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.

“My recklessness!” I shouted, fairly hoarse with anger.  I paid no heed to Mr. Swain’s warning.  “You d—­d scoundrel!” I cried, “it was you killed him, and you know it.  When you had put me out of the way and he was in your power, you tortured him to death.  You forced him to die alone with your sneering face, while your shrew of a wife counted cards downstairs.  Grafton Carvel, God knows you better than I, who know you two well.  And He will punish you as sure as the crack of doom.”

He heard me through, giving back as I came forward, his face blanching only a little, and wearing all the time that yellow smile which so fitted it.

“You have finished?” says he.

“Ay, I have finished.  And now you may order me from this ground you have robbed me of.  But there are some things in that house you shall not steal, for they are mine despite you.”

“Name them, Richard,” he said, very sorrowful.

“The articles in my mother’s room, which were hers.”

“You shall have them this day,” he answered.

It was his way never to lose his temper, tho’ he were called by the vilest name in the language.  He must always assume this pious grief which made me long to throttle him.  He had the best of me, even now, as he took the great key from his pocket.

“Will you look at them before you go?” he asked.

At first I was for refusing.  Then I nodded.  He led the way silently around by the front; and after he had turned the lock he stepped aside with a bow to let me pass in ahead of him.  Once more I was in the familiar hall with the stairs dividing at the back.  It was cool after the heat, and musty, and a touch of death hung in the prisoned air.  We paused for a moment on the landing, beside the high, triple-arched window which the branches tapped on windy winter days, while Grafton took down the bunch of keys from beside the clock.  I thought of my dear grandfather winding it every Sunday, and his ruddy face and large figure as he stood glancing sidewise down at me.  Then the sound of Grafton’s feet upon the bare steps recalled the present.