He glanced up as he passed No. 14, a tall, square, stuccoed mansion that stood up above the heads of the other low, rambling, creeper-grown buildings with their pleasant reminiscences of the time when St. John’s Wood was a quiet suburb, before the canker of flat-building had begun to invade its green dreamy roads and gardens. The tranquil blue sky looked as if it could never have been obscured by an evil yellow fog, just as the gay and brisk demeanour of the few people John passed on the pavement seemed blandly to disclaim all knowledge of the existence of such a thing as murder. Yet less than twenty-four hours before this road had been like one of the dark labyrinths of Hades, and less than fifty yards away a man had died with a knife in his back. He turned into Madox Court and found it bathed in sunshine, with a holly-tree covered with scarlet berries that told of the approach of Christmas and the season of goodwill. Admiring its festive effect over his shoulder as he entered the building he knocked heavily up against a man emerging from the front door.
