and the
lines in his face grew deeper and deeper.

"I am an old man," he said softly, "but I will live to see them suffer
who have done this evil thing."

He turned slowly back into the room, and limping rather more than was
usual with him, he pushed aside a portiere and passed into a charmingly
furnished country drawing-room. Only the flowers hung dead in their
vases; everything else was fresh and sweet and dainty. Slowly he
threaded his way amongst the elegant Louis Quinze furniture, examining
as though for the first time the beautiful old tapestry, the Sevres
china, the Chippendale table, which was priceless, the exquisite
portraits painted by Greuze, and the mysterious green twilights and
grey dawns of Corot. Everywhere treasures of art, yet everywhere the
restraining hand of the artist. The faint smell of dead rose leaves hung
about the room. Already one seemed conscious of a certain emptiness as
though the genius of the place had gone. Mr. Sabin leaned heavily upon
his stick, and his head drooped lower and lower. A soft, respectful
voice came to him from the other room.

"In five minutes, sir, the carriage will be at the door. I have your
coat and hat here."

Mr. Sabin looked up.

"I am quite ready, Duson!" he said.

* * * * *

The servants in the hall stood respectfully aside to let him pass. On
the way to the depot he saw nothing of those who saluted him. In the car
he sat with folded arms in the most retired seat, looking steadfastly
out of the window at the dying day. There were mountains away westwards,
touched with golden light; sometimes for long minutes together the train
was rushing through forests whose darkness was like that of a tunnel.
Mr. Sabin seemed indifferent to these changes. The coming of night did
not disturb him. His brain was at work, and the things which he saw were
hidden from other men.

Duson, with a murmur of apology, broke in upon his meditations.

"You will pardon me, sir, but the second dinner is now being served. The
restaurant car will be detached at the next stop."

"What of it?" Mr. Sabin asked calmly.

"I have taken the liberty of ordering dinner for you, sir. It is thirty
hours since you ate anything save biscuits."

Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.

"You are quite right, Duson," he said. "I will dine."

In half-an-hour he was back again. Duson placed before him silently a
box of cigarettes and matches. Mr. Sabin smoked