As he looked the light grew a little better, and he found old Mr Bayre standing by his side, holding the lantern aloft. The young man was for the moment under the impression that his uncle, softened a little by the interest the treasures excited in his visitor, was courteously enabling him to see them more distinctly.
He turned, pointing with one hand to one of those fantastic jewels which mediæval art loved to devise out of huge mis-shapen pearls, when, coming thus suddenly face to face with the owner of the treasures, he was surprised to find that the light was held, not for him to inspect the jewels, but for their owner to inspect him.
And again young Bayre asked himself whether this lined, haggard, crafty old countenance, with its furrows and the lurking malignity in its half-closed eyes, was that of a sane man or of one who was the victim of mania.
Old Mr Bayre seemed to understand that he had in some measure betrayed himself by the expression of his own countenance, for he tried to laugh away the look of sudden consternation which he saw on his nephew’s face. Showing the gaps between his yellow teeth in a mirthless opening of the mouth which was meant for a genial laugh, he said, in a more conciliatory tone than he had yet used,—
“Some nice things there, eh? Good things, uncommon things? Do you know much about objects of that sort?”
“Not perhaps more than the average Londoner is bound to know through the museums and collections he’s visited,” said the young man, “but enough to know that you have something to be proud of here.”
The old man laughed again, cunningly, as if with some secret enjoyment.
“Worth some thousands of pounds, pictures and furniture and what you see,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of the rest of the cabinets.
“Yes,” said young Bayre, shortly.
He was surprised and disappointed to hear in the old man’s tone something more like the pride of a tradesman at the market value of the goods around him than the tender enthusiasm of the real connoisseur.