ten minutes to
twelve
It was a narrow path between high walls of olive orchards ; it led straight down to the lake , and the entrance to the Villino was quite close to the water 's edge . Nothing could be seen of it from the lane but the name painted on the gate-posts and one glimpse of a shuttered window , forlorn and viewless as a blind eye , and half hidden by flowering laurels . Jean looked at his watch . It was ten minutes to twelve , and she had written `` after noon , '' but he could not be sure that she had not come already , and since he had heard the name of Tor di Rocca he was more than ever anxious to be with her . He tried the gate but it was locked ; there was nothing for it but to climb the wall , and as he was light and active he scrambled over without much difficulty and landed in a green tangle of roses and wild vines . He knocked at the house door , and stood for a while listening to the empty answering echoes and to the drip-drip of rain from the eaves . Evidently there was no one there .