The unfavourable symptoms soon subsided.  But as the fear of blood-poisoning had been in Undershaw’s mind from the beginning, they led him to postpone, in any case, the arrangements that had been set on foot for Faversham’s departure.  During three or four days afterward he saw little or nothing of Melrose.  But he and Nurse Aston were well aware that unusual things were going on in the house.  Owing to the great thickness of the walls, the distance of Faversham’s room from the scene of action, and the vigilance of his nurse, who would allow no traffic whatever through the front hall, the patient was protected from the noise of workmen in the house, and practically knew nothing of the operations going on.  Melrose appeared every evening as usual, and gave 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-seigneurish.  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.