‘Miss Sivewright is naturally anxious about her grandfather,’ answered Lucius coldly, ‘and I am very anxious too.’ He was about to pass Mrs. Wincher, without farther parley, when she stopped him. ‘O, if you please, Dr. Davory,’ she said meekly, ‘would you be kind enough to let my good gentleman have a few words with you? The fact is, he’s got somethink on his mind, and he’d feel more comfortable if he ast your advice. I didn’t know nothink about it till five minutes ago, though I could see at breakfast-time as he was low-spirited and had no happetite for his resher; but I thought that was along of master being so bad. Howsumdever, five minutes ago he ups and tells me all about it, and says he, “If I tell Dr. Davory, I shall feel more comfortable like,” he says. So I says I’d ast you to have a few words with him.’ ‘Where is he?’ asked Lucius, his suspicions increased by this singular application. ‘In the room where the bricklebrack is kep’,’ answered Mrs. Wincher. ‘He’s been dustin’ as usual, and he said he’d take the liberty to wait there for you.’ ‘Very well; I’ll go and hear what he has to say.’ Lucius went down-stairs to the large room with its multifarious contents—the room which held the chief part of Mr. Sivewright’s collection. Here he found Mr. Wincher, moving about feebly with a dusting brush in his hand. ‘Well, Mr. Wincher, what’s the matter with you this morning?’ asked Lucius. ‘Do you want to consult me professionally?’ ‘No, sir. It isn’t anything that way,’ answered the old man, who was somewhat his wife’s superior in education, but infinitely less able to hold his own conversationally, such intellectual powers as he may have originally possessed having run to seed during his long dull life, and the only remaining brightness being that feeble glimmer which still illumined the regions of art. He would swear to an old master’s handling—could tell a Memling from a Van Eyck—or an Ostade from a Jan Steen—knew every mark to be found on old china or delf, from the earliest specimens of Rouen ware to the latest marvels of Sèvres, from the clumsiest example of Battersea to the richest purple and gilding of Worcester. But beyond the realms of art the flame of Jacob Wincher’s intellect was dim as a farthing rushlight. ‘I’ve had a shock this morning, sir,’ he said. ‘Some kind of fit, do you mean?’ asked Lucius. ‘You said you didn’t want to consult me professionally.’ ‘No more I do, sir. The shock I’m talking about wasn’t bodily, but mental. I’ve made a dreadful discovery, Mr. Davoren. This house has been robbed.’ ‘I’m not surprised to hear it,’ said Lucius sternly. He thought he saw which way matters were drifting. This old man was cunning enough to be the first to give the alarm. Lucius’s incautious remarks to Mrs. Wincher had put her husband upon his guard, and he was now going to play the comedy of innocence. ‘Not surprised to hear it, sir?’ he echoed, staring aghast at Lucius.