The young man slowly turned his head.
"Did you know my Uncle Mackworth?"
"Certainly. And I too knew all his gems. I could tell you the histories of those six, anyway, for generations. If it hadn't been for a fool of an agent of mine, your uncle would never have had the Arconati Bacchus."
Faversham was silent—evidently trying to feel his way through some induction of thought. But he gave it up as too much for him, and merely said—nervously—with the sudden flush of weakness:
"I'm afraid you've been put to great expense, sir. But it's all right. As soon as they'll let me sign a check, I'll pay my debts."
"Good gracious, don't trouble your head about that!" said Melrose rising. "This house is at your disposal. Undershaw I daresay will tell you tales of me. Take 'em with a grain of salt. He'll tell you I'm mad, and I daresay I am. I'm a hermit anyway, and I like my own society. But you're welcome here, as long as you've any reason to stay. I should like you to know that I do not regard Mackworth's nephew as a stranger."
The studied amiability of these remarks struck Faversham as surprising, he hardly knew why. Suddenly, a phrase emerged in memory.
"Every one about here calls him the Ogre."
The girl by the river—was it? He could not remember. Why!—the Ogre was tame enough. But the conversation—the longest he had yet held—had exhausted him. He turned on his side, and shut his eyes.
* * * * *