From his rooms, they say, you can tell much about a man. But, alas!
these peaceful rooms in Adelphi Terrace--I shall not tell the
number--were sublet furnished. So if you could see me now you
would be judging me by the possessions left behind by one Anthony
Bartholomew. There is much dust on them. Judge neither Anthony
nor me by that. Judge rather Walters, the caretaker, who lives
in the basement with his gray-haired wife. Walters was a gardener
once, and his whole life is wrapped up in the courtyard on which
my balcony looks down. There he spends his time, while up above
the dust gathers in the corners--

Does this picture distress you, my lady? You should see the
courtyard! You would not blame Walters then. It is a sample of
Paradise left at our door--that courtyard. As English as a hedge,
as neat, as beautiful. London is a roar somewhere beyond; between
our court and the great city is a magic gate, forever closed. It
was the court that led me to take these rooms.

And, since you are one who loves mystery, I am going to relate to
you the odd chain of circumstances that brought me here.

For the first link in that chain we must go back to Interlaken.
Have you been there yet? A quiet little town, lying beautiful
between two shimmering lakes, with the great Jungfrau itself for
scenery. From the dining-room of one lucky hotel you may look up
at dinner and watch the old-rose afterglow light the snow-capped
mountain. You would not say then of strawberries: "I hate them."
Or of anything else in all the world.