"Not yet, Morrice! There's my house in Monmouth Square."
"Your house?" I repeated.
"There's the manor of Silverdale."
"You have not lost that?" I cried.
"Every brick of it," says he.
"Then," says I in a quick passion, "you must win them back as best you may. I'll bide no longer."
"Nay, lad!" he entreated, laying hold of my sleeve. "You cannot mean that. See, when you came in, I had but these poor buckles left. They were all my fortune. Stay but for a little. For if you go you take all my luck with you. 'Am deadly sure of it."
"I have stayed too long as it is" I replied, and wrenched myself free from his grasp.
"Well, take what money you need! But you are no more than a stone," he whimpered.
"The philosopher's stone, then," said I, and I caught up a couple of handsfull of gold and turned on my heel. But with a sudden cry I stopped. For as I turned, I glanced across the table to his opponent, and I saw his face change all in a moment to a strangely grey and livid colour. And to make the sight yet more ghastly, he still sat bolt upright in his chair, without a gesture, without a motion, a figure of marble, save that his eyes still burned steadily beneath his brows.