“Come upstairs. First corridor. My rooms,” and he signed to a footman to open the door.
Mr. Mowle peered into the luxurious bedchamber and dressing-room, and his gaunt eyes took note of the silver toilet set and Brussels lace draperies.
“Fit for a prince!” he croaked.
“Guest chambers No. 1 and Nos. 2 and 3. There are fourteen of them, all like this,” said Mr. Bradstone.
“Delightful! quite delightful!” murmured Mowle. “Fourteen, Mr. Bradstone?”
“Fourteen,” assented the owner. “Reading-room and ladies’ boudoir, gray and yellow satin. Piano, Collard & Collard grand. Pictures by Long and Leighton.”
“Splendid! Fit for a queen, Mr. Bartley!” exclaimed Mowle, staring about him.
“Statuary gallery,” said. Mr. Bradstone. “‘Sleeping Nymph,’ two thousand pounds. ‘Hercules,’ by Boehm, a thousand pounds. Group, by Gleichen. Down there is the palm-garden—fountain of scented water. My own room.” He passed into a small room, luxuriously furnished, with cabinet pictures on the walls, and a large iron safe in the corner. “Books, guns, and all that kind of thing,” he said, waving his hand. “Safe by Milner.” He looked round, and, seeing the footman was out of hearing, added, with a smile, “That’s where your little check is, Mowle.”
Mr. Mowle’s face went livid, and he passed his hands over each other as if to warm them. “Don’t, Mr. Bartley, don’t!” he murmured, hoarsely.
Bartley Bradstone laughed.