a gentleman in
blue, both pastels by Latour--in some such way one might have catalogued
the contents of the room. But no catalogue could have rendered its effect
on Undershaw, who was not without artistic leanings of a mild kind
himself--an effect as of an old debt paid, an injustice remedied, a
beautiful creation long abused and desecrated, restored to itself. The
room was at last what it had been meant to be; and after a hundred and
fifty years the thought of its dead architect had found fruition.

But this was not all. The garden door stood open, and outside, as he
walked up to it, Undershaw saw a stretch of smooth grass, with groups of
trees--the survivors of a ragged army--encircling it; a blaze of flowers;
and beyond the low parapet wall of lichened stone, from which also a
dense thicket of yew and laurel had been removed, the winding course of
the river, seventy feet below the Tower, showed blue under a clear sky. A
deck chair stood on the grass and a garden table beside it, holding an
ash-tray and cigarettes.

Undershaw, after a pause of wonder, warmly expressed his admiration.
Melrose received it ungraciously.

"Why, the things were all in the house. Clumsy brutes!--Barclay's men
would have broken the half of them, if I hadn't been here," he said,
morosely. "Now will you tell Mr. Faversham this room is at his disposal,
or shall I?"

* * * * *

Half an hour later Faversham, assisted by his nurse, had limped along the
corridor, and was sitting beside the glass door in an utter yet not
unpleasant bewilderment. What on earth had made the strange old fellow
take such an odd fancy to him? He had had singularly little "spoiling" in
his orphaned life so far, except occasionally from "Uncle Mackworth." The
experience was disturbing, yet certainly not disagreeable.

He must of course stay on for a while, now that such extraordinary pains
had been taken for his comfort. It would be nothing less than sheer
ingratitude were he not to do so. At the same time, his temperament was
cautious; he was no green youngster; and he could not but ask himself,
given Melrose's character and reputation, what ulterior motive there
might be behind a generosity so eccentric.

Meanwhile Melrose, in high spirits, and full of complaisance, now that
the hated Undershaw had departed, walked up and down as usual, talking
and smoking. It was evident that the whole process of unpacking his
treasures had put hi