scrutiny seemed to satisfy him; he spoke courteously enough:

"Step into my office, gentlemen, and we will talk the matter over."

Mr. Colman Hoyt had departed without further formality, and we
followed our host into the room adjoining the hall on the right. It
looked like the study of a man of science; charts and globes and
plaster-of-Paris casts were everywhere, while the far end of the
apartment was occupied by a huge, flat-topped table covered with
papers, test-tubes, and glass-slides. But even more remarkable than
its contents was the room itself, and its singular architectural
proportions at once engaged my attention.

As I have said, the house occupied two twenty-five-foot city lots,
but the entrance and hall were at the extreme right as one looks
outward towards the street, instead of being in the centre, as is
usually the case. Consequently, the room in which we stood (being
undivided by any interior partitions) extended the full width of
the house, less that of the entrance hall--forty feet, let us say,
in round numbers. But its measurements in the other direction were
barely ten feet, the apartment presenting the appearance of a long,
low, and narrow gallery. At the back were a row of five windows
taking light from the interior court-yard; in brief, the house,
imposing in its dimensions from the street side, was little more
than a mask of masonry extremely ill-adapted for human habitation,
or, indeed, for any purpose. Stepping to one of the rear windows, I
looked out, and then the reason for this extraordinary
construction--or, rather, reconstruction--became apparent. The lot
was of the usual depth of one hundred feet, and, being a double
one, it had a width of fifty. A large building of gray stone