Mr Bayre rubbed his chin thoughtfully, looking at his nephew out of the corners of his eyes, and then beckoned to him to follow across the room in the direction of a door at the further end, above which there was an elaborate device in white and gold.
Young Bayre followed slowly, reflecting that he did not know by what door he should be finally ejected from the building, and that this might be his last chance of seeing the treasures through which he was passing. His guide, perceiving that he lingered, stopped near the door to say, impatiently and almost contemptuously,—
“Oh, you’ll have plenty of time to see those things, and all the rest besides. Now you’re here you won’t be satisfied, I suppose, until you have been afforded an opportunity of counting up on your fingers the value of every farthing’s worth.”
Bayre said nothing, but again he was surprised. Had the old man been always like this, or was the late crisis in his life answerable for a most singular metamorphosis? Had he made his collection with some ulterior purpose, either of disposing of it at a high price or bequeathing it to the nation with posthumous ostentation?
This latter idea seemed a probable one, he thought, for throughout the old man’s whole demeanour, in every word he uttered and in every look he threw at his nephew, there seemed to run the same idea of rejoicing at what he conceived to be the young man’s disappointed greed.
They passed almost side by side out of the long room into a narrow passage, at the end of which was a steep and inconvenient staircase, which had evidently been an afterthought in the construction of the house.
The old man went up first, dangling the lantern and humming to himself as he went, and making so much noise that it flashed through the mind of the younger man that this might be a warning to someone near at hand to get out of the way.
At the top of the stairs, on a landing as narrow and stuffy as the staircase, Mr Bayre turned round again and said loudly,—
“This is the room, this”—and he thumped at the door on his left as he spoke—“where you say I have a woman concealed. Well, go in and see for yourself.”
Changing his lantern into his left hand, and fumbling for a few suggestive moments, he at last fitted into the lock a key which he took from the pocket of his dressing-gown, and turning it with great deliberation, he threw open the door and ushered his companion into a room so oppressively close that Bayre thought the windows could not have been opened for many days.