George Allan England

The Flying Legion George Allan England

The room was strange as the man, himself, who dwelt there. It seemed, in a way, the outward expression of his inner personality. He had ordered it built from his own plans, to please a whim of his restless mind, on top of the gigantic skyscraper that formed part of his properties. The room was strange as the man, himself, who dwelt there. It seemed, in a way, the outward expression of his inner personality. He had ordered it built from his own plans, to please a whim of his restless mind, on top of the gigantic skyscraper that formed part of his properties. Windows boldly fronted all four cardinal compass-points-huge, plate-glass windows that gave a view unequaled in its sweep and power. The room seemed an eagle's nest perched on the summit of a man-made crag. The Arabic name that he had given it-Niss'rosh-meant just that. Singular place indeed, well-harmonized with its master.