The Flying Legion - George Allan England - Bog

The room was strange as the man, himself, who dwelt there. It seemed, in a way, the outward expression of his inner personality. He had ordered it built from his own plans, to please a whim of his restless mind, on top of the gigantic skyscraper that formed part of his properties. Windows boldly fronted all four cardinal compass-points-huge, plate-glass windows that gave a view unequaled in its sweep and power. The room seemed an eagle's nest perched on the summit of a man-made crag. The Arabic name that he had given it-Niss'rosh-meant just that. Singular place indeed, well-harmonized with its master. Through the westward windows, umbers and pearls of dying day, smudged across a smoky sky, now shadowed trophy-covered walls. This light, subdued and somber though it was, slowly fading, verging toward a night of May, disclosed unusual furnishings.