He stood watching her as she left, and then, grinding his teeth with rage, his face flushing and his temples beating hard, he strode across to the door, locked it securely, and drew a curtain across.
“The scoundrel! He has poisoned her mind. But I’d sooner kill him—I’d sooner—Oh, it’s maddening,” he cried, as he went to a drawer, fumbled with the key on a bunch he drew from his pocket, and had some difficulty in opening it, for his hand trembled with suppressed passion.
Then he drew open the receptacle, and from the back took out a ring with three curiously formed keys. These clinked together with the involuntary movements of his hands as he crossed to a bookcase, took out a couple of books, opened a little door behind them, and thrust another key in at the side. There was a sharp click, and he started back, withdrawing the key, and stood and gave his head a shake as if to clear it.
“How I do hate to be put out like this,” he muttered, as he laid his hand in a particular way upon the end of the bookcase, which slowly revolved on a pivot, and laid bare a large iron door.
“I don’t feel at all myself,” he continued, as he used the third and largest key, which opened the great door of his safe, and exposed a massive-looking closet built in the wall with blocks of granite, at the back of which were half-a-dozen iron shelves.
“Hah!” he exclaimed, as he stood in the opening, reaching forward and taking down a small square box, which was heavy. “He’d like to have the pleasure of spending you, no doubt, but I can checkmate him. Now,” he continued, “let’s finish counting.”
He carried the box to the table, set it down, and then took out, one by one, five canvas bags, one of which he untied, and poured out a little heap of sovereigns. This done, he went back to the safe and took a small, thick ledger from another shelf, walked back to the table, opened the book, and made an entry of the date therein, then, leaving the pen in the opening, seated himself once again to count the coins into little piles of twenty-five.
“No,” he murmured; “I haven’t worked all these years to have my money swallowed up by a fortune-hunter. No, Master Chris Lisle.”
He started from his seat, overturning a pile of sovereigns, for at that moment, sweet and clear, came the song of a robin seated upon a tamarisk just outside the window.
“Good heavens! I must be mad,” he cried. “Who opened that window? Yes; Claude, I remember,” he muttered; and he was in the act of crossing to close it when he stopped short, threw out his hands, and fell with a heavy thud upon the thick Turkey carpet, to lie there with his face distorted, struggling violently, and striking his hands against a chair.