Had it not been too fiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the fanlight showed exultation in his face.
“I heard some rumour of it,” said he.
The cab had driven up, and I left him.
Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in the vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. The particular one at which my cabman pulled up had an air of smug and demure respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massive folding-door, and its shining brasswork. All was in keeping with a solemn butler who appeared framed in the pink radiance of a tinted electric light behind him.
“Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson! Very good, sir, I will take up your card.”
My humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr. Culverton Smith. Through the half-open door I heard a high, petulant, penetrating voice.
“Who is this person? What does he want? Dear me, Staples, how often have I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study?”
There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation from the butler.
“Well, I won’t see him, Staples. I can’t have my work interrupted like this. I am not at home. Say so. Tell him to come in the morning if he really must see ime.”
