He peremptorily held out his hand.  Melrose glared upon him.  Then slowly the old man reopened the little drawer at his elbow, took thence the shagreen case, and pushed it toward Faversham.

Faversham replaced it in his breast pocket.

“Thank you.  Now, Mr. Melrose, I should advise you to go to bed.  Your health is not strong enough to stand these disputes.  Shall I call Dixon?  As soon as possible my accounts shall be in your hands.”

“Leave the room, sir!” cried Melrose, choking with rage, and motioning toward the door.

On the threshold Faversham turned, and gave one last look at the dark figure of Melrose, and the medley of objects surrounding it; at Madame Elisabeth’s Sevres vases, on the upper shelf of the Riesener table; at the Louis Seize clock, on the panelled wall, which was at that moment striking eight.

As he closed the door behind him, he was aware of Dixon who had just entered the gallery from the servants’ quarters.  The old butler hurried toward him to ask if he should announce dinner.  “Not for me,” said Faversham; “you had better ask Mr. Melrose.  To-morrow, Dixon, I shall be leaving this house—­for good.”

Dixon stared, his face working: 

“I thowt—­I heard yo’—­” he said, and paused.

“You heard us disputing.  Mr. Melrose and I have had a quarrel.  Bring me something to my room, when you have looked after him.  I will come and speak to you later.”

Faversham walked down the gallery to his own door.  He had to pass on the way a splendid Nattier portrait of Marie Leczinska which had arrived only that morning from Paris, and was standing on the floor, leaning sideways against a chair, as Melrose had placed it himself, so as to get a good light on it.  The picture was large.  Faversham picked his way round it.  If his thoughts had not been so entirely preoccupied, he would probably have noticed a slight movement of something behind the portrait as he passed.  But exultation held him; he walked on air.

He returned to his own room, where the window was still wide open.  As he entered, he mechanically turned on the central light, not noticing that the reading lamp upon his table was not in its place.  But he saw that some papers which had been on his desk when he left the room were now on the floor.  He supposed the wind which was rising had dislodged them.  Stooping to lift them up, he was surprised to see a large mud-stain on the topmost sheet.  It looked like a footprint, as though some one had first knocked the papers off the table, and then trodden on them.  He turned on a fresh switch.  There was another mark on the floor just beyond the table—­and another—­nearer the door.  They were certainly footprints!  But who could have entered the room during his absence?  And where was the invader?  At the same time he perceived that his reading lamp had been overturned and was lying on the floor, broken.

Filled with a vague anxiety, he returned to the door he had just closed.  As he laid his hand upon it, a shot rang through the house—­a cry—­the sound of a fierce voice—­a fall.