“A bad day!” said a harsh voice behind him, “but all the better for business.”

Faversham turned to greet his host, the mental and physical nerves tightening.

“Good morning.  Well, here I am”—­his laugh showed his nervousness—­“at your disposal.”

He settled himself in his chair.  Melrose took a cigarette from the table, and offered one to his guest.  He lit and smoked in silence for a few moments, then began to speak with deliberation: 

“I gather from our conversations, Faversham, during the last few weeks that you have at the present moment no immediate or pressing occupation?”

Quick colour leapt in Faversham’s lean cheek.

“That is true.  It happens to be true—­for various reasons.  But if you mean to imply by that, that I am necessarily—­or willingly—­an idler, you are mistaken.”

“I did not mean to imply anything of the kind.  I merely wished, so to speak, to clear the way for what I have to propose.”

Faversham nodded.  Melrose continued: 

“For clearly it would be an impertinence on my part were I to attempt—­suddenly—­to lift a man out of a fixed groove and career, and suggest to him another.  I should expect to be sent to the devil—­and serve me right.  But in your case—­correct me if I am wrong—­you seem not yet to have discovered the groove that suits you.  Now I am here to propose to you a groove—­and a career.”

Faversham looked at him with astonishment.  The gems, which had been so urgently present to his mind, receded from it.  Melrose in his skullcap, sitting sideways in his chair, his cigarette held aloft, presented a profile which might have been that of some Venetian Doge, old, withered and crafty, engaged, say, in negotiation with a Genoese envoy.

“When you were first brought here,” Melrose continued—­“your presence, as Undershaw has no doubt told you—­of course he has told you, small blame to him—­was extremely distasteful to me.  I am a recluse.  I like no women—­and d——­d few men.  I can do without them, that’s all; their intimate company, anyway:  and my pursuits bring me all the amusement I require.  Such at any rate was my frame of mind up to a few weeks ago.  I don’t apologize for it in the least.  Every man has a right to his own idiosyncrasies.  But I confess that your society during the last few weeks—­I am in no mood for mere compliment—­has had a considerable effect upon me.  It has revealed to me that I am no longer so young as I was, or so capable—­apparently—­of entertaining myself.  At any rate your company—­I put it quite frankly—­instead of being a nuisance—­has been a godsend.  It has turned out that we have many of the same tastes; and your inheritance of the treasures collected by my old friend Mackworth”—­("Ah!” thought Faversham, “now we come to it!")—­“has made from the first, I think, a link between us.  Have I your assent?”

“Certainly.”

Melrose paused a moment, and then resumed.  The impression he made was that of one rehearsing, point by point, a prepared speech.