“Are you Mr. Melrose?” he asked, amazed at the clearness of his own voice.

A gray-haired man moved his chair nearer.

“That’s all right.  You’ll soon be well now.  Do you feel much better?”

“I—­I feel nearly well.  How long have I been here?”

“About three weeks.”

“I say—­that’s a nuisance!  I’m very sorry to put you to inconvenience.”

“Wasn’t your fault.  It was the doctor who brought you here.”  The tone of the words was round and masterful.  “Are you comfortable?  Have you all you want?”

“Everything.  The nurses are A1.  I say—­has some one written to my uncle?”

“Undershaw wrote to a Mr. George Faversham last week.  He was ill with rheumatic gout, couldn’t come.  Is that the uncle you mean?”

The young man nodded.

“He’s the only relation I’ve got.  The other one died.  Hullo!”

He made a sudden movement.  His hand slipped into his breast and found nothing.  He raised himself in bed, with a frowning brow.

“I say!”—­he looked urgently at Melrose.  “Where are my gems?—­and my ring?”

“Don’t trouble yourself.  They were brought to me.  I have them locked up.”

Faversham’s expression relaxed.  He let himself slide down upon his pillows.

“By George!—­if I’d lost them.”

Melrose studied him closely.

“They’re all right.  What do you know about gems?”

“Only what Uncle Mackworth taught me.  We were great pals.  He was my guardian.  I lived with him in the holidays after my parents died.  I knew all his gems.  And now he’s left them to me.”

“Where are the rest?”

“I left the cabinet in charge of a man I know at the British Museum.  He promised to lock it up in one of their strong rooms.  But those six I always carry with me.”

Melrose laughed.

“But those are just the six that should have been locked up.  They are worth all the rest.”

The young man slowly turned his head.

“Did you know my Uncle Mackworth?”

“Certainly.  And I too knew all his gems.  I could tell you the histories of those six, anyway, for generations.  If it hadn’t been for a fool of an agent of mine, your uncle would never have had the Arconati Bacchus.”

Faversham was silent—­evidently trying to feel his way through some induction of thought.  But he gave it up as too much for him, and merely said—­nervously—­with the sudden flush of weakness: 

“I’m afraid you’ve been put to great expense, sir.  But it’s all right.  As soon as they’ll let me sign a check, I’ll pay my debts.”

“Good gracious, don’t trouble your head about that!” said Melrose rising.  “This house is at your disposal.  Undershaw I daresay will tell you tales of me.  Take ’em with a grain of salt.  He’ll tell you I’m mad, and I daresay I am.  I’m a hermit anyway, and I like my own society.  But you’re welcome here, as long as you’ve any reason to stay.  I should like you to know that I do not regard Mackworth’s nephew as a stranger.”