“There is the house,” she pointed. “Ugh! It makes me shiver.”
Griff Towers was one of those bleak looking buildings that it had been the delight of the early Victorian architects to erect. Its one grey tower, placed on the left wing, gave it a lopsided appearance, but even this distortion did not distract attention from its rectangular unloveliness. The place seemed all the more bare, since the walls were innocent of greenery, and it stood starkly in the midst of a yellow expanse of gravel.
“Looks almost like a barracks,” said Michael, “with a parade ground in front!”
They passed through the lodge gates, and the char-à-banc stopped half-way up the drive. The gardens apparently were in the rear of the building, and certainly there was nothing that would attract the most careless of directors in its uninteresting façade.
Michael got down from his seat and found Jack Knebworth already superintending the unloading of a camera and reflectors. Behind the char-à-banc came the big dynamo lorry, with three sun arcs that were to enhance the value of daylight.
“Oh, you’re here, are you?” growled Jack. “Now you’ll oblige me, Mr. Brixan, by not getting in the way? I’ve got a hard morning’s work ahead of me.”
“I want you to take me on as a—what is the word?—extra,” said Michael.
The old man frowned at him.
“Say, what’s the great idea?” he asked suspiciously.
“I have an excellent reason, and I promise you that nothing I do will in any way embarrass you. The truth is, Mr. Knebworth, I want to be around for the remainder of the day, and I need an excuse.”