He did not offer me his hand. I could only stare at him, for I had expected anything but this.
“I came from Carvel Hall to get you,” he proceeded smoothly enough. “I heard but yesterday of your return, and some of your miraculous adventures. Your recklessness has caused us many a trying day, Richard, and I believe killed your grandfather. You have paid dearly, and have made us pay dearly, for your mad frolic of fighting cut-throats on the highroad.”
The wonder was that I did not kill him on the spot. I cannot think what possessed the man,—he must have known me better.
“My recklessness!” I shouted, fairly hoarse with anger. I paid no heed to Mr. Swain's warning. “You d—d scoundrel!” I cried, “it was you killed him, and you know it. When you had put me out of the way and he was in your power, you tortured him to death. You forced him to die alone with your sneering face, while your shrew of a wife counted cards downstairs. Grafton Carvel, God knows you better than I, who know you two well. And He will punish you as sure as the crack of doom.”
He heard me through, giving back as I came forward, his face blanching only a little, and wearing all the time that yellow smile which so fitted it.
“You have finished?” says he.
“Ay, I have finished. And now you may order me from this ground you have robbed me of. But there are some things in that house you shall not steal, for they are mine despite you.”
“Name them, Richard,” he said, very sorrowful.
“The articles in my mother's room, which were hers.”
“You shall have them this day,” he answered.