Lucius looked at the speaker mute with astonishment. Was this utter madness? The hallucination of a mind which had become distorted by constant dwelling upon one subject? The wild dream of an art fanatic? Homer Sivewright’s calm and serious air—the business-like manner of his statement—forbade the idea. He might deceive himself as to the value of his possessions; but there was no madness here. ‘You do not believe me,’ said Mr. Sivewright, taking the surgeon’s wondering silence as the indication of his incredulity. ‘You think I am a doting old fool; that I must be stark mad when I tell you that I, who have lived as poorly as an anchorite, have been content to sink ten thousand pounds—representing at five per cent five hundred a year—in the purchase of things which, to your untutored judgment, may perhaps appear so much second-hand trumpery.’ ‘No,’ answered Lucius slowly, like a man awakening from a dream; ‘I can appreciate the value and the beauty of many among your treasures. But ten thousand pounds—the sum seems prodigious.’ ‘A mere bagatelle compared with the sums that have been sunk in the same kind of property. But I have never bought unless I could buy a bargain. I am an old hand—cautious as a fox. I have not disputed the possession of a Sèvres tea-cup or a Dresden snuff-box with wealthy amateurs. I have waited my chance, and bought gems which the common herd were too ignorant to appreciate. I have picked up my treasures in odd nooks and corners; have travelled half over Europe in quest of spoil. Thus my ten thousand pounds represent thirty thousand of another man’s money.’ ‘And you have given up your declining years to constant labour; you have racked your brains with never-ending calculations; and you have lived, as you say, like an anchorite—for what result? Only to amass this heap of things—as useless for any of the practical needs of life as they are artistically beautiful. You have pinched and scraped and toiled—shortened your own life, and robbed your grandchild of every joy that makes youth worth having. Good heavens,’ exclaimed Lucius, indignant at the thought of that joyless existence to which this old man had condemned Lucille, ‘was there ever such folly! Nay, it is worse than folly, it is a crime—a sin against yourself, whom you have robbed of natural rest, and all the comforts to which men look forward as the solace of age—a still greater sin against that unselfish girl whose life you have filled with care and trouble.’ This reproach struck home. The old man sighed heavily, his head drooped upon his breast, and he covered his face with his thin hand. ‘Why have you made this insensate use of your money?’ exclaimed Lucius. ‘What madness possessed you?’