gaze on
Gadgem.

"I did, sir," came the answer in a meek voice, as if he had been
detected in filching an apple from a stand; "and I would do it again--do
it over and over again. And it has been a great pleasure for me to do
it. I might say, sir, that it has been a kind of exTREME bliss to do
it."

"Why?" There was a tremor now in Temple's voice that even Todd had never
noticed before.

Gadgem turned his head away. "I don't know, sir," he replied in a lower
tone. "I couldn't explain it on oath; I don't care to explain it, sir."
No lie could serve him now--better make a clean breast of the villany.

"And you still own the gun?" Todd had never seen his master so gentle
before--not under a provocation such as this.

"I do, sir." Gadgem's voice was barely audible.

"Then it means that you have locked up just that much of your own money
for a thing you can never use yourself and can't sell. Am I right?"

Gadgem lowered his head and for a moment studied the carpet. His
activities, now that the cat was out of the bag, were fair subjects for
discussion, but not his charities.

"I prefer not to answer, sir, and--" the last words died in his throat.

"But it's true, isn't it?" persisted St. George. He had never once taken
his eyes from Gadgem.

"Yes, it's true."

St. George turned on his heel, walked to the mantel, stood for an
instant gazing into the empty fireplace, and then, with that same
straightening of his shoulders and lift of his head which his friends
knew so well when he was deeply stirred, confronted the collector again:

"Gadgem!" He stopped and caught his breath. For a moment it seemed as
if something in his throat choked his utterance. "Gadgem--give me your
hand! Do you know you are a gentleman and a thoroughbred! No--don't
speak--don't explain. We understand each other. Todd, bring three
glasses and hand me what is left of the old Port. And do you join us,
Pawson."

Todd, whose eyes had been popping from his head during the entire
interview, and who was still amazed at the outcome, suddenly woke to
the dangers of the situation: on no account must his master's straits be
further revealed. He raised his hand as a signal to St. George, who
was still looking into Gadgem's eyes, screwed his face into a tangle
of puckers and in a husky whisper muttered, so low that only his master
could hear:

"Dat Port, Marse George"--one eye now went entirely out in a wink--"is
gittin' a leetle mite low" (there hadn