“I can tell you very little, Mr Capel. I have been your great uncle’s confidential solicitor ever since he returned from India. I was a mere boy when he went away. He knew me then, and when he came back he sought me out.”
“And that is twenty-five years ago, Mr Girtle?”
“Yes. The year you were born.”
“And he made you his confidant?”
“Yes; he gave me his confidence, as far as I think he gave it to any man.”
“And did he always live in this way?”
“Always. He filled up the house with the vast collection of curiosities and things that he had been sending home for years, and I expected that he would entertain, and lead the life of an English gentleman; but no, the house has been closed for twenty-five years.”
Mr Girtle, a clean-shaven old gentleman, with yellow face, dark, restless eyes and bright grey hair, took a pinch of snuff from a handsome gold box, flicked a few grains from his white shirt-front, and said “Hah.”
“Had my uncle met with any great disappointment?” said the first speaker, a frank-looking man with closely curling brown hair, and a high, white forehead.
“What, to make him take to this strange life? Oh, no. He was peculiar, but not unhappy. He liked to be alone, but he was always bright and cheerful at his club.”