“By the way, Robert,” said Raffles Haw suddenly, as they walked up the Avenue. “Has your great Roman picture gone to London?”
“I have not finished it yet.”
“But I know that you are a quick worker. You must be nearly at the end of it.”
“No, I am afraid that it has not advanced much since you saw it. For one thing, the light has not been very good.”
Raffles Haw said nothing, but a pained expression flashed over his face. When they reached the house he led the way through the museum. Two great metal cases were lying on the floor.
“I have a small addition there to the gem collection,” he remarked as he passed. “They only arrived last night, and I have not opened them yet, but I am given to understand from the letters and invoices that there are some fine specimens. We might arrange them this afternoon, if you care to assist me. Let us go into the smoking-room now.”
He threw himself down into a settee, and motioned Robert into the armchair in front of him.
“Light a cigar,” he said. “Press the spring if there is any refreshment which you would like. Now, my dear Robert, confess to me in the first place that you have often thought me mad.”
The charge was so direct and so true that the young artist hesitated, hardly knowing how to answer.
“My dear boy, I do not blame you. It was the most natural thing in the world. I should have looked upon anyone as a madman who had talked to me as I have talked to you. But for all that, Robert, you were wrong, and I have never yet in our conversations proposed any scheme which it was not well within my power to carry out. I tell you in all sober earnest that the amount of my income is limited only by my desire, and that all the bankers and financiers combined could not furnish the sums which I can put forward without an effort.”