been
handling a hundred thousand pounds or so. And Mr. Softly Bishop might be
less fascinated by the steely blue eyes than Mr. Prohack had imagined.
Mr. Softly Bishop might in fact win the duel. The question, however, had
no interest for Mr. Prohack, who was absorbed in a sense of gloomy
humiliation. He rushed away from his co-heirs. He simply had to rush
away right to bad.

CHAPTER XX

THE SILENT TOWER

The fount of riches and the Terror of the departments, clothed in the
latest pattern of sumptuous pyjamas, lay in the midst of his magnificent
and spacious bed, and, with the shaded electric globe over his brow,
gazed at the splendours of the vast bedroom which Eve had allotted to
him. It was full, but not too full, of the finest Directoire furniture,
and the walls were covered with all manner of engravings and
watercolours. Evidently this apartment had been the lair of the real
owner and creator of the great home. Mr. Prohack could appreciate the
catholicity and sureness of taste which it displayed. He liked the
cornice as well as the form of the dressing-table, and the Cumberland
landscape by C.J. Holmes as well as the large Piranesi etching of an
imaginary prison, which latter particularly interested him because it
happened to be an impression between two "states"--a detail which none
but a true amateur could savour. The prison depicted was a terrible
place of torment, but it was beautiful, and the view of it made Mr.
Prohack fancy, very absurdly, that he too was in prison, just as
securely as if he had been bolted and locked therein. His eye ranged
about the room and saw nothing that was not lovely and that he did not
admire. Yet he derived little or no authentic pleasure from what he
beheld, partly because it was the furnishing of a prison and partly
because he did not own it. He had often preached against the mania for
owning things, but now--and even more clearly than when he had
sermonised Paul Spinner--he perceived, and hated to perceive, that
ownership was probably an essential ingredient of most enjoyments. The
man, foolishly priding himself on being a philosopher, was indeed a
fleshly mass of strange inconsistencies.

More important, he was losing the assurance that he would sleep soundly
that night. He could not drag his mind off his co-heiress and his
co-heir. The sense of humiliation at being intimately connected and
classed with them would not leave him. He felt himself--absurdly once
again