The atmosphere of the conservatory was close and the smell was earthy.

He judged from the hot-water pipes which his groping hands felt that it was a tiny winter garden erected by the owner of the house for her enjoyment in the dark, cold days.

French windows admitted to the inner room, and, peering through the casement curtains which covered them, Tarling saw Mrs.
Rider.

She was sitting at a desk, a pen in her hand, her chin on her finger-tips.

She was not writing, but staring blankly at the wall, as though she were at a loss for what to say.
The light came from a big alabaster bowl hanging a foot below the ceiling level, and it gave the detective an opportunity of making a swift examination.