A man of the people then--using probably some old muzzle-loader, begged
or borrowed? Faversham's thought ran to the young fellow who had
denounced Melrose with such fervour at Mainstairs the day of Lydia
Penfold's visit to the stricken village. But, good heavens!--there were a
score of men on Melrose's estate, with at least as good reason--or
better--for shooting, as that man. Take the Brands! But old Brand was
gone to his rest, the elder son had sailed for Canada, and the younger
seemed to be a harmless, half-witted chap, of no account.
Yet, clearly the motive had been revenge, not burglary. There were plenty
of costly trifles on the tables and cabinets of the gallery. Not one of
them had been touched.
Faversham moved to and fro in the silence, while Mrs. Dixon sat moaning
to herself beside the dead man, whose face she had covered. The lavish
electric light in the gallery, which had been Melrose's latest whim,
shone upon its splendid contents; on the nymphs and cupids, the wreaths
and temples of the Boucher tapestries, on the gleaming surfaces of the
china, the dull gold of the _ormolu_. The show represented the desires,
the huntings, the bargains of a lifetime; and in its midst lay Melrose,
tripped at last, silenced at last, the stain of his life-blood spreading
round him.
Faversham looked down upon him, shuddering. Then perceiving that the door
into the library stood ajar, he entered the room. There stood the chair
on which he had leant, when the chains of his slavery fell from him.
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