He stood leaning on the back of a chair, looking down on Melrose. Some bondage had broken in his soul! A tide of some beneficent force seemed to be flooding its dry wastes.
Melrose paused. In the silence each measured the other. Then Melrose said in a voice which had grown husky:
"So—the first return you are asked to make, for all that has been lavished upon you, you meet with—this refusal. That throws a new light upon your character. I never proposed to leave my fortune to an adventurer! I proposed to leave it to a gentleman, capable of understanding an obligation. We have mistaken each other—and our arrangement—drops. Unless you consent to the very small request—the very advantageous proposal rather—which I have just made you—you will leave this room—as penniless—except for any savings you may have made out of your preposterous salary—as penniless—as you came into it!"
Faversham raised himself. He drew a long breath, as of a man delivered.
"Do what you like, Mr. Melrose. There was a time when it seemed as if our cooperation might have been of service to both. But some devil in you—and a greedy mind in me—the temptation of your money—oh, I confess it, frankly—have ruined our partnership—and indeed—much else! I resume my freedom—I leave your house to-morrow. And now, please—return me my gems!"
He peremptorily held out his hand. Melrose glared upon him. Then slowly the old man reopened the little drawer at his elbow, took thence the shagreen case, and pushed it toward Faversham.
Faversham replaced it in his breast pocket.
"Thank you. Now, Mr. Melrose, I should advise you to go to bed. Your health is not strong enough to stand these disputes. Shall I call Dixon? As soon as possible my accounts shall be in your hands."
"Leave the room, sir!" cried Melrose, choking with rage, and motioning toward the door.
On the threshold Faversham turned, and gave one last look at the dark figure of Melrose, and the medley of objects surrounding it; at Madame Elisabeth's Sèvres vases, on the upper shelf of the Riesener table; at the Louis Seize clock, on the panelled wall, which was at that moment striking eight.