Several motor-cars for hire lined the curb. Lewis stepped up to one of the drivers.
"How did they come to build that?" he asked in Portuguese, with a nod toward the station.
The driver shrugged his shoulders.
"Too much money," he said. "The charter limits them to twenty-five per cent, profits. They had such a surplus, they told the architect he could go as high as he liked. He went pretty high." The driver winked at his own joke, but did not smile.
"I want you by the hour," said Lewis. "Do you know Mrs. Leighton's house—Street of the Consolation?"
The driver shook his head.
"There's no such house," he said.
"Well, you know the Street of the Consolation? Drive there. Drive slowly."
On the way Lewis stared, unbelieving, at the things he saw. Gone were the low, thick-walled buildings that memory had prepared him for; gone the funny little street-cars drawn by galloping, jack-rabbit mules. In their stead were high, imposing fronts, with shallow doorways and heavy American electric trams.
The car shot out upon a mighty viaduct. Lewis leaned out and looked down. Here was something that he could remember—the valley that split the city in two, and up and down the sides of which he had often toiled as a boy. Suddenly they were across, and a monster building blotted all else from his sight. He looked up at the massive pile. "What is it?" he asked.