The Haunting of Low Fennel by Sax Rohmer

We pulled up short on the brow of the hill. Before me lay a little valley carpeted with heather, purple slopes hemming it in. A group of four tall firs guarded the house, which was couched in the hollow of the dip—a low, rambling building, in parts showing evidence of great age and in other parts of the modern improver.

“That’s the new wing,” continued the Major, raising his stick; “projecting out this way. It’s the only addition I’ve made to the house, which, as it stood, had insufficient accommodation for the servants.”

“It is a quaint old place.”

“It is, and I’m loath to part with it, especially as it means a big loss.”

“Ah! Have you formed any theories since wiring me?”