lined with crimson velvet, and the wonderful shell shone purely white
against the glowing colour,--snow upon ice; for the body of the shell
was semi-transparent, the denser substance of the spiral whorls turning
them to heavy snow against the shining clearness beneath them. Has any
of my readers seen a Precious Wentletrap? Then he knows one of the most
beautiful things that God has made.

Apparently the Skipper had just opened the case, for Mr. Scraper was
sitting with his mouth wide open, staring at it with greedy, almost
frightened eyes. Truly, a perfect specimen of this shell was, in those
days, a thing seen only in kings' cabinets; yet no flaw appeared in
this, no blot upon its perfect beauty. The old miser sat and stared, and
only his hands, which clutched the table-cloth in a convulsive grasp,
and his greedy eyes, showed that he was not turned to stone. He had been
amazed enough by the other treasures, as the Skipper had taken them one
by one from the iron safe in the corner, whose door now hung idly open.
Where had been seen such Pheasants as these,--the fragile, the
exquisite, the rarely perfect? Even the Australian Pheasant, rarest of
all, lay here before him, with its marvellous pencillings of rose and
carmine and gray. Mr. Endymion's mouth had watered at the mere
description of the shell in the catalogue, but he had never thought to
see one, except the imperfect specimen in the museum at Havenborough.
Here, too, was the Orange Cowry; here the Bishop's Mitre, and the
precious Voluta Aulica; while yonder,--what was this man, that he should
have a Voluta Junonia, of which only a few specimens are possessed in
the known world? What did it all mean?

The Skipper sat beside the table, quiet and self-contained as usual. His
arm lay on the table, his hand was never far from the more precious
shells, and his eyes did not leave the old man's face; but he showed no
sign of uneasiness. Why should he, when he could have lifted Mr.
Endymion with his left hand and set him at any minute at the top of the
cabin stairs? Now and then he took up a shell with apparent carelessness
(though in reality he handled them with fingers as fine as a woman's,
knowing their every tenderest part, and where they might best be
approached without offence to their delicacy), looked it over, and made
some remark about its quality or value; but for the most part he was
silent, letting the shells speak for themselves and make their own
effect.