The next morning, as I sat reflecting, an overwhelming desire seized me to go to Marlboro’ Street.  Hitherto I could not have borne the sight of the old place.  I gulped down my emotion as the gate creaked behind me, and made my way slowly to the white seat under the big chestnut behind the house, where my grandfather had been wont to sit reading his prints, in the warm weather.  The flowers and the hedges had grown to a certain wildness; and the smell of the American roses carried me back-as odours will-to long-forgotten and trivial scenes.  Here I had been caned many a day for Mr. Daaken’s reports, and for earlier offences.  And I recalled my mother as she once ran out at the sound of my cries to beg me off.  So vivid was that picture that I could hear Mr. Carvel say:  “He is yours, madam, not mine.  Take him!”

I started up.  The house was still, the sun blistering the green paint of the shutters.  My eye was caught by those on the room that had been hers, and which, by my grandfather’s decree, had lain closed since she left it.  The image of it grew in my mind:  the mahogany bed with its poppy counterpane and creamy curtains, and the steps at the side by which she was wont to enter it; and the ‘prie-dieu’, whence her soul had been lifted up to God.  And the dresser with her china and silver upon it, covered by years of dust.  For I had once stolen the key from Willis’s bunch, crept in, and crept out again, awed.  That chamber would be profaned, now, and those dear ornaments, which were mine, violated.  The imagination choked me.

I would have them.  I must.  Nothing easier than to pry open a door or window in the north wing, by the ball-room.  When I saw Grafton I would tell him.  Nay, I would write him that day.  I was even casting about me for an implement, when I heard a step on the gravel beside me.

I swung around, and came face to face with my uncle.

He must have perceived me.  And after the first shock of my surprise had passed, I remarked a bearing on him that I had not seen before.  He was master of the situation at last,—­so it read.  The realization gave him an easier speech than ever.

“I thought I might find you here, Richard,” he said, “since you were not at the Coffee House.”

He did not offer me his hand.  I could only stare at him, for I had expected anything but this.

“I came from Carvel Hall to get you,” he proceeded smoothly enough.  “I heard but yesterday of your return, and some of your miraculous adventures.  Your recklessness has caused us many a trying day, Richard, and I believe killed your grandfather.  You have paid dearly, and have made us pay dearly, for your mad frolic of fighting cut-throats on the highroad.”

The wonder was that I did not kill him on the spot.  I cannot think what possessed the man,—­he must have known me better.