Melrose would bring them sometimes, when the young man specially asked
for them, would keep a jealous eye on them the whole time they were in
their owner's hands, and hurry them back to their drawer in the Riesener
table as soon as Faversham could be induced to give them up.
One night the invalid made a show of slipping them back into the
breast-pocket from which they had been taken while he lay unconscious.
"I'm well enough now to look after them," he had said, smiling, to his
host. "Nurse and I will mount guard."
Whereupon Melrose protested so vehemently that the young man, in his
weakness, did not resist. Rather sulkily, he handed the case back to the
greedy hand held out for it.
Then Melrose smiled; if so pleasant a word may be applied to the queer
glitter that for a moment passed over the cavernous lines of his face.
"Let me make you an offer for them," he said abruptly.
"Thank you--I don't wish to sell them."
"I mean a good offer--an offer you are not likely to get
elsewhere--simply because they happen to fit into my own collection."
"It is very kind of you. But I have a sentiment about them. I have had
many offers. But I don't intend to sell them."
Melrose was silent a moment, looking down on the patient, in whose pale
cheeks two spots of feverish red had appeared. Then he turned away.
"All right. Don't excite yourself, pray."
"I thought he'd try and get them out of me," thought Faversham irritably,
when he was left alone.
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