which was bastioned by one of the flying buttresses of the church they had
just passed.

The cab drew up with a jerk. "C'est ici, monsieur."

The man had drawn up before a broad oak porte cochere which, sunk far back
into a thick wall, was now inhospitably shut.

"They go to bed betimes this side of the river!" exclaimed Dampier
ruefully.

Nancy felt a little troubled. The hotel people knew they were coming, for
Jack had written from Marseilles: it was odd no one had sat up for them.

But their driver gave the wrought-iron bell-handle a mighty pull, and after
what seemed to the two travellers a very long pause the great doors swung
slowly back on their hinges, while a hearty voice called out, "C'est vous,
Monsieur Gerald? C'est vous, mademoiselle?"

And Dampier shouted back in French, "It's Mr. and Mrs. Dampier. Surely you
expect us? I wrote from Marseilles three days ago!"

He helped his wife out of the cab, and they passed through into the broad,
vaulted passage which connected the street with the courtyard of the hotel.
By the dim light afforded by an old-fashioned hanging lamp Nancy Dampier
saw that three people had answered the bell; they were a middle-aged man
(evidently mine host), his stout better half, and a youth who rubbed his
eyes as if sleepy, and who stared at the newcomers with a dull,
ruminating stare.