James Morlake's flat in Bond Street was, perhaps, the most luxurious apartment in that very exclusive thoroughfare. The room in which he sat, with its high ceiling fantastically carved into scrolls and arabesques by the most cunning of Moorish workmen, was wide and long and singular. The walls were of marble, the floor an amazing mosaic covered with the silky rugs of Ispahan. Four hanging lamps, delicate fabrics of silver and silk, shed a subdued light.
With the exception of the desk, incongruously gaudy in the severe and beautiful setting, there was little furniture. A low divan under a curtained window, a small stool, laquered a vivid green, and another chair was all.
From The Black by Edgar Wallace