Finally, we cleared the trees, and I could see the entire building. It was symmetrical, three stories high in the center and two on each wing. It was made of a reddish stone, perhaps sandstone, with a slate roof and numerous light pink chimney pots. In front, there was a large greensward, with boxwood hedge cut into fanciful geometric patterns. The driveway curved around the central lawn in a large circle, broad enough for three coaches to pass. The windows were large and numerous, set off with slate-gray shutters. To judge from the number of windows, the center portion was three rooms wide, and the wings the same (though a bit smaller). A gilded weathervane in the shape of a hunter aiming his gun decorated the central portion of the main roof. And, despite its rural location, a line of wooden poles carried electrical service to the house. I had seen plenty of fine homes in America, but nothing quite so impressive as this. And I could not help but think—if this was where a baronet lived, what must a duke’s palace be like?
The driver took us around the driveway in a clockwise direction, and came to a stop near the large front door. This was in proportion to the rest of the building—in other words, of a size I associated more with public buildings than with private homes, with heavy brass hardware and a knocker shaped like a bearded Turk’s head. Osmond touched a button and the sound of the engine died. The sudden silence was as startling as the noise had been when first I heard it. Two large dogs—pointers, I thought—had come loping around from the side of the building to meet us, and stood waiting eagerly for Sir Denis to descend from the car.
“So, Clemens, how do you like her?” cried Sir Denis, turning around to face us. “Isn’t this a smashing way to ride about?”
“I guess so!” said my employer, with an enthusiasm I did not entirely share. “I’d buy one of these babies in a minute if I was in my home in Hartford. Where’d you get this thing, anyhow?”
Sir Denis patted the engine housing and said, “The mechanical part’s German-made, by a fellow named Daimler. He’s supposed to be a wizard—I read about him in the Times, and ordered up a motor and all that. It came in five different crates, and Osmond had to put it together from odd little pieces. But I wanted good British workmanship for the body—there’s a carriage maker down in Ashford who does wonders with wood and metal, and I gave him some drawings out of a magazine. It took a couple of tries before he and Osmond got everything fit together just so, but it was worth it. In ten years, everybody will have one of these, I’ll wager, but I’ve got mine now.”
Mr. Clemens laughed. “I know how that feels,” he said. “I was one of the first men in America to have a telephone in my house, back in ’seventy-four. The damned thing was more a nuisance than any practical good—there wasn’t much of anybody I could call, at first—but I had it before anybody else, and that sure felt good.”
“Well, I don’t hold with telephones,” said Sir Denis firmly. “I don’t want to make things too easy for just any rascal who takes the notion to try to sell me something, or badger me some other way. If someone’s going to waste my time, I want him right here where I can give him a good kick in the arse when I get tired of his jabber. But we needn’t stand here in the open—come on in, and we’ll have a nip of something to take off the chill.”
He turned and led the way toward the doors. They opened into a wide oak-paneled hallway, where a butler took our coats. The hall was lined with portraits of ladies and gentlemen in the dress of periods dating back as far as Restoration times. In between the portraits were cases with antique firearms of various sorts, many very ornate, others distinctly unpretentious and workmanlike. A stairway at the end led up to a paneled second floor, but Sir Denis took us into a door to the left, and we found ourselves in a very comfortably appointed sitting room, with a large bookshelf at one end.
Under the window sat a tray with glasses, a liquor bottle, and a siphon. Sir Denis gestured and said, “I thought whisky would be the thing on a cold afternoon like today, but I’ve sherry if you’d rather. Or I can have Cook make something warm.”
“Whisky’s fine,” said Mr. Clemens, and (not wanting to make special trouble) I followed suit. Sir Denis poured, we saluted one another and took a sip, and then Mr. Clemens continued. “We don’t want to be like those fellows who make you want to kick ’em, so I’ll come right to the point. People tell me you know as much about guns as any man in England.”
“Oh, hardly,” said Sir Denis, but I could see that he was flattered. “I’m just an amateur, you know—I’ve put a bit of a collection together over the years, starting with some things my father left me, and his father before that. I’m rather proud to say that every single piece I own is in working condition—I’ve test-fired them all myself. But I won’t pretend to know half what some other chaps do, especially on the military side. Still, if there’s something I’ve found out that might be of use, it’d be my pleasure to share it with you. What’s the question?”
“You ought to be able to figure that out,” said Mr. Clemens. “In fact, I reckon you can give me a lot better answer than
