the narrow front door. On either side were two small windows, through the glass of which I caught a glimpse of iron bars, which proved that Miss Destiny had made necessary provision against burglars. What struck me as odd was the absence of a chimney, but I had no time to consider this, for shortly I heard the rattle of a chain and the sound of bolts being drawn back. Then the door was opened an inch or two to reveal the dull eyes and mustached lip of Lucinda. The expression of her face was aggressive and watchful.
"What do you want?" she demanded in her beautiful voice, which struck me anew as singularly sympathetic despite her rough greeting.
"I am Mr. Cyrus Vance, who was at Mootley," I explained elaborately, "and I wish to see Miss Destiny."
Before I ended my request I heard a little, low, fluttering laugh, and Lucinda, opening the door widely, moved aside to show the tiny figure of her mistress with outstretched hands. "Prince Charming come in search of the Sleeping Beauty," cried Miss Destiny, romantically, "and all because he saw a portrait of the lady. Come in, Mr. Vance, come in. I can promise you flesh and blood this time, my dear adventurer."
There was little change about the old lady. She still wore the threadbare black silk dress, though without the velvet mantle, and her snow-white hair was still piled up after the fashion of Louis XVI's ill-fated queen.
I thrilled when I heard her words, as I guessed that I had arrived in a happy moment, and that Miss Destiny's niece, the goddess of my dreams, was seated within that pauper house. Even Lucinda grinned in a friendly way, as she saw the color come and go in my face. With all my self-control I could not suppress that sign of emotion.
"Prince Charming," said Miss Destiny, introducing me directly into a bare sitting-room, for there was no passage in the cottage, "yet me present you to The Sleeping Beauty," and she looked more like a fairy godmother than ever as she clapped her skinny hands.
Gertrude Monk was seated in a well-worn horsehair armchair, near the oil stove which did duty as a fireplace to warm the bleak room. She was plainly dressed in blue serge, with a toque of the same on her dark head, and had a muff and boa of silver-fox fur. Nothing could have been more Puritanic than her array, but the close-fitting frock showed off her fine figure to advantage, and she looked uncommonly handsome. I have already described her from her photograph, so there is no need to go over old ground, but she was even more beautiful and unapproachable than I had believed her to be, and looked more like the goddess Diana than ever. The sole thing I found lacking to complete her perfection was color, for her face was the hue of old ivory, and even her lips looked pale. Also there was a troubled look in her large dark eyes, and she welcomed me with some embarrassment. But this last probably was due to the oddity of our introduction, since Miss Destiny had evidently informed her of my admiration for her portrait.
"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Vance," she said sedately and with a stately bow of her head, "my aunt informed me of your connection with the sad death of my old nurse."
"I think my connection with the matter is public property, Miss Monk," I said, nervously, "for my name has been in all the papers."