The clouds rolled up. The mansion towered menacingly behind the screen of trees. ‘Going to rain,’ said the driver of Holmes’ car, pleasantly and conversationally; the first remark of the journey, most of which had seemed to be spent stationary in West End traffic. The private road at the edge of Kensington Gardens was by contrast empty of vehicles and the driver’s heart had lifted at the sight. ‘I think you’re right,’ said Holmes, equally pleasantly. The rain clouds were unmistakable. Conversation lapsed; the gravel crunched under the wheels; the horror mansion resolved itself into a brick and stone-faced facade, heavy with boredom, full of conventional appearances; a Victorian building, the architectural expression of merchant princes, of a discreet and proper wealth and power and unimpeded progress at the edge of a royal park. There were plants in all the windows. ‘I think it odd,’ said the driver, ‘that the Americans built that modern block — hygienic glass and all that.
