e no hint.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, Melrose met Undershaw in the hall, as
he entered the house.

"How is he?"

"All right again, I think, and doing well. I hope we shall have no
further drawbacks."

"Be good enough to give me ten minutes--before you see Mr. Faversham?"

The invitation could not have been more _grand-seigneur_ish. Undershaw,
consumed with curiosity, accepted. Melrose led the way.

But no sooner had they passed a huge lacquer screen, newly placed in
position, and turned into the great corridor, than Undershaw exclaimed in
amazement. Melrose was striding along toward the south wing. Behind them,
screened off, lay regions no longer visible to any one coming from the
hall. In front, stretched a beautiful and stately gallery, terminating in
a pillared window, through which streamed a light to which both it and
the gallery had been strangers for nearly a score of years. A mass of
thick shrubbery outside, which had grown up close to the house, and had
been allowed for years to block this window, together with many others on
the ground floor, had been cut sheer away. The effect was startling, and
through the panes, freed from the dust and cobwebs of a generation, the
blue distant line of the Pennines could be distinctly seen far away to
the southeast. The floor of the gallery was spread with a fine matting of
a faint golden brown, on which at intervals lay a few old Persian or
Indian rugs. The white panelling of the walls was broken here and there
by a mirror, or a girandole, delicate work of the same date as the
Riesener table; while halfway down two Rose du Barri tapestries faced
each other, glowing in the June sun. It was all spacious--a little
empty--the whole conception singularly refined--the colour lovely.

Melrose stalked on, silently, pulling at his beard. He made no reply to
Undershaw's admiring comments; and the doctor wondered whether he was
already ashamed of the impulse which had made him do so strange a thing.

Presently, he threw open the door he had unlocked the week before,
Undershaw stepped into a room no less attractive than the gallery
outside. A carpet of old Persian, of a faded blue--a few cabinets spaced
along the walls--a few bookcases full of books old and new--a pillared
French clock on the mantelpiece--a comfortable modern sofa, and some
armchairs--branches of white rhododendron in a great enamelled vase--and
two oval portraits on the walls, a gentleman in red, and