Glazzard set his lips hard, but fell back into the lounging attitude.

“The matter doesn’t end here,” went on his accuser, “be sure of that!  I shall light upon evidence sooner or later.  Do you know, sir, that Harry had a sister, and that she earns her own living by giving lessons?  You have robbed her—­think it over at your leisure.  Why, less than a fortnight after that day you and he spent together—­ the 1st of June—­the lad lay dying; yet you could deliberately plan to rob him.  Your denial is utterly vain; I would pledge my life on the charge!  I read guilt in your face when I entered—­you were afraid of me, Mr. Glazzard!  I understand now why you never came to see the lad on his death-bed, though he sent for you—­and of course I know why he was anxious to speak to you.  Oh, you have plenty of plausible excuses, but they are lies!  You felt pretty sure, I dare say, that the lad would not betray you; you knew his fine sense of honour; you calculated upon it.  All your conduct is of a piece!”

Glazzard rose.

“Mr. Charnock, please to leave me.—­I oughtn’t to have borrowed that money; but having paid it back, I can’t submit to any more of your abuse.  My patience has its limits.”

“I am no brawler,” replied the other, “and I can do no good by talking to you.  But if ever I come across any of your acquaintances, they shall know, very plainly, what opinion I have of you.  Prosecute me for slander, Mr. Glazzard, if you dare—­I desire nothing better!”

And Mr. Charnock went hurriedly from the room.

For several minutes Glazzard kept the same attitude, his eyes fixed on the floor, one hand behind his back, the other thrust into his waistcoat.  Then he uttered an inarticulate exclamation, and walked with hurried, jerky step across the room; his facial muscles quivered ceaselessly, distorting the features into all manner of grotesque and ugly expressions.  Again the harsh sound escaped him, and again he changed his place as though impelled by a sudden pain.  It was a long time before he took a seat; on doing so, he threw up his feet, and rested them against the side of the fireplace.  His hands were thrust into his trouser-pockets, and his head fell back, so that he stared at the ceiling.  At one moment he gave out a short mocking laugh, but no look of mirth followed the explosion.  Little by little he grew motionless, and sat with closed eyes.

From the walls about him looked down many a sweet and noble countenance, such as should have made the room a temple of serenity.  Nowhere was there a token of vulgar sensualism; the actress, the ballet-nymph had no place among these chosen gems of art.  On the dwarf book-cases were none but works of pure inspiration, the best of old and new, the kings of intellect and their gentlest courtiers.  Fifteen years had gone to the adorning of this sanctuary; of money, no great sum, for Glazzard had never commanded more than his younger-brother’s portion of a yearly five hundred